All the stuff you read here on my blog is my stuff, not yours, and therefore copywrited by me, Christine Waldman. If you even think about plagerizing, copying, or whispering in someone's ear, you'll be sorry because my brother is a black belt in karate.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Sweat 'Til It Hurts


As some of you may already know after reading 5K FUN, I run more like a 3 legged Warthog, than a Cheetah. But despite this, I am going to try and do another 5K race with my daughter in May. In order to actually keep up with my child, for at least part of the race, I started working out again at the gym, which is something like hitting the restart button on an ancient furnace. There’s a lot of clanging and smoke that comes from my exhaust.
I’m not trying to become a marathon runner. In fact, I don’t need to run fast, I just want to run faster. I would be happy if my shuffle becomes speedier than that of the undead.
So, after a lengthy absence, I started going back to the YMCA, which has become very well equipped since its recent remodeling. Walking into the enormous front entrance of the new YMCA, is akin to entering the lobby of a fine hotel, with plants, a fountain, and a long counter which resembles a concierge’s desk. My first time back, I went up to the desk and asked for their penthouse suite for the night. The girl behind the desk just looked blankly at me. Clearly you lose your sense of humor when having to deal with sweaty people all day.
Typically, there is a senior citizen taking your ID card and scanning it into the computer. Often there is a smirk on their wrinkled faces; perhaps amused by all of us young(er) fools for killing ourselves at the gym. Either that or our weight is shown on the computer screen.
The Wellness Center is quite large, with a section for free weights as well as an area for the Nautilus machines. Behind that are rows of equipment designed for a cardio workout. Whoever designed the workout room is a genius. All the treadmills, my choice as instrument of torture, are placed under a row of TV sets. They are all cleverly tuned to the most mind numbing shows known to mankind. You are then forced to run as fast as you can, reaching out to try, in vain, to push the off button on the TV. No matter how fast you run, you can never quite reach it. It’s like the carrot held out in front of a fat donkey pulling a cart.
It is cruel, yet affective.
When I ran in the 5K, there were a few folks who trailed me and had the privilege of watching my butt register a 5.7 on the Rictor Scale. I wasn’t too mortified because I knew I would never have to see them again after that day. However, the same can’t be said for the poor suckers who are in the row of elliptical machines behind my treadmill at the gym. I think that I recognize some of them snickering behind my back in the grocery store.
Don’t get me wrong, I think Jay Lo and I have it going on. Of course, Jay Lo has a lot less going on in other parts of her body than I do. Even so, I believe woman are meant to be soft and curvy, and I know for a fact that my husband, God bless him, would cry like a little girl if I lost my booty.
I do wonder though, if those people on the elliptical machines behind me have a craving for Jello after watching my jiggle. I’m expecting an endorsement check from the Jello Company any day now.
With all the physical fitness going on, there is something inevitable that happens while working out, and that’s sweating. I don’t mind perspiring so much; it’s all the other people sweating that gross me out. The gym provides anti-cootie wipes so that we may conscientiously clean off the Nautilus machines when we’re done sliming them. They are very effective at spreading your perspiration around evenly onto the equipment. So when you are lying down on the Abdominal Annihilator Apparatus, working on your 6 pack, you are in reality covering yourself in a strangers sweat. The last time this happened to me was in the late 80’s, and I was drunk, but I actually enjoyed myself. At least I think I did. I’m not sure, because I was drunk, and most of the 80’s are a blur.
Speaking of strangers, the YMCA attracts a myriad of humanity who are trying to get buff. The hunks that press metal in the free weight room offer more in the way of viewing pleasure than the brain-eroding programs on the TV. Also, a number of senior citizens make use of the Wellness Center. I think it’s great that they are still physically active in their advanced years. I just wish that a course in what is appropriate fitness attire was given when they got their membership. Most of them wear their everyday street clothes of brightly colored polyester suits with shiny white Rockports. Others do make an attempt at proper workout gear by wearing sweat pants 47 sizes too big. I know we all shrink a little when we age, but these grannies look like they did all their shrinking in one day. Come to think of it, I can deal with baggy sweats when the alternative is seeing Grampa in Spandex.
Some folks at the gym are such an example of human perfection that they look as if they lift weights in their sleep. Somehow though, their clothes are unwrinkled, they don’t have a hair out of place, and their makeup is unmussed. They look so fit, yet they tend to spend a lot of their time gabbing with the other Stepford wives, I mean, friends, instead of working out. When they actually do get on a treadmill, I watch and watch them, waiting for the time when one of them does something less then perfect, like fall off. I wonder if maybe one of them will slip and get their manicure stuck in the elliptical machine. It never happens.
More annoying then the Perfect People are the woman that are Uber thin. They are not quite anorexic, but close. I recognize them by the fact that their thighs are as wide as one of my arms, and that their cheekbones could cut paper. I want to grab these poor girls and yell, “For the love of God, just eat a cheese steak, will you?” But I don’t think that would go over to well in an establishment that is a proponent of health.
I’ve tried other forms of exercise before, such as Yoga. I quickly realized that the only part of it that I enjoyed was when I got to lie down between doing the difficult postures, or while meditating. For this reason, I do enjoy the recumbent bike, because you are so reclined, that I found out that if you set the level to 0, you can take a nap while doing your cardio workout.
Now that’s my idea of multitasking.
Another favorite of mine is the Abductor/Adductor machine. This handy device works the outer and inner thigh, a problem area for many ladies. While working these spots, apparently it is of paramount importance that you spread your legs open and then close them again in the most vulgar fashion possible.
It is the naughtiest of all the Nautilus machines.
I think that it would be fun to play some really raunchy porn music while using the Abductor/Adductor machine. It would weed out the light weights, and only those serious about getting fit would remain.
Who knows, it could become a spectator sport, somewhat like pole dancing. But I warn you; look away when Grandma climbs on.

copywrite 2010 cwaldman

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Cartoon Creeps


For those of us who have children, there is no avoiding the viewing of many of their cartoons. I’ve mentioned before, my concerns at what kind of messages advertisers are sending in commercials, and I am equally weirded out by the kind of role models these cartoon characters are for our kids.
One such show is called Caillou. First off, who names their kid Caillou and why is this 4 year old animated boy, bald? My son is 4 and he has hair, and so does all of his classmates, in fact I have never seen a child younger than 10 months old completely with out hair. The only explanation is that he has some horrible disease which causes hair loss in which case, it is one hell of a depressing cartoon.
The other oddity in this program is the fact that Caillou’s mom is always taking a nap. She’s often says, “Caillou, keep an eye on Rosie while I take a nap.” If I asked my 4 year old son, Donny, to watch his little cousin, God knows what I’d wake up to. The entire house, including his cousin, would be covered in magic marker, the refrigerator door would be open and my Lab, Shelby would be freebasing its contents, and Donny would stick his head in the toilet – again.
I also have a sneaking suspicion that Caillou’s mom is ‘taking a nap’ with their neighbor, Mr. Hinkle. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. It all makes sense when you find out that the show is produced in Canada. The creators were obviously sniffing maple syrup when they were writing the show.
Another new popular program that needs to be examined further, is Dora the Explorer. Dora speaks both Spanish and English and has an assortment of pals, one of which is Tico the Squirrel, who wears a kickin’ striped vest. I have a bad feeling that Tico is secretly a powerful Mexican drug lord, because whenever Dora is stranded and in need of a ride, there’s Tico with a tripped out car, motorcycle, speed boat, or even a helicopter. Now you tell me how a squirrel gets that kind of money. The average squirrel’s salary does not cover the cost of a helicopter. Yep, it has to be drug money.
There is an even more lurid possibility, though that comes to mind. I started noticing a twisted pattern in many of these animated characters in the new cartoons as well as the classic ones. They are all in a state of partial undress. Starting with Tico who has just a vest on, and on that same show, Boots the Monkey wears only boots, and Swiper the Fox has on a mask, gloves, and NOTHING ELSE!
Yogi Bear, Snagglepuss, Huckleberry Hound, Boo Boo, and Magilla Gorilla, all have on some combination of hat, scarf, collar and tie –AND THAT’S ALL! Even Donald Duck doesn’t wear pants. Oh God, and that pervert Secret Squirrel (yet another sicko squirrel) has a hat, mask…and trench coat –disgusting!
And what is the connection? They are all MALE, which brings me to my theory of why they are all half-clothed
I am convinced that they are all part of an animated version of the Chippendale, or should I say Chip N Dale, Dancers. On Saturday nights they perform for Penelope Pitstop, Daphne and Velma, Judy Jetson, Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble, and you just know that hussy, Caillou’s mom, is in the audience. I can just see Morrocco Mole now, in a cartoon version of The Full Monty, whipping off his Fez and covering up his mole bits with it, as he gyrates to the music.
I can’t say as I blame those animated ladies their naughty night out, really. After a day of solving a mystery, being in the Wacky Races, or even having to see Fred Flintstone naked, I wouldn’t mind a little beefcake show either.
And when the performance is over, they can all jump into Tico’s jet and fly off to Aruba.

copywrite 2010 cwaldman

Friday, February 5, 2010

Fist Bump Fury

Fist Bump Fury

There are a number of things in society today that confuse, perplex, and generally make me want to revoke my membership to humankind. I figured, or hoped, that I wasn’t the only one who felt such agida (Italian for; someone stole my pepperoni and I am MAD), over these matters, so I will share some of them with you.
First off, how does Donald Trump gets his hair to defy gravity, or more importantly, why? Clearly, he and Ted Koppel share the same hair care products which have such holding capabilities that Scientific experts should start a study on it immediately. The sheer stickiness of this wonderful gel could have major structural holding abilities. It could be used to hold together, houses, bridges, or even David Hasselhoff’s career.
Not everything that is happening today is all bad. Take, for example, how awesome Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are for their many altruistic deeds. Not only have they adopted all of the orphans of Somalia, but Brad has selflessly provided a home for a family of birds in his beard. They used to reside in Jouquin Phoenix’s beard, but he shaved, leaving them homeless, and Brad valiantly stepped up to the plate.
Nicole Kidman has also given of herself, by removing her eyebrows and letting two angry caterpillars live on her forehead. I believe she did this in order to take her mind off her first marriage to that short Wallaby named, Tom.
Of, course there are all the fashion faux pas happening in America that confuse me. I am referring to the UG (does this stand for ugly?) boots. We are expected to pay a month’s salary to look like we are setting off on a hunting trip with Jeremiah Johnson. Fortunately, for those that like the clodhopper look, there are so many affordable knock-offs, that resembling a Sasquatch can fit into anyone’s budget. However, since the inception of Ugs, the number of Big Foot sightings has quadrupled.
This brings me to one of the most perplexing of fashion weirdness. I refer, of course, to the saggy rapper pants. Here’s my theory of how it all came about. There was this guy named Bob, who lived in the city. One day Bob woke up late for the 10:00 showing of The David Hasselhoff film fest, which was playing at the local cinema. While rushing out the door, he mistakenly grabbed his brother’s (who happens to be an amateur Sumo wrestler) pants. Bob met his homies (urban lingo for pals) at the corner.
“Sh** Bob, what’s with your pants? I can see your drawers, man! Where’s your belt? You’re not even wearing any of your bling (more urban ling for shiny jewelry) !”
Bob played it cool and acted as if this was the look he was really going for. “You don’t know sh**, Steve. This is what everyone is wearing.”
The next day, every inner city youth in the tri state area was wearing baggy pants and showing off their drawers, except for Bob’s brother, because it’s hard for Sumo wrestlers to find baggy pants.
There is one more thing I need to mention. It’s about The Fist Bump. It annoys me beyond belief to begin with, but many don’t know about its strange origins. Howie Mandel started the fist bump because he has some sort of phobia or compulsive disorder, where he gets freaked out by shaking people’s hands, perhaps thinking that they are trying to steal his pinky ring. I don’t know, but isn’t it odd that we are using this poor guys hyper- phobic habit, and making it a national habit? What’s next? Will we all start indiscriminately making the rituals of other unfortunate folks with obsessive compulsive disorders our own? Will impulsive hand washing be all the rave, or will it now be cool to turn the lights on and off exactly 7 times whenever we leave a room? The thing I really fear is what will happen if Trichotillomania, the compulsive urge to pull out your eyebrow hair, becomes the latest trend. It would be disturbing if everyone did it, but then again, there would be a lot of angry caterpillars with homes, so that would be kinda nice.

copywrite 2010 cwaldman

How about Depends?

My apologies to those of you who have lost control of your bodily functions while reading my blog. Who would have thought how excited I would get when hearing the words, "I almost peed myself when I read your blog".
Thanks for all the encouragement, all the crossing of the legs, and even just the chuckles.
I should have something new later today or tomorrow.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Motherhood AKA-Waitressing for Small People

AKA-Waitressing for Small People

By Christine Waldman

When I dreamt of having children, I thought of having sweet smelling, gurgling babies who looked just like me, but prettier, and hopefully smaller.
I knew that my level-headedness, love of kids, and years of babysitting experience would all be valuable attributes to possess when parenting. Little did I know that all I really needed was the talents I gained during my short stint as a waitress when I was 19.
It all started when my first child was able to say Ba-Ba, which is the universal infant word for bottle. I remember being so thrilled that my darling said something other than Ma-Ma or Da-Da. Shortly after, she said her first brilliant sentence, ‘Ma-Ma Ba-Ba’. I immediately rushed into the kitchen to fill that order.
Big mistake.
If only I knew what unrealistic precedent I was setting for future food orders. If only I knew that this would be just the first in a long line of menu requests to come, not only from her, but also her two siblings. If only I knew how unrelenting and constant those commands would become from my darlings, I would have set up some ground rules, or at least demanded to be tipped. The only tip I received from my little customer after that initial order, was some spit-up on my shoulder.
Now, 9 years later, I wish I had more practical experience at waitressing, because I am still no good at carrying more than 2 plates of chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese at a time. I also am constantly getting drink orders mixed up, much to the displeasure of my clientele.
“No mom, I wanted Lemonade. Donny was the one who asked for milk!” I won’t even get into the riot that ensues when the kitchen is out of a menu item.
The constant barrage of food demands is exhausting and the rudeness of my customers is disheartening. Even at the advanced ages of 9, 7, and 4, they are still lousy tippers. Like a food server’s worst nightmare, they also have the tendency to wait until I have delivered one order to then ask for something else.
The length of time it takes them to decide on what to eat is annoying as well. Peace treaties have been decided in less time. My 7 year old almost always wants a peanut butter sandwich, in fact she eats so much peanut butter that we fear she will soon start sporting a top hat, cane, and monocle.
The alternative is to let my children get the food for themselves. This unfortunately can have the potential of creating more work for me. When you ask a 7 year old to pour a drink for herself from a full pitcher of lemonade, you’re just asking for sticky floors.
That’s where ‘mom the maid’ comes in. If I’m not cooking and serving meals, I’m stooped over, picking up toys, looking like a suburban Quasimoto.
All I know is that God must be almighty, otherwise why would he make our kids so darn cute and precious to us. Honestly, who else would we do this for?
We do what we do, because we love them and some day, when we are old and feeble, the tables will be turned, and it will be our children who will be waiting on us, and perhaps even changing our diapers.
I don’t plan on leaving a tip.

copywrite 2010 cwaldman