Sweatin’ With the Oldie

Anybody who knows me well knows that I hate exercise. No, let me rephrase that – I abhor exercise. This has been the case for as long as I can remember. In fact, I specifically remember wanting to have a nervous breakdown in junior high every time my PE teacher would announce it was “20-minute run day.” Call me lazy if you want to – you’re probably mostly right. Lately, however, my excuse has just been that I am so tired all the time from work, and exercise is the absolute last thing on my mind. So there.

Anyway, as a result of all this (ahem) exhaustion, I am pretty out of shape. So, I should have known better when a few of my girlfriends suggested we do something that was quintessentially LA; something which, upon initial assessment, seemed like it might be kinda fun. What is this intriguing activity, you may ask? Well, last Saturday, we……..

…..worked out with Richard Simmons.

 

That’s right – brillo-head, glitter-shirt, wahaaaay-too-short shorts, Mr. “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” himself – Richard Simmons.

Apparently, unbeknownst to me, Richard Simmons still owns and operates a workout studio in Beverly Hills, and holds his “Slimmons” workout class there three times a week (how I have lived in LA for five years and managed to miss this little gem of knowledge is beyond me). Considering the fact that this guy is in his sixties, that is actually pretty impressive.

 

Now, when I say that I thought this class would be fun, this was based on my TV exposure to Richard Simmons. The man, hyperactive as he might be, seemed like a hoot, and I thought that taking a class from him might, if anything, be entertaining. Plus, it was just an aerobics class – how hard could it be? Right? Right?

Weeeeeell, I forgot to take two very important factoids into consideration.

1. As previously mentioned, I am extremely out of shape (though I didn’t realize just how out of shape that actually was).
2. I am hopelessly and utterly uncoordinated. I really mean it. Ask anyone who knows me. When I try to dance, I look like a retarded string bean having a seizure. Think Elaine from “Seinfeld” here, folks. Plus, I don’t pick up steps very quickly – which, in an aerobics workout, change every 2.5 seconds.

Well, Richard must have picked up on the above factoids, because he kept picking on me!!! Seriously, it was so annoying and embarrassing. Big bully!!

Did I enjoy this class? Uh, no. Did I leave this class with better self-esteem than when I went in? Negatory. Am I a bigger fan of Richard and his “Slimmons” workout? That’s laughable. Did I appreciate the $50 parking ticket I got from the City of Beverly Hills during his class? Grrrrrrrr.

But here’s the thing. This whole experience has made me realize that I really do want to get in shape – I mean, I’m young, and I really should be more fit and healthy. So, as of today, I am going to start to make some exercise goals for my life – and I plan to stick to them! Really. Then, perhaps someday, I can return to “Slimmons” and hold my head high in fitness triumph.

And I guess I can thank Richard for that. Femmy bastard.

Disappointing!!

My television shows have left me at a loss for words over the past couple of weeks, especially the ones of the reality variety. I know, I need to get a life.

But, come on, REALLY?!

AND

Are you freaking kidding me?

AND

What in the WORLD were you thinking?

+

=

 

Let the boycotts begin.

Yippee ki-yay!!

Thanks to my friend, Ashley, I have had this song in my head ALL bloody week……..

And I can’t get it out!!!!

Somebody, please kill me – kill me now!!!

Purrrrr-ty

So, I have a confession.

Thanks to my cheeky Australian mother, who is obsessed with all things BBC, I am now a huge fan of “The Graham Norton Show,” a late night comedy talk show which airs mainly in the UK.

The host, Graham Norton, has to be one of the most ridiculous people I’ve ever come across. He says and does some of the most cheeky and asinine things to his guests (and the audience, for that matter), and pulls stunts/plays games that can only be described as insane. He has a particular fascination with bashing Amy Winehouse, and his comments about her bring me much enjoyment. If you get BBC in your cable package, and enjoy cheeky, slightly off-color humor, I highly recommend watching this show. It will change your life.

Anyway, the other day Graham was showing the audience pictures from a book he’d found called “Why Paint Cats.” Apparently, this comedy book, written by New Zealand author Burton Silver, describes the practice of “cat painting.” Now, when I say “cat painting,” I don’t mean painting pictures of cats, but rather, painting on cats. I just about died with laughter as he showed some of the pictures. Literally, I almost did.

Okay, in all fairness, some of these paint jobs are actually quite beautiful. And, they must have taken the artists hours upon hours to complete.

But, I mean, REALLY!! Who does this?

I just had to share. Here are a few of my favorites:

And my all time favorite……

Side note: So, after I started writing this post, I found a couple of websites that claimed that these pictures were not real, and that the “paint” on the cats was actually added digitally. The author, however, refuses to confirm or deny this claim.

Personally, I choose to believe that the cats were really painted. It’s just more fun that way.

Why I love my job

I think that it is absolutely hilarious that, no matter how old we get, given the right circumstances, we can revert right back into child-like behavior.

As a single gal, I have the opportunity to revert quite often (hello, can you say “brownies for dinner, please?”). But that’s my personal life. You would think that in my work life – my professional life, no less – things would be much more mature.

Yeah, not really. In fact, it might be worse.

This has been strongly underscored to me from a few recent events that have occurred lately at work. One of my managers, Carrie, likes to plan out little games for us whenever there is a holiday. Whether it is “Pin the Tail on Cupid” or “Four-Leaf-Clover Roulette,” she always thinks of something creative. And there are prizes, too, usually consisting of some sort of candy and/or cash.

However, among all of these fabulous holidays with all of their silly games, there are two favorites – Easter and Cinco de Mayo. And we eagerly look forward to them every year.

For Easter, Carrie hides 30 Easter eggs all over the OR.

As you could imagine, there are literally hundreds of places to hide these eggs, and Carrie doesn’t even try to make it easy for us. We anxiously wait all day for the eggs to be hidden, until finally, a voice comes over the loud speaker announcing “The 8OR Annual Easter Egg Hunt has officially begun!”

Then all hell breaks loose.

Everybody starts running around like crazy people, like it is the day after Christmas, and each Easter egg is a $20 flat-screen TV. We frantically start digging through drawers of syringes, dumping out boxes of surgical drapes, and scaling the instrument tray shelves. The whole time we are screaming and laughing and squealing with glee. Any stray passer-by might think they have mistakenly entered the psychiatric ward.

This year, I only found two eggs (each worth a dollar), but I had the time of my life in the hunt!

For Cinco de Mayo (which is today), we usually have a piñata, and this year was no exception. We dressed said piñata up to look like one of our least favorite surgeons (he is a notorious monster) – and boy was it therapeutic to take a whack at him.

We strung him up in one of the empty rooms between two IV poles, and had the time of our lives. Forget the fact that we were swinging a huge stick around mere feet from equipment that cost literally hundreds-of-thousands of dollars. Oh, and the fact that surgery was going on in another room just around the corner. Quite trivial, if you ask me.

Money and candy went flying all over the place as we gutted our poor idiot surgeon, and I truly don’t think I have laughed that hard in a very long time.

 

My manager, Yoly, being spun around.

 

 

 

 

 

Doree had a particular fascination with the piñata’s crotch.

 

I knew there was a reason I didn’t play sports in high school.

 

 

 

Mariana and Marisol. You know, for being 7 months pregnant, Mariana sure managed to get a lot of candy.

 

 

 

 

 

“Dive, dive, dive!!”

 

 

 

 

Now, that’s the kind of bouquet I’d like to receive!

 

 

 

Oh, and I got the big prize this year – an honor I had yet to attain. That’s right, I got the fiver!!

Idolicious

Adam Lambert.

From the start of this season's American Idol, I have not wanted to like this guy.

Sure, there was no denying he was a talented singer; but something about him just seemed to grate on my nerves.

Maybe it was his crazy hair or his Emo clothes. Or maybe it was the fact that he wore black eyeliner (which I still find a little odd). It may have even had something to do with his flair for the dramatic because of his musical theater background. I don't know.

Whatever it was, I went into this season with a bias against this guy, convinced that I was never going to like him. I didn't want to like him.

Well.....I guess we can't always get what we want, because I have now done a complete 180, and am officially front-and-center on the Adam Lambert bandwagon. This guy has to be one of the most amazing, unique, and innovative people to ever hit the American Idol stage. He sings with such passion and emotion. Each week of competition, just when I think he can't possibly get any better, he outdoes himself. Every single week (well, excepting country week – Johnny Cash had to have been rolling over in his grave after that performance). I watch in awe, completely dumbfounded, and all I can say is “wow.”

Even Simon Cowell, who can usually barely manage to even crack a smile most weeks, gave Adam a standing ovation a couple weeks back, something that he had never done for any contestant before – ever.

I truly believe that this guy deserves to win. I guess that means I had better start actually voting, lest there be another Chris Daughtry incident.

And while we’re on the subject of Idol……..

So, there is this huge billboard down the street from my apartment, located at the intersection of Pico and Overland. This billboard also happens to be a couple of blocks away from the Fox Studios Lot as well. Every year, when the Final 12 (or 13, this year) contestants have been chosen for American Idol, their pictures are put up on this billboard, with the caption “Who will you choose?” below them. Then, as each contestant is voted off, a big “X” is put over their face, until only one contestant remains. This contestant then gets a whole new billboard, with just their face on it, with the caption “Winner.”

 

I drive by this billboard every day on my way to work, and having lived in LA for a little over 5 years now, I have been witness to 5 cycles of these American Idol billboards. This may sound a little crazy, but I find a strange sort of comfort in watching this billboard's evolution. It's like, you know how some people measure their life passing by seasons or holidays or birthdays; well it seems that I like to measure my life passing by the weekly changes of an American Idol billboard. I love to stare up at the contestants' faces as I zoom by each day, smiling at my favorites and scoffing at the Sanjayas that have somehow managed to amazingly remain. I even find myself getting a little excited each Thursday morning as I see the little man climbing the ladder up to the billboard to paste the "X" over the face of the latest contestant to be voted off.

I know, I'm odd.

But it’s something I’ve come to accept.

Say It, Don't Spray It

I am somewhat of a germaphobe by nature.

Perhaps this is because of all the blood, bacteria, and other biohazards I am exposed to daily at my job. Or, perhaps it relates to the fact that, when I was younger, my mother drilled into my head the warning that I must "NEVER touch the door handle of a public restroom with my bare hand," lest I die a horrible death at the hands of some insidious toilet-related scourge (P.S. I happen to agree with this wholeheartedly. Have you seen how many people still don't wash their hands after going to the bathroom? Yuck!).

Anyway, it is because of this aversion to germs that I have developed my current pet peeve: Automatically-flushing toilets.

I never ever actually sit on a public toilet, even if there are toilet-seat-covers available. If I must use a public restroom, I will use what I like to refer to as the "hanging/squatting method” to empty my bladder. I won't go into detail as to what this method involves, since I'm sure you can already deduce that from the title.

This is a commonly used method amongst most female public-toilet-goers, and though sometimes accidents involving aim and stream flow (down the leg and onto the pants) can happen, it is still much preferable than the alternative of getting one’s pristine but-cheeks anywhere near the contaminated toilet seat.

However, using this method on a toilet that has an automatic flushing sensor proves to be difficult. The stupid sensor seems to only be able to detect bodies that are sitting, not squatting. Thus, they usually choose to flush right in the middle of the entire process, sending a spray of icky toilet water onto my backside, thereby defeating the entire purpose behind this difficult maneuver – preventing one’s self from toilet germs!! Grrrrrr!!

You would think that in a world with such technological advances as the IPhone, TiVo, and GPS devices, they would be able to master something as simple as an automatically-flushing toilet sensor.

Until they do, I am just going to have to hold it.