Last Friday Night

Three books in one weekend? Why yes, I'd love to. #booklove #challengeaccepted #booksaremorereliablethanmen @bennettmendez @writer -- Leah (@McCrae)

digestive epiphany / mama wyner rules

After 36 hours of vomiting, I have found the answer.

No more weight loss programs. No more vitamins. No more carbs, or no carbs, or high protein, or low protein, or massive amounts of whatever vegetable I fancy. It's much simpler than that.

As it so happens, the only thing fierce enough to shock my digestive system back into functioning is my mother.

If you've met my mother, you understand. She's a force of nature. You don't cross her. Two years ago she came to watch a 7th grade poetry event. One student that I sent out every day for three months for cussing me out started to be rude. I say "started to be rude" because she didn't get to finish. Once my mother caught wind of the tone of voice this student was using, she raised her eyebrows, said, "Excuse me?" and this girl cowered in fear. COWERED IN FEAR. I mean she shrunk back, wide-eyed, and ran out of the room. If you work with me, and you want to know which student this was, just ask. She just graduated 8th grade. Unless she was held back, I don't know.

Back to my intestines. I've had a fucked up digestive system for most of my life. There's no rhyme or reason to it. As a child, doctors tried to figure it out. I don't really think they did. They made me drink this stuff that tasted like chalk so my stomach glowed. Well... that might not be what happened. I am remembering this through my seven year old eyes. In any event, throughout my life, on multiple occasions, my insides stop working. Food comes out incorrectly through either or both ends. It's awful.

The epiphany began at around noon today. I was lying on the floor of my bathroom, head propped up on a pillow, playing words with friends. By this point, I figured I'd shorten the commute to the toilet. Something odd occured to me... The only thing I hadn't puked up in the last day or so was a pupusa. If you don't know, a pupusa is probably the most fattening food ever. It's a Salvadorian GODSEND. Picture a homemade corn tortilla, except as you're making the tortilla, you built in all the things you would normally wrap inside the tortilla. And it's fried. VERY FRIED. There is no reason my body should have processed this food... except that my body knows quality.

The is a list of my thoughts in order: 
Moms know quality.
Moms know quality food.
The pupusa in question was hand made my the mom of a former student.
The pupusa was quality.
I did not puke up the pupusa.
My mom knows quality.
My mom's food must be the cure to my mysterious illness.

My next thought was SHIT. My mom's in Lexington, and there's no gas in my car, and last time I checked, there's no reliable way to vomit while driving without crashing.

Then I remembered the contents of my freezer, carefully wrapped for a time when I wasn't so strictly dieting: EEVB (Existential Experience Veggie Burger) and OCC (Orgasmic Cheese Cake).

I then did what any normal person who's spend the last day vomiting would do: I stuffed myself with my mom's home cooked veggie burgers and cheesecake.

I AM PROUD TO SAY THAT I HAVE SPENT THE LAST 8 HOURS VOMIT FREE.

Fuck diets. Fuck weight loss. Fuck low carb bullshit that prevents me from running. Fuck all of that. I'm going to eat food again.

I just called my mother to tell her this, and her response was hilarious, in that she didn't really respond at all. There was no attempt to explain this phenomenon using science. There was no laughter, no acknowledging the transformative nature of her cooking. She simply said, "We're grilling for Father's Day, what time will you be here?"

LOVE YOU MAMA.

PS: I called her again, read her the blog, and she laughed hysterically at the last part.

Gym Pet Peeves: Judgemental Ladies on Zero Resistance

Judgmental ladies on zero resistance piss me off. You know what I mean. I didn’t specify what area of the gym because you find these ladies everywhere, but there is an epidemic of them in the cardio room, so that’s the example I’ll use.

Picture this: You’re on the treadmill, stationary bike or elliptical, they are right next to you. You’re hauling ass on some insanely high level of resistance, and to the outside world, you appear to be trudging through a mixture of mud, quicksand and molasses. Sometimes it looks like you’re barely moving. Sweat pours down your face. You look like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you. The lady next to you is going buck wild, flying along at a dizzying pace on level .0001. There is nothing wrong with this. To each her own.

But then she leans over and looks at you in her judgy-faced glory, eyes narrowed, lip curled, eyebrows raised, thought bubble above her head containing the words, “Wow, I’m going soooo much faster than you.” You had to go there, didn’t you? Now that you have my attention, I can look at the numbers on your machine and see that I’m working 79,000 times harder than you because I’m 79,000 times stronger, yet you judge me? You somehow think you’re better? Guess what? You’re not pushing yourself. Know how I can tell? You have NO resistance on the machine, and you have enough mental and physical energy to give me the stink-eye. Crank it up a notch and mind your own business.

The worst thing is, it is impossible to ignore these ladies. I’m not talking about the ones who glance over at your machine occasionally. I’m talking about the obnoxious ones who lean over too far and won’t give it up. You can look at my machine all you want if it makes you happy. The issue is that they don’t give it up. If you ignore them, they get bolder. They lean closer towards your machine. I make a big show of looking at the TV in the opposite direction, checking my watch, drinking my water, yet they won’t let up until I make eye contact just to get them out of my personal space.

I have experienced some success with the following reaction. Be warned, this is not for the faint of heart. This is for dealing with a first class obnoxious bitch who really won’t leave you alone. Allow her to give you the condescending eye. Wait 10 seconds. Then look at the numbers on her machine. Don’t glance. Turn your entire face, partially turn your shoulders, and stare at the digital display on her machine for at least 6 seconds. Then, do the same thing with your own machine. Look at her legs, pretending to gauge the pace. Look down at your own legs. Look at some spot in between both sets of legs, so you appear to be comparing the respective paces. Look back at her numbers. Look at your own. Raise your eyebrows, curl your lips into a hint of a smile, and nod slightly.

If you follow my instructions perfectly, the following thought bubble will appear over your head:

“Hmm… No wonder your legs are moving so much faster than mine… You have your machine set at the easiest level. Well, good for you, joining a gym for the first time. We all had to start somewhere.”