Afternoon Fro-yo Break: Audible Sigh.

My friend Flo and I took advantage of our lunch break today to go get pedicures (BLOGGERS NOTE: This is NOT something we do often...just to be clear.)

While lounging in my massage chair, I flipped through the August issue of Marie Claire magazine and came across an article titled "Where the men are." It highlighted 18 cities across America where upstanding single women with style and grace can find eligible bachelors to sink their claws into and make babies with.

Each city section discussed the type of men in that particular town (hobbies, personal style, ethics, etc.), the type of women they're attracted to, average age of marriage (25 in Columbus!!??), typical date nights, etc. Los Angeles, Columbus, New York, Seattle and Dallas were just a few of the many manly paradises featured.

Washington D.C. was not featured. Neither was any town in Virginia or Maryland.

This does not come as a surprise.

As the plethora of 30 year-old single, attractive, successful, driven and confident women in this region know, that is because hooking and reeling in a real man in this region is like finding a pair of Christian Louboutins on the clearance rack at TJ Maxx.

We do however have a major overstock of these:

This heterosexual male Washingtonian was "taking a mani/pedi break" with his female coworker.

Actually overheard by Flo and me as he walked over to the manicure chair in his purple nail salon foam flippy-flops:

"I kicked the wall and I think I messed up those toes," he pointed out to his manicurist.

Okay. Getting "buffed" is one thing. Getting clear polish on your toes is clearly another.

Did I mention I've lived in Washington for 10 years now? No wonder all my girlfirends have moved away over the past six months - mostly to Marie Claire's featured "manly" cities.

Flo and I, however, are stuck in this "mani" city for the foreseeable future.

Bleh.

I woke up at 5:45 a.m this morning and went to the gym.

It sucked. Bleh!

How can people do this on a regular basis and not feel like they've been run-over by a MACK truck for the rest of a 10-hour work day?

Don't get me wrong. I feel proud of myself. I feel like tomorrow I'll get that great vague pain in my muscles that makes me feel all toned (even though I'm not) and gives me a hop in my step.

But, I also feel like I need a couple hours of lounging while I watch Judge shows followed by a 3 hour nap.

Did I mention that I like naps? I took an amazing one on Saturday afternoon....but I digress.

The most annoying thing about this entire situation is my boyfriend's overzealous excitement about early morning work outs.

While I wake up at 5:45 a.m. to hit the gym by 6:10, he is up at 5:15 a.m.

He spends the next 45 minutes catching on on his Google Reader and drinking some conconction mixed from a powder that has a "Before and After" steroid-bound muscle man on the side:

Before                                 After

He also listens to music that "pumps him up" for the gym. I hate this.

I hate walking out of the bedroom in my PJs like a grogy-eyed nippy hamster with "why the heck am I awake!?!" running through my head and being confronted with Paramore - "Misery Business" by the very man who woke me up.

Somtimes LD will also be hopping up and down, getting himself all pumped up for what is sure to be an "awesome workout."

I want to hit him in the face.

Wow...my boyfriend and my father have a lot more in common than I thought!

LD is my current-day "Imua Malia" shouter - the man I want to roll my eyes at and slam my bedroom door while shouting "You just don't understand!!"

But he does understand. And, that is why he's pulling me out of bed before dawn and refusing to let me half-ass it like I have for the last decade.

I appreciate this with all my heart, and so does my Dad, who actually told me on the phone this weekend "you're very lucky to have that friend of yours."

LD and I are leaving for Los Angeles tomorrow night for the big "Meet the Parents" weekend. (BLOGGERS NOTE: I will obviosuly be reading the book highlighted above on the airplane because it is so timely.)

My Dad once told me that I wasn't allowed to bring anyone home until I had dated 25 men.

I think I'm probably around there at this point if you start counting with my Kindergarten boyfriend John S, so the dreaded day of reckoning has come!

Although my parents once hated one of my early suitors so much they wouldn't allow him inside the house and made him wait on the lawn for me, I think LD has already began to earn their respect. They know intimately what he deals with on a daily basis. *whine whine*

Now, if I can only keep my boyfriend from packing his seven Obama t-shirts, I think this week will be the begining of something wonderful!

I'll keep you posted on the big trip - and my buns of steel.

Afternoon Fro-yo Break: Googly Eyes Gardener

I just got back from my first visit to the gym in quite some time and while my legs are feeling wobbly, my eyes are also feeling googly!!

So I thought it was time for some Afternoon Fro-yo (for re-hydration purposes of course.)

This video is honestly one of the funniest things I've ever seen and it always puts a smile on my face, so I thought I'd share it with you!

Here's to Fridays and Fro-yo and the weekend to come! I think I will spend mine gluing googly eyes onto the absurd amount of faux plants my boyfriend LD has in his apartment.

more about "Afternoon Fro-yo Break: Googly Eyes G...", posted with vodpod

Imua* Malia

*In the Hawaiian language, "Imua" means the act of moving forward in a proactive way despite barriers that exist.

In high school I ran a 5 minute 14 second mile.

I wouldn’t say it was with ease, but I also didn’t work hard at getting in shape to achieve that.

Track practice usually included warm-up laps, some stretching, a few timed sprints, a run/walk to “the stoplight” – which was about 2 miles from campus and often included teammates getting flashed by a local creepster – and was capped off my a trip to Waiola Shave Ice on the way back to the track for a frozen treat (for rehydration purposes of course!) If you don’t know what I’m referring to, you should. Google it.

My dad knew I half-assed it. He didn’t trust me - nor should he have. We had history.

He would show up to track practice unannounced from time-to-time and sit in the stands, just to make sure I was there and actually training. He was often disappointed.

“Dad! I have a shin splints. I don’t think I can run this season…”

“You are so damn full of crap! You’re the laziest girl on the face of the earth and I know you’re looking for any way you can to get out of putting in an ounce of effort into anything remotely athletic.”

(BLOGGERS NOTE: This seems to be a running theme in my life (pun intended), since I have no hobbies at age 28 although - as noted in the inaugural post - I was exposed to the following by my parents: Gymnastics, Jazz, Tap, Ballet, Judo, Soccer, Basketball, Track, Volleyball, Swimming, Synchronized Swimming and Tennis. I quit them all...)

“No! They really hurt!”

“ICE THEM LIKE EVERYONE ELSE WHO HAS THEM!! You think you’re the only runner with shin splints? Everyone on that goddamn team has goddamn shin splints!”

"Dad!!" ...insert dramatic crying scene on the floor of the hallway... "They hurt so much!! I'm not lying!!"

"If you quit track, like you've quit everything else you've ever excelled at, I will take you out of school and send you to <redacted> instead!!"

Oh no!! Not <redacted>, the scary public school down the street where a haole girl like me wouldn't last a day!

So I didn't quit track. I threw myself whole-heartedly into that season - showing up every day, training hard, thrashing my thighs and blasting my biceps in the weight room, and competing hard during the meets...at Shot Put.

Yes, I weighed 108 pounds.

And yes, I joined the Shot Put team: Me and my good friend Kat, who had actually talent, and a bunch of 175 pound Samoans.

I think the furthest I ever putt-ted my shot was 20 feet. The world record is 75 feet.

This simple decision was the beginning of what would become a decade of laziness, muscle atrophy, and the slow-onset of a heart arrhythmia and Generalized Anxiety Disorder that probably could have been avoided with some good-old cardio every now and then.

Which brings us to the present.

It is with pride and visions of my father shouting "Imua Malia!!" from the stands as I crossed the finish line of a hard-fought miler that I announce the following:

I have joined the gym for the first time in my adult life.

And I fully consider working out to be a new hobby I am taking on - something that will not only bring me better health and more energy, but something that will bring me joy, pride and close the door on some regrets from my past.

Current mile time: 12 minutes and 32 seconds.

But that won't last long.

This Malia will be Imua'ing from this day forward, and I hope to make my father proud...even if I am fashionably late.

Afternoon Fro-yo Break: Declined...

I apologize that I have been unable to post more today, but I have been working hard to defend against attacks on traditional American values at my desk - all in a day's work for a gal like me.

But, I will take this opportunity to explain a vitally important aspect of this blog to you: The daily funny that will be posted everday - rain, work or shine.

It's called the Afternoon Fro-yo Break!

You got a little sample of it yesterday with the cacti story.

Everyone likes Fro-yo. And here at work we have a Fro-yo machine. And they have a toppings bar with oreos and sprinkes and nuts and M&Ms and chocolate sauce and carmel sauce. NOM NOM NOM....and after I put toppings on my Fro-yo I like to steal additional toppings in the small plastic sauce cups so I can add more toppings to my Fro-yo as I eat deeper into the cup, because as we all know the topping to Fro-yo ratio is pivotal to the overall afternoon Fro-yo experience.

...But I digress.

I just think that everyone likes a little funny!

So, I hereby present today's Afternoon Fro-yo Break: Declined...

This just in from my friend Blair Waldolf, who is slaving away at her desk and looking forward to some quality time with her husband Mike a little later this evening:

"Mike and I have an Outlook calendar with our life on it, and I just sent him an invite for cuddle time, and he rejected it!"

Ahh, poor Blair. I guess she finally knows how Chuck, I mean Mike, feels about her.

xoxo,

Gossip Girl

Afternoon Fro-yo Break: This just in...

"Don't act like I didn't take the cacti."

From Fantasy Football participant Taylor... on the road to Chicago from Washington D.C. where we will miss her dearly.

This cacti has a long history...

FROM: http://dcist.com/2008/02/overheard_in_dc_34.php

The possibilities for cactus penis jokes are endless.


At Nick's Bar & Grill in Alexandria:


A group of drunk, college-aged girls have brought a giant inflatable cactus with them to the bar. They're in the small women's restroom with the cactus.


Drunk girl #1 (holding & stroking cactus): "This cactus reminds me of my ex-boyfriend..."


Drunk girl #2: "Why? ...because it's prickly?"


Drunk girl #3: (contemplative): "No...because of its length and girth..."


Thirty minutes later the girls were kicked out of the bar for hitting other patrons over the head with the cactus.


(BLOGGERS NOTE: Let me add that this is totally untrue. We were kicked out because no cacti were allowed on the dance floor!!...as stated in my inaugural post. But thank you for calling us "college-aged!")

You have the right to remain fantasy.

I once dated a "man" (overstatement of the decade) who gave me a heads-up in early August 2007 that he would be unable to hang out on Sundays during football season because he and his "manly" friends took their fantasy football league seriously.

Really seriously.

I'm talking three 52 inch HD TVs in one room so three games could be watched simultaneously and continuously into the wee hours while their home-made concoction, often refered to as "chili," sat developing a dry crust in the kitchen.

Said "man" and I were also not allowed to hang out on Monday nights due to America's favorite pastime.

This group had been fraternity brothers in college, where they honed their drafting skills. At that time, if you made a draft pick and someone wanted to steal your player you'd each chug a beer. Whoever finished their beer first got the player.

A decade later, 12 oz. Miller Lites had been replaced by 8 oz. Corona "ponies" since their chugging abilities had atrophied. Their passion for role-playing and man-snuggle time however had not.

Needless to say, this relationship did not work out due to what he called his "busy football schedule."

(BLOGGERS NOTE to said "man": Don't bullshit a bullshitter!)

...But, at least the relationship gave me a great idea for a new hobby!

I have decided it time to tackle some Fantasy Football! Yaya!!

My girlfirend Peach and I are creating a Femme Fatale Fantasy Football League on Yahoo! Sports and are going to learn all about football.

I sent around an e-mail yesterday and we have our 8 Femme Fatales committed with a $20 buy-in.

Unfortunetly, some of my less technologically-inclined girlfriends have responded to the Yahoo! league invite with "I dunno how to click join! and now I can't even remember my password...ahhh!!!" (Please note that the e-mail is pretty darn self-explanatory...)

But we're taking babysteps here. :) Hopefully we'll have everyone signed up today so we can plan our online draft time and then learn how to draft and what players are good!! Obviously none of us have any idea what we are doing, so access to boyfriends and male friends for help and hints is fair game. LD has volunteered to help whatever woman is in need of his fantasy services. What a giver...

The best part of this entire situation is that it'll help us keep in touch with friends around the country while we learn about football, and we can talk smack to each other and give fashion online discount code hints on the smack board.

My team is currently called "The Bubble Butts" because I am going to draft players based on their butt bubbleliciousness.

Since Gisele and Tom Brady haven't had their baby yet, my friend Jenny decided to continue the long tradition of combining couples names. Therefore, she is team "Brisele" - a fierce combination of fashion and football.

Allie says her boyfriend "Jason will be impressed, considering I just pulled the veto on his Westbrook fathead going up in the new apt."

And, Aimee says "it took me a solid 15 mins to figure it out. First I had to even CREATE a yahoo account. Then I agonized over what helmet color combination I wanted to use for my logo."

Obviously we're off to an amazing start...

Just think of all the exciting hobbies this could lead to in the future...like Femme Fatale Fantasy NASCAR!!!

For more information for my lady friends on how to get involved with Fantasy Football, check out this link: http://www.fantasyfootballforwomen.com/

I will keep you posted on our progress...or lack there of.

I can't touch my toes.

I have a problem.


I seemed to have misplaced my joy.

I'm not talking about the smiles and laughter that come from inflatable party props finding their way into line-dancing bars as the DJ announces "no cacti on the dance floor!!" or Sunday morning cheeseburger brunches capped off by yelling "BOOOO!!" at the big pink PETA pig on the corner touting vegetarianism.

Those moments of joy still make cameo appearances.

I'm talking about the sense of joy one gets out of living their daily life.

Here is my predicament:

When I wake up in the morning in Washington D.C., I do not want to go to work - to a job thousands would honestly kill for. And, after work, the elation I feel when a new episode of Hell's Kitchen is on TV it almost embarrassing. Then I clean out my nose with the sinus rinser, go to sleep next to an air purifier, and proceed to grind my teeth all night long on a $500 plastic mouth guard. Next day? Rinse and Repeat.

I recently mentioned my frustration with the monotony of life to my boyfriend (LD) - who some might call a successful Washington attorney.

"I don't freaking love going to work either. No one wakes up and is like woohoo! I love working! Your problem is you don't have any hobbies. I have a lot of things in my life that bring me joy outside of work, like my music and movies and working out and Ultimate Fighting," LD chimed in.

Okay. Calling renting pay-per-view UFC events on a Saturday night a hobby might be a stretch sir. But what the heck is he talking about! My life is chock full of hobbies.

...

It was recently brought to my attention that shopping at Forever 21 when I am nearly 30 is not a hobby.

"I took a hot bath last night for the first time in years. Can taking hot baths be a hobby?"

"No, everyone needs to bathe," said LD.

"I read some."

"When was the last time you finished a book before moving on to another book?"

...Summer 2008

So I'm 28. And I have no hobbies. I have no idea how this happened since my parents enrolled me in every damn class Palms Park and Rancho Park Recreational Center had to offer in the 1980s. Gymnastics, Jazz, Tap, Ballet, Judo, Soccer, Track, Volleyball, Basketball, Swimming...Synchronized Swimming, Tennis, French, Spanish, Pottery, Art.

In High School I ran track, played soccer and wrote for the paper.

In college I ate Doritos, studied in my cubicle in the library and devoured internships.

And what have I got to show for it ten years later?

A wonderful job I never want to go to, a pretty major Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and a bone chip in my elbow that periodically tickles my funny bone.

I can't even touch my toes.

But that is about to change.

I may be fashionably late to this whole passion for life thing, but its about time that career comes second and enjoying my life takes precedence.

So watch out world-of-people-with-talent-and-interests!

I am about to find myself some hobbies - and they might just be yours!

So please be patient with me and don't giggle too loudly as I tumble hard to the mat out of crow pose (you know who you are man at my first Vinyasa Flow class last weekend!!)

Silver lining, here I come!!