Man Whore


“Donkey Punch,” “Alaskan Pipeline,” “Houdini,” Frothy Walrus,” “Dirty Sanchez.” If these names don’t provoke a giggle, a cringe or reminder of a sexual nightmare than you probably never lived next to a fraternity house in college or you never wasted half a day glued to a dictionary, an Urban Dictionary that is. Fortunately for my friends and parents I did both. There is no better feeling than being able to go tit for tat on the names and definitions of disgusting sexual positions with a 21 year old unknowing HPV carrying Fraternity boy on a Wednesday afternoon which is probably why I never had the feeling of a 4.0. Of course it’s mostly men and boys that share this thirst for borderline violet sexual acts that sometimes involve a side of fecal matter which is why over hearing 2 or 3 woman entrenched in a conversation regarding a popsicle dildo is virtually as rare as the Hope Diamond.

It is a rare day when I decide that a work out can happen without the accompaniment of music. Call it, “issues with motivation” or “Dependency issues” but either way it never happens. There have been times when I have come to the realization that I have forgotten my headphones while in the locker room and I will literally walk right out and on my way pass the dumbfounded front desk scholar and with absolute pride inform them that “I forgot I had a meeting.” The other day however I decided that line may be discounted at 7 pm on Sunday so I manned up and worked out with silence. The problem was not that all I could hear was the humming of cardio machines overdue for maintenance, unwarranted grunting or accidental gas passing. What I could hear were all the conversations had between all the people that require an additional person in order to work out.

I went from the elliptical where 2 woman discussed the top headlines of US weekly which if your Chelsea Handler it is funny, if you’re Hoda and Kathy it’s a mildly entertaining train wreak but if you’re just 2 random woman seriously concerned for Kendal Jenner it spells the end of a cardiovascular workout so I took myself to the weight room fraternity floor. What my ears found there was no different than the Sigma Alpha Epsilon house next door to me in 2005. I found a comfortable spot next to 2 “gentleman” (until proven otherwise) seemingly fitness conscious. I say “seemingly” as both maintained a bulky steroidal chest and a taut set of legs but one was tattooed head to 2 wearing a shirt that said “Fuck Society” then below his genitals busted through a set of tight cotton mid-thigh high spandex and the other had a swastika peeping through a neon pink extra small tank top and teal shorts. Which proves my theory that no matter how many tattoos one has or whether or not you are sporting slightly pro anarchy attire and neo-Nazi body ink it just takes one set of spandex shorts on milky white legs or a Suzan Summers tank top to emasculate yourself. It really wasn’t the outfits that grabbed my attention it was the graphic dialogue that perked my ears for its not every day you hear the phrase, “That’s why Jessica doesn’t let me go to Vegas for work anymore because I let chicks lick my ass while they jerk me off.” First of all, good for you Jessica and finally, REALLY?? Not even a small lowering of volume for that phrase. Just blurt that right out despite the fact that there small children right next to you being forced to work out by their overly agro parents. I hope I never meet a man in Vegas that steps off the plane, takes a whiff of cigarette spoke and dry dessert air and utters the phrase, “What happens in Vegas is that chicks lick my ass in conjunction with jerking me off!” This is why I never work out without music….

Why Are You Calling Me??

Paranoid Much

I’m not sure about anyone else but when the phone rings mid-day on a weekday and I see the following numbers, “Mom’s Cell,” “Dad Cell,” or “Home” as any one of the numbers my heart sinks for a second, I am struck with unsettling fear and feel the start of a cold sweat so I naturally assume the worst possible scenario. See, I know it seems a bit paranoid or maybe quite a lot paranoid but when your parents get to a certain age it’s an unfortunate reality that some sort of health scare, domestic disturbance or passing could be the greeting you answer to on the other end which is why I have had the discussion numerous times specifically with my mom as she is the primary culprit, that I find it very alarming when I look down at my phone and see that she is calling me at 1pm pacific standard time on a Wednesday? Why? What could possibly be waiting for me on the other end of this call? It has to be urgent? It’s a Wednesday so she should know that the potential for me to be at a place most of us call “work” is very high so one would think she would find it best to wait until the evening. I’m 32 years old so the days of being offered and in fact taking a thing called a 15 minute break after 2 hours of solid work went hasta la vista a double digit amount years ago so she couldn’t be thinking she was going to catch me at break to tell me that some fell, broke there hip and has one week to live. I’m so paranoid I literally will answer the phone and instead of saying “Hi” like a normal person I immediately go straight for the “mom, what’s wrong, what happened, who is no longer with us?” Now clearly up until now nothing has been wrong and my mother responds with something along the lines of, “Nothing hunny I’m just at Trader Joes and wanted to get dad a nicer bottle of wine since he’s been working hard all his life and I decided he now gets to have $20 bottles of wine instead of $15 and I wanted to ask you what you thought of this blend that is the Trader Joes Staff Pick.” The funny thing is that every time she does this I always go into the same scolding spiel of how I saw her calling in the middle of the afternoon on a week day and thought someone in the family had a myocardial infarction and was rushed to hospital and may not make it. To which she puts my heart at ease and honestly replies with, “well hunny dad and I are older now so that is definitely as possibility.” Mid-day mid-week is considered a “inappropriate call time” but the same rule applies for Friday and Saturday nights because in those instances they should assume that I have a highly active social life therefore assume that after 7:00 pm I should already be at the beginning of a truly epic night filled with cocktails and dreams and not at home watching a Nicholas Sparks movie starring Zac Efron while drinking wine alone in a pair of 7 year old sweat pants that I just now feel have reached their full comfort potential. That call will also be answered with the following greeting, “Mom, what happened?” Thankfully until now the response for a Friday night phone call is met with this response, “well hunny dad and I are out at a wine tasting and wanted to ask if you have ever had this wine.”

A few days ago at the gym I came across a special someone who was equally as paranoid as myself however for different reasons than phone calls from parental units. As I walked in the locker room dodging middle aged post cardio kick naked woman in order to put my belongings away I noticed a young lady posted up on one of the locker room benches where many a bare moon have landed and many cleaning crew have not bleached. She had one leg up commandeering 90% of the bench and her back rested up against 2 lockers. She looked so comfortable and content despite being surrounded by sprawling bushes, wood benches and combination locks imbedded in her back. I couldn’t tell if she was waiting for someone, checking in on Facebook so thank god everyone knows that yes, she did make it to the gym today, or if she was Pre or post work out but needless to say I took a mental note as she looked up at me and made hateful eye contact with me and went on my way. After 1 long hour of hits from the 80’s inspired cardio, a lack luster attempt at strengthening my core and a few dismal leg lifts also known as a “Leg Day” I returned to gather my belongings and noticed home girl was still in the same position. Still with one leg up and a lock wedged in her back. I wasn’t keeping tabs on her but I have to say that I didn’t think I saw her on the actual floor of the gym one time during the hour I was out there. I think I must have had some sort of perplexed yet dumbfounded expression when I saw she was still posted up in my least favorite place i.e. the ladies locker room. I couldn’t help it though as that is the expression I make when I am trying to figure out how someone could occupy one whole hour or potentially longer if I didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she arrived mere minutes before I got there. Was she proof reading urgent work documents?  Was she in the middle of an hour long motivational YouTube video? Did her friend drag her to the gym and this was her way of protest? This time instead of only making hateful eye contact she added a haste filled comment, “I already worked out ok, GEEZ.” I’m pretty sure she said bitch under her breath but I will never know because I turned and walked right out of their thinking, GEEZ, paranoid much…

Water May Be Contaminated With Fecal Matter


Some things in our lives are truly meant to be private but we all have that person or persons in our lives that we feel completely comfortable discussing our most personal and potentially humiliating matters with. Matters that sometimes require an urgent Web M.D. search followed by an even more urgent “clear search history.” Most of these matters fall in to 1 of 3 categories; 1) Bathroom related topics, 2) Sexual Related topics and 3) Other. Usually only a handful of friends are even in consideration to make this highly esteemed cut of people who have the pleasure of knowing when your last STD scare was because let’s face it we all knowingly categorize our friends. For instance you have your, “slightly prudish friends,” in which all conversations stay within the safe zone of travel, work and food and no one knows when the last time you had sex was, and then there are the “judgmental living in the proverbial glass house friends,” in which all discussions include the horrid lives of those not currently in attendance, the “work related friends,” where dialogue is always about all the annoying people you work with and after a 2 drink happy hour all of the people you work with that you want to sleep with, the “friends that know your whole family,” whom you never speak with, and lastly those that fall into the “friends that have had to bathe you that time you threw up on yourself due to an alcohol induced black out.” For me, that person who I can tell just about anything to is my roommate. She is the friend that understands why it is not weird to think about those 2 random and completely opposite, slightly unattractive people in Finance having sex and probably not in the missionary position. She is the person that I high five when I feel 10 pounds lighter in the morning for obvious reasons and the person I need to face time with when It’s been a whole day and we have not high fived for the previous reason. Lastly she is the person that would leave me her last Plan B on the counter if I ever needed it with a note that I would imagine saying something like this, “make sure to take this with food and drink a lot of water because I didn’t and I felt like shit.” This isn’t the kind of person that you meet and instantly know you can trust them with your Google search history. This kind of trust and understanding develops over time and starts off small with conversations induced by wine that consist of phrases like, “would you rather” and if that friendship ever ended you would have to leave the country.

Some people on the other hand feel comfortable with everyone. They have no verbal boundaries, they are incapable of feeling shame and they are almost always the ones in gym locker rooms naked for extended periods of time. In fact just the other day I was seated across the sauna to one of these individuals without even knowing it until she requested my attention and asked me to look in the direction of the spa, more specifically to the signage directly above stating the following, “Persons having currently active diarrhea or who have had active diarrhea within the previous 14 days shall not be allowed to enter the pool water.” She looked at me with a straight face and asked me if I thought it was ok for her to use the spa despite the fact that she doesn’t have solid bowels that often but it wasn’t diarrhea from illness just overly loose bowels from a lot of coffee in the morning. How do you tell someone you just met while sitting in 140 degree heat that you don’t think it matters but that you personally wouldn’t want to follow her into muddy waters???? I stuck with the safe route and told her I think it’s probably ok as long as you don’t lose a loose bowel in the water while others are in there with you. #itsnotsafetogointhewater

Cat Fight


As women grow older we mature. Our bodies mature and some of us develop acceptable size breasts, our way of thinking matures and we only become irrational once a month, the way we communicate matures by way of adding a new element know as passive aggressive but in general or overall lives mature. Even the way we fight and the things we fight about seem to mature. For instance I can remember a fight in 3rd grade that came about from something with the kind of magnitude that rattles the earth such as  selecting one friend to sit next to during class and not the other 2 (because I only possessed 3 total friends). That kind of fight usually ended in “side taking” and silent treatment and for sure a few evil eye stares my way during cursive training. In middle school you selected your friends based on your favorite radio stations so you were either friends with “the rockers,” “the rappers,” or you had no friends. So, fights happened when your so called best friend bought the band  T-shirt you slowly managed to afford to buy as a product of successfully taking all small change and loose bills your parents left behind and yet still didn’t consider that stealing. Those fights consisted of basically shit talking. Whoever likes Nirvana is a total poser. When you get to college most fights revolve around who slept with your current boyfriend or boyfriend you recently broke up with 2 weeks ago, or who you live with that has grossly sub-par hygiene in which you previously over looked during casual hang outs. Those fights ended in phrases like “ex-roommate” and “former friend that is a dirty hoe bag.”

It’s so nice to be at an age when fighting is a thing of the past and you don’t fight you just de-friend, un-follow or simply “hide” in order to keep a watchful eye. The last place I thought I would see two grown women fight like they were filming a scene from Orange is the New Black was at the gym. As someone who constantly keeps an eye out for unusual gym behavior I instantly noticed 2 woman (one extremely fit black woman in head to toe neon and the other being a tatted up white chick with 10% body fat and no visible muscle) that appeared to be engaged in very hostile dialogue. It was so aggressive looking I stopped leg lifting and jetted towards the free weights despite a self-mandated “off day.” By the time I secured the only available free weight that just so happened to be well beyond my max weight I already became aware of the fight sparking premise. The scrawny white chick aka, “The Rocker” took one of the 20 pound weights the buff black chick, “The Rapper” left un-attended while taking a water break. She clearly confronted the rocker and unfortunately the laze-fare stoner response was not received well because it resulted in body contact and very close talking. I was 2 feet away so I could hear every word but for those far away it could have easily looked like an inter-racial lesbian act of foreplay. I felt like we were on an adult playground because everyone stopped their work out and formed a school yard circle around the 2 ladies. I can’t be certain but I think everybody was routing for scrawny white chick because who doesn’t love an underdog? There was a lot of “bitch,” “fucking bitch,” “punk ass,” and “I will fuck you up’s” thrown around so it was tough to determine who was winning and I have to admit that although it would make me very uncomfortable I was hoping for a thrown punch and a bitch down. Thankfully, a brave man who probably at one point injected steroids into his body broke up the ladies before a gym employee with a manager title came over. The ladies retreated to opposite sides of the weight room floor but in true middle school fashion continued to stare each other down and shit talk the other to confused near bye gym patrons. The odd thing was that the original 20 pound weight that sparked the entire fight just stayed in the center of the work out floor and went with neither woman so I did what felt natural and that was leave the 30 pound weight I was not able to curl and discretely picked up the 20 pound weight and went to a safe and secluded area of the gym and did the acceptable amount of bicep curls for an “off day.”

“Open Door Policy”

Most women have a specific face they make at themselves in the mirror at some point at the end or during their “getting ready bathroom routine” and it usually serves as some sort of visual checklist before the final departure into the outside world. It’s a long serious yet blank stare in which you do the last confirmation. Did I put mascara on both eyes? Check. Did I completely cover up that period rapidly approaching warning signal also known as a crater size pimple? Check. Does my hair have enough volume without screaming I ratted and then hair sprayed? Check.  If I were a very attractive, wealthy and charismatic man would I want to wife me? Check. It’s comical though because usually the face that is made is not a face ever made once one has left the bathroom. It’ kind of like a sheik duck face of sorts like a “mirror, mirror on the wall who’s this chick sucking in her cheeks like a hungry vogue model when she’s just getting ready to go the mall?”  The other day I was in a lady’s room at a restaurant and there was a woman looking at herself in the mirror for nearly 5 minutes!! She was just making small hair and side boob adjustments while blankly yet seductively staring in the mirror. I gave myself dishpan hands just standing there waiting for to blink. When she left I tried to wrap up my bathroom session with my own mirror stare down but it was a bit more awkward since I hate to make eye contact with myself in the mirror.

We all know what kinds of faces we make when we are getting ready in the bathroom but does anyone wonder what kinds of faces we make while going to the bathroom? I can’t imagine I am expressionless all the time. I think I remember one time when I held it so long (probably alcohol related) that I felt like my eyes were about to water in the form of urine that by the time I made it to the bathroom I’m nearly certain my eye fluttering face and euphoric sighs looked and sounded more like someone mid orgasm than someone mid tinkle. There are always those times when “something doesn’t agree with you” and you have the kind of unpleasant bathroom experience that you only pray can be erased from memory. That’s a face of disgust and shock similar to what I would assume I would look like if I was forced to watch a documentary on animal abuse with “sex slaves UK” commercial breaks. I don’t think I have to go into detail on what the face of someone would be if they were trying to force something special through when it’s not that something special’s time to come out because it probably looks like someone caught on camera on a rollercoaster just before they are about to fall 20 stories in 3 seconds. Since most bathrooms, public and private opt out of mirror placement directly in front of the toilet we really have no concept of the range of facial expressions during our private time. I’m sure those in lovingly open relationships take pride in the fact that they are completely ok with living by a household “open door” policy where it’s perfectly ok to allow for open door dumps in which you know exactly what your significant other looks like when they climax and when they have to use the bathroom after a cup of coffee and a bran muffin.

A few days ago at the gym as I was carefully selecting which disease ridden bathroom stall I encountered a woman who probably needed some 360 bathroom feedback. As I pushed open door number 3 I was surprised to find a middle aged woman going number one who was not sitting but squatting, who had definitely held it too long (or was intensely concentrating). When I opened the door her eyes were closed and when she realized she had a visitor they became overtly bulged. Of course I didn’t stay longer than a nano second and clearly it was accidental and OBVI I apologized for the mistake yet somehow she ended up yelling the following, “excuse you, how rude!” I was baffled at how her not properly latching the door and forgetting to put up a sign that said, “please knock first” was my fault that she was walked in on and startles her stream off course. Unfortunately it made for an awkward bathroom experience in which I was plagued with the worst stage fright and in a last ditch effort to salvage the mishap I tried yelling out, “you can walk in on me if that will help.” She must have not heard me or omitted the wipe and stormed out because she didn’t get to see the face I make when I know I have to pee but I can’t because the lady next to me who I saw shooting a hose into large bowl just yelled at me face.

First Rule of CrossFit is We Don’t Talk About CrossFit

I think most people have at least one friend, relative/sibling, or co-worker they know that participates in a little cult I like to call, “Cross Fit.” It has become so popular within the last 5 years that I surfed through 3 obscure ESPN channels and there were 3 different CrossFit competitions airing, “Cross Fit Games,” “The Great CrossFit Challenge,” and “Nike Woman’s Cross Fit Competition.” Every town has its own CrossFit gym with its own special name. Every day my Facebook news feed consists of videos of friends and family doing a record numbers of weird things like burpees, or someone liking their new CrossFit gym’s Facebook page, or someone checking in at their local cross fit warehouse with a caption like, “Here comes a Hero work out,” or “I’m about to crush this Farmer’s Walk.” The second you lose someone to CrossFit it’s over.

It starts with the constant monitoring of the, “Workout of the day” (also known as “WOD” for cult members) that are posted where you will be out at dinner and you think your friend is surfing through Instagram and then out of nowhere they will blurt out things like, “ugh tomorrow’s WOD is being taught by big Mike and it’s a Murph.” If there is someone else at the table that does CrossFit than an hour goes by and it’s like being an American that only speaks English in another country where everyone else is talking with all kinds of hand gestures and excitement and you have no f-ing clue what they are saying. If that person is the only cult member than you make them order carbs for dinner as punishment.

Once someone is completely hooked it moves to the social circle. Your friends start telling you they can’t hang out because some of their CrossFit friends are getting together to eat red meat and do a “fun little competition.” You are left so confused as to how army crawling through the mud with someone on your back is now the substitute for a themed pub crawl on the weekends? You finally get to hang out with your cult following friends and they brag about things like how many decline pushups they did on Thursday and show off new injuries and open wounds instead of new watches or shoes.

It’s all so confusing to me? I have so many questions, concerns and considerations…. Isn’t it just a work out? Can you still drink? Is practicing really necessary? I go to the gym all the time and make no friends, speak to absolutely no one and manage to achieve the same level of fulfillment. I can’t remember the last time I spent 30 minutes talking to another human about the triceps dips I did that day. Why do all the woman have a new set of gorilla shoulders and is that in fact found to be a turn on for the opposite sex?

More importantly there tends to be a lot of couples involved which makes me think a relationship is doomed if one does CrossFit and the other choses to lead a normal life or new single members are forced to sign a contract stating they will only mate with those from within.

I would imagine anyone reading this and disagrees will take their rage out during an intense kettle bell workout and those that agree probably are like me and have a giant poster board up in their room that is titled, “Friends and Family That Do Not Do CrossFit,” and have a few people with red lines through their names symbolizing another person lost that year…

How Far Along Are You?


I have never been pregnant nor will I ever but I have had a pregnant sister and many a pregnant friend so clearly I am aware that all fish must be cooked if consumed, you can absolutely have half glasses of wine more than once a week, canckels are virtually unavoidable, and your nipples will never recover from breastfeeding. The other pre and post natal fact I possess is that of common sense when it comes to woman I don’t know who may appear to the naked eye to be pregnant or nursing a 2 month old at home. We’ve all been there. You are at work and “Alicia” from accounting comes in with a high waist  skirt, blouse tucked in and topped with a belt and a lower abdominal bump… First thought is, “She must almost be out of her first trimester and this outfit is a non-verbal gesture to all that she is with child. It’s funny how that is always the first initial conclusion and not that it’s winter and Jessica has taken advantage of the office pastry chef’s break room bake goods giveaway one to many times or even that she has a bad girl party side to her that comes out on weekends outside of work and that is the reason for her college beer ho 2001 belly roll. (If you went to college and managed to avoid that small pouch in the midsection caused by taco bell and Costco consumption levels of Bud Light than the phrase beer ho may be foreign to you and 2001 is simply a reference to my beer fupa year). It’s so hard to tell with woman these days as for whatever reason workplace pregnancy is kept secret for longer and longer by wearing clothes that act as a disguise and claiming food poisoning on a regular basis for perpetual mid-day vomiting. I’m not sure if it’s fear that there was an unread clause in the employee handbook stating termination upon conception or an unwillingness to allow for your managers proper planning for coverage during the 3 months you are aloud to push out a water melon from a pour spout, not sleep, ruin your breasts, strain your marriage and then send the product of your love off to strangers to watch them grow up so you can return to work.

I would see scenarios like this all the time when I worked in HR. Walking the halls speculating who is having a marriage saving pregnancy, illegitimate love child or a family pressure induced pregnancy based on newly present curves and expanding body parts. The one thing however you never do is ASK. Never ask a woman when she is due or how old her non present child is unless you are 200% certain she is currently pregnant or had a child within the past 3 months. Why so many people break this rule is beyond me. I have heard many a dumbass men break this rule but shockingly enough I have heard many a dumb bitch women break this rule. It just takes one, “when are you due?” to a woman that has a 9 month old at home taking a bottle from a former Seventeen Model nanny to send her to a suicide hotline and just one, “how far long are you?” to a woman pre January get in shape for the new year resolution to take her down a bulimic path for the next 2 months. All because someone had to open their big mouth versus simply walking back to their desk and telling their neighbor to look out for Alicia this week and confirm whether or not she thinks she’s pregnant. We must file those questions in the “What never to say” folder at all times right alongside the statement, “You look tired” because that’s not even a question that’s just a statement and better yet a statement that says, “you like shit.”

The other day at the gym I was working out following a night consisting of wine, bourbon and French cuisine and then a morning filled with coffee, no water and no food and in between abdominally crunching my muffin top away I felt waives of nausea. To the point of mapping out the fastest and most direct way to a successful bathroom vomit. As I stood there presumably looking unwell a lady approached me and asked if I was ok. Ah, there are still kind people left in this world. I told her I was definitely ok just riding a small wave of nausea but not to worry. Instead of moving out of my vomit path she asked me, “Oh I see hunny, are you pregnant?” I looked down and noticed the remnants of last night’s beverage consumption by way of next day bloat and realized how it could be confusing but still felt the need to stick it to my concerned gym patron so I said, “no, I’m not pregnant, I actually have a 9 month old at home.”