shop till you drop...

Last week I went on one of my bi-annual trips to ‘the big mall’.  I loathe malls. OK, it’s mostly because I can’t afford all the stuff but also because it’s a total stimulus overload. On more than one occasion I’ve been found hiding out in the shoe bar. The people there are really nice and they don’t rush me along at all. 

Generally speaking, the trip was successful. Found frock; can conquer the world. I did find the magnificent pair of red velvet shoes I was after but then remembered how the last time I wore heels, the sharp bit got caught up in my wide leg pants, tripping me up spectacularly in front of a whole room full of people. On that basis I resisted. Sigh. In a parallel universe I can do it all. I also had a few epiphanic moments whilst on my outing that I’ll share with you now.

1. Ironically, maxi dresses only look good on mini girls.  It’s a horribly misleading name. Anything bigger than a mini girl and they look like a picnic umbrella (especially the tribal print ones) or super large parasol (if the dress has those frilly layers).

2. If it rustles on the hanger you can bet your rustling butt that it’s going to rustle on you.

3. If it feels scratchy when you rub it between your fingers, times that by ten when you have it rubbing up against your body. Lambs wool and mohair are living proof.

4. I’ve yet to meet someone who can afford to wear satin on their bottom half. Figuratively not financially.

5. No matter how ‘on trend’ a bow on the neckline is, it’ll always make you look like an airhostess (at best) or like a bank employee (at worse). They’re very noble careers of course but chances are that’s not the look you were going for.

6. Colour blocking is to 2012 what neon was to 1985. You will look back at photos of yourself and think WTF?

7. Skinny jeans. Cruelly, the hint is in the name.

8. Shoes with slippery soles will make you slip. That’s a given.

9. Pointy toes require pointy toes. You either have them or you don’t’.

10. Pixie boots belong on… ta daaaa… PIXIES!

11. Pumps that are cut too low in the front will give you a bad case of toe cleavage* or plumbers foot - depending on the severity of the cut. I’m just saying that if Victoria Beckham gets toe cleavage with her skinny-ass feet then just imagine what kind of no-hope the rest of us have.

12. Nude and beige should only be worn if you wish to be sent home from work because you’re looking wan. (Except of course if you’re dark skinned or are a deft hand at applying stage makeup.)

13. Mustard. Really?  I thought we covered this in the 70’s. As a percentage of the entire population, who exactly looks good in mustard?

14. Jewelry shops.  Has anyone ever seen anyone buying anything in a jewelry shop?  I know I haven’t.

16. Petit departments are rude. If you can’t shop there then automatically you don’t “fit in”.

17. Are all those shelves of makeup really necessary?  It’s deliberate beauty bamboozlement. Women feverishly reach for this collagen pump and that 24-hour miracle repair cream but they’re actually reaching for a dream. It doesn’t work. If it did work we’d all be using it, know what I’m saying.

18. 6” heels. No one can walk in them. Well, at least not walk well.  The evidence lies in strippers.  The real reason they erect poles in strip clubs is so that those poor women can get off their feet now and then. True story. And don’t let ramp models fool you.  They are considered to be high-heel athletes and are specially trained.  Also, they weigh as much as your average 6 year old who, incidentally, also walks better in your heels than you do.

19.  The final few notes are aimed specifically at Chinese manufacturers of clothing:

a) Only one trim is ever necessary per garment. Namely, you have to choose between the rhinestone, fur, diamante, sequins and the fabric flowers. You can’t use them all at once in the hopes that you’ll appeal to a wider range of wearer.

b) One size doesn’t fit all. Just trust me on this.

c) You can’t just gather the fuck out of a garment to make it go up a size. Believe it or not, you actually have to lengthen the cut.

d) We know well fitting garments isn’t your thing, but for the love of God please use pleats instead of gathers because you’re cocking up the gathers. No wait, you may cock up pleats too.

Feel free to forward this to anyone you feel needs the advice.

*Thanks to my friend Tam who taught me this phrase. I’m going to use it a lot.

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postcards and other lies...

Every couple of months someone says to me, ‘oh go on, tell so-and-so about your most embarrassing moment’.  Over the years I’ve got it down to about 2.45 minutes, but to save me having to tell it again – EVER – I am officially writing it so that I don’t have to repeat myself again. EVER.

I should start by clarifying a few things. I grew up in a small town. Which is to say that if it’s a small town now, back in the 70’s it truly was one banjo player short of a redneck band. The fact that the closest ‘city’ to us was nicknamed ‘Sleepy Hollow’ should attest to exactly how small, and how quiet this no-banjo town of mine was.

The thing with small towns is that it’s all good and well when you’re a little kid.  You get to do stuff like ride your bike around the neighbourhood all by yourself and borrow cups of flour from your neighbour. But by the time you’re a teenager, you’re literally clawing at yourself to get away from small-town stuff. Any break in the monotony is welcome and as a result, newcomers to the town are given celebrity status. (‘Psst. They’re from the ‘outside’.) 

Back in Grade 9, I was so eager to meet new people that I accidentally made friends with ‘the new girl’ (lets call her Exotica) on the basis that she was a foreigner. The teacher had asked her to get up in front of the class and introduce herself.  In my defence she did have fairly exotic looks. Very pretty, with one of those sexy, French-looking noses (please; think Jean Dujardin and not Gerard Depardieu). 

So enamoured was I at the prospect of becoming friends with a foreigner, that when she announced where she came from, I heard ‘Luxembourg’.  Delirious and over-excited at the prospect of knowing a real live European, I split-second-daydreamed that I’d become so close to the family (indispensable, even) that when they went ‘home’ to Luxembourg on holiday, they’d insist on taking me along. I could just imagine all those European holidays stretching before me. I was certain they took trips to places like the French Riviera.

By the end of tea break I’d established that Exotica was actually from Lichtenburg (which I’d never heard of  - who had?) which by all accounts, sounded decidedly un-glamourous. It was too late. I already liked her. But my dreams of European holidays were crushed.

Fast forward to a hot, lazy Sunday afternoon and Exotica and I are extremely bored teenagers. Had we already been shagging blokes we could have phoned them up for a shag but we weren’t shagging yet so we decide to root through her Grandma’s kist. You know, try on some old shit that smells like mothballs.  I settled on a purple fur Russian hat and Exotica must have chosen something similar (I think there was beaver-fur involved.)

Determined to shake things up a bit around town, we decided to ride our bikes down to the village whilst wearing the moth-bally headgear. Upon arriving at the one and only tourist attraction in town, we came upon a family of four. Real foreigners.  The dad, intrigued by our unusual headgear, asked us where we were from.

‘Oh’, we replied ‘we live here’.

He frowned a little, squinting at the sweltering KZN summer sun and then back at our furry hats. Uncomfortable silence ensued.

I thought it only polite to ask where they came from. I think it’s to point out at this stag, that he not only had a very, very, very thick accent but also that his speech was somewhat distorted due to the rather heavy moustache he was sporting.

‘Guesh’ he said.

To my horror, I realized that I’d never even heard of a city, or a town, or a country by the name of Guesh. Was it somewhere near the town of Gstaad? Or was it even Gstaad itself and this was the way you pronounced it if you actually lived there?

Well, I could hardly say I had no idea where Guesh was (how very rude). Also, I  didn’t want to appear to be an unsophisticated, provincial idiot (which I was). Desperate, I decided to wing it.

‘Ah’, I replied, nodding knowingly and smiling. ‘I’ve never been to Gueeeeshsh but I have seen postcards and it looks like a lovely place’.

The dad made absolutely no attempt to hide his confusion.

‘No’, he replied, shaking his head.  ‘Guess. Guess where I’m from’.

All I can say is thank God for Exotica because by this time I was utterly useless. Completely unraveled. Doubled over. Unable to speak. Wheezing. Coughing. Laughing and crying at the same time.

Turns out they were from Israel.

*Kist – big wooden box like a steamer trunk used for storing old shit

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birds of a feather...

Yesterday I went ice-skating with Mr. PP and TFTF (Mr. Professor Pants and TooFastTooFurious – for those first time readers.) I managed to fall spectacularly and have a nice big fat roastie for my troubles (Yup, been showing it around town.) Turns out the tricky part isn’t falling. That happens very quickly. Turns out the tricky part is trying to get up again. That happens veeerrry slowly. Drawn out embarrassment of diabolical proportions. Picture a starfish, (hint on general body position on the ice) sans suckers, trying to erect itself and claw it’s way toward the buffer-wall-of-shame.

Perhaps it’s worth mentioning that I’m prone to embarrassing myself almost on a daily basis.  Big surprise, I know. Along these lines, there was not one, but two incidences of mispronunciation this week at gym class. The first time I mean to say “COUNTS” and the second time I meant to say “under-CUT”.  Such roguish words those.  

The most exciting incident of this week however, has to be credited to the arrival of a Little Crake to our neighbourhood.  Yes, the birding community was positively twitching with excitement about the little chap whose navigation got all cocked up (metaphorically speaking, of course - he’s a Crake not a chicken.) Instead of flying back to his breeding-ground of Russia, or Bulgaria, or somewhere dog-gone north, it went south, and for the first time EVER (yes, EVER, folks) was spotted south of the equator. SOUTH OF THE EQUATOR you hear! This is seriously exciting shit.

Who would we be if we didn’t cruise down to the vlei (boastful ‘Ehem… OUR vlei’) to check out the Crake.  Words can’t describe the clamour.  I’ve been to less busy rock concerts.  Best Kisser filled me in on how the world of ‘birding’ is fiercely competitive, nothing short of cutthroat. Apparently there’s constant pressure to be the individual who can ‘log’ as many different species as possible.  Rumour has it that there’s a woman and man (rotating places 1^st and 2^nd) who have been going neck and neck for years, flying hither and dither at the drop of a hat to see this or that lesser-spotted species. On imparting this info, a friend of mine (oh the ignoramusness of us unbirders)  exclaimed “Why don’t they cheat?  I mean who would know?”

Ah. Enter ‘THE LENSE’. Compulsory equipment for true birding aficionado’s. So much for those ‘outdoorsy types’ having simple needs.  Just nature, some khaki pants and a BIIIIG MOFO of a camera lense that costs about as much as a hospital wing. 

And that’s just the start, then there’s the travel expenses getting there and back to see the birds. I met a whole bunch of people who had flown in for the day (FOR  THE DAY, I TELL YOU!) from Joies just to see the now famous crake. To prove a point as to how far these twitchers will take it, a friend of mine who works as a bird guide, is travelling to Bhutan tomorrow to guide a tour.  Bhutan I tell you. No one even knows were that is!

The outfits, fortuitously, don’t cost that much. Lots of two-tone khaki, perhaps some green, with splashes of intermittent brown.  One chap went all out and got a camo lense to match his camo cargo shorts. Needless to say they were quietly scoffing at my grey mélange leggings and white frock. They didn’t actually say anything, I could just see it on their faces. (I'm not going to comment on footwear because I actually own a pair of crocs and people in crocs shouldn't throw... oh, you know what I mean.)

So. No longer will I feel guilty about enjoying indoor activities and not enjoying more outdoorsy ones. Turns out, I just can’t afford the great outdoors. A three day drunken shopping spree at Cavendish would cost me less.

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let's waste time, changing tyres...

I burst a tyre today. It’s not as easy as it sounds.  Not any old fool can do it. You have to be a very special kind of fool to get it right. You have to pick exactly the right kind of curb and then jab your wheel in at exactly the right angle.  You don’t have to be going very fast. It’s the angle that counts.  And the style of curb.  A normal curb won’t do the trick, you need to pick one that is made of stone with impossibly sharp edges.

A bergie sauntered up and offered help. Not so much mechanical help as moral support.  ‘I’ll be over there if you need me’ she said, pointing to the very, very far end of the park.

I’ve never had to change a tyre all on my own before and I was quite looking forward to it.  Well, not so much doing it as boasting about it later. How easy it all was and that I’m obviously a natural.  Bugger the whole breast-feeding in a power-suit; we all know that what truly proves your mettle as a modern woman is changing a tyre on your own.

Feigning annoyance (actually amped to use that winding thing) I set to work.  As I’d been on my way for a walk, I was comfortably dressed in my short-leggings (phew, Wheelchairboy not in sight). Leggings, you’ll be interested to know, are the perfect attire for tyre changing.  It’s all about stretch folks. With my arse on the tar and my legs spread-eagled I thought it would be helpful to keep calm by humming Gwen Stefani’s “Wind it up”.  At least I saw the funny side.

Not very far into my humming and winding (oh please, for the love of God, why is winding and winding spelt the same?!?!?) I hear a voice above my head.

‘I read somewhere once that when you come upon something like this, you’re supposed to help’.  What could I say?  I was hardly going to chase this helpful soul away.  Besides, the winding business was taking much, much longer than I’d expected due to me not quite getting the whole motion down pat. 

It was my turn to stand around unhelpfully, offering unhelpful moral support whilst HelpfulSoul changed the tyre for me. 

Just about to go for a run, he asked?  (I look like a runner?  That’s a first.)

No, I said. Just a walk, but there’s no point now. Would this count as exercise?

Maybe. No. Not really. So, do you work from home? (How could he tell? Do I have that home-worker look about me?) 

Yes.  How about you? 

Yup, working on a new venture. More stressful than being a salaryman. Do you live close by? (Friendly smile).

Just over the hill. Over that saddle over there. You? (Goofy smile).

Oh, close by. Just up there.

Had I been a single, leggy blonde, half my age, with a French accent, the whole exchange would have been a perfect movie moment as HelpfulSoul was no slouch in the looks department. What sealed the non-movie moment deal however, was that I was wearing my special Einstein-hairdo (which had gotten progressively worse with all that winding), my back-up Far-Side style sunnies (because bad hair is not enough) and my cycling leggings (in which I look exactly like a Russian hammer thrower - male.)

‘Gee, thanks so much – er, sorry, I didn’t get your name. You totally saved the day.’ (Paging Captain Corny. WTF?!?!)  

‘No problem, I’m Bruce. And you are?’

Lee.

He looks at me funny then says ‘Bruce (points to him) Lee (points to me). What are the chances?’  I couldn’t stop laughing. Maybe there was a bit of a movie moment after all. 

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green is for go ... to the doctor

I’ve been sick this week so my alter ego, Grumpyfuck, has taken over my personality. There’s something about being sick makes me seeeerrriaaasly miff.  Is it too much to ask to have perfect health and perfect weather year all round? They’re such simple needs, really.

Of course, sickness isn’t really newsy or exciting and by even admitting to health issues I sound like one of those old farts who likes to talk about their ailments.  It got me thinking though, about how it might be time to write a long letter to God, questioning where exactly he was going with this whole illness and disease business.

My first message to God regarding the whole body-fail business was via Twitter but apparently he’s not on Twitter (another shortcoming perhaps?) because he didn’t reply. It read, “Dear God. The whole menstrual cycle thing? Not your best work”. 

He certainly didn’t take the hint (it’s because I don’t pray enough, isn’t it?) as there’s been no improvement in that area to date. He probably thought that I was a bit of an upstart for suggesting he could have tried harder. Lucky for me, it turns out he’s an open-minded, approachable kind of chap as he didn’t strike me down with lightening. (Although given that he hasn’t changed the whole menstrual cycle thing I have my doubts as to whether he can actually do the whole lightening thing at all. I do miss those KZN electric storms - it might have been a fabulous way to go.)

Back to the bacteria. What exactly is their purpose?  I’m told we get sick as a way of strengthening our immune systems but if there were no bacteria to fight off, then our immune systems wouldn’t need to be so strong.  We’d all be milling around, in perfectly good health, having a fine time. 

Then there’s the natural selection theory.  The weak get sick (bad news for me) and the strong don’t – or at least do but get better eventually. But why can’t the weakest never be born in the first place? (although that'd be really bad news for me). Is the whole sales pitch ‘you’re a winner because your sperm came first place’ a hoax?

My more esoteric friends (I’m a little hokey) tell me that you get sick when your spirit is sending an important message to you.  That’s very kind of you, spirit, giving me the whole heads-up and all, but don’t you think it might be rather more effective to erect a big neon sign above the kettle?  This cryptic shit is for the birds.

Of course, the problems only start with illness itself, then there’s the treatment.  Why are there twenty thousand mucolytics on the market?  Surely one really kick-ass one is the way to go?  If we’ve been able to mastermind a universal remote then surely a universal-illness pill should be imminent? Now that’s innovative thinking right there, folks (take the hint, Cipla).

And if we really have to get sick, can’t we all just get the same sickness but in varying degrees (depending on how shitty you've been), using the same treatment but just doubling up as need be? 


As for stomach bugs. Puking and shooting through the eye of a needle? Really? That’s the best plan Big G could come up with?  If a virus or tummy bug entered my body via the air then surely I should just be able to fart it out – redistribute it via the air, so to speak.

More than anything, kids should not be subject to illness.  Really.  Till you’re old enough to read Lord of the Rings you shouldn’t get sick. 

(P.S.  I know that without illness there’s would be a lot of medical folk and pharmaceuticals out of work, but think of all the fun they could have doing other things instead? Hiking, singing, becoming tennis instructors, that kind of thing.)

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confusedshit says...

After this past week I am totally convinced that some rabble-rousing deity-slash-imp type thing is having a laugh at my expense by planting tricky weirdos in my path to test my mettle.  Dear Lord, let there be a blinking book deal from this blog to make it all worthwhile.  I just don’t think it’s normal for one person to have run-ins with so many wackos.  Bloody hell, I’m sorry if I was an idiot in a former life but when does the Karmic debt end?

True, someone must be looking out for me to some degree because I haven’t bumped into Wheelchair-Boy (see post of 11/12/10 - if leggings could talk) in months. Lucky me. I did drive past him in town a little while back. He was in hot pursuit (whirr, whirr) of a woman wearing those wet-look black leggings.  That’ll teach her.

My eldest niece, her Swedish fiancé, his sister (also Swedish) and his cousin (yes, also Swedish) were in town this week.  If there is one group of people I think Capetonians should kowtow to, it’s tourists.  Most people would agree that it’s within our fiscal interests to ensure a fun-filled, smooth-sailing holiday experience for visitors to our country.

Being nice to tourists is elementary.  Be polite. Be obliging. Smile. Be pleasant. Smile again. Be polite. Be obliging etc.  Truly, even a toddler could nail it. Unfortunately for me I live near (near, you hear me, not IN) a town I’ve dubbed “Complaintsville”.  (I had to stop calling it Deliveranceville because not every one can hear the banjos).

The Friendly Swede’s holiday rental was on one of those roads where some residents don’t have their own parking spaces, so they have to park on the street.  Not that unusual for cities anywhere in the world, right? You simply find the nearest parking to where you’re staying without parking in front of anyone’s driveway and you’re good to go.  Not in Complaintsville.

Someone had parked in front of their house, so Friendly Family and Friendly Swedes found parking elsewhere.  Lucky for them it was under a nice little pine tree that offered some shade. When they came down to their car later in the day, they were parked-in on either side, with literally 1cm to spare.  The note on their windshield read, “call me when you want to move your car” (serial-killer type handwriting).

When the writer of the note (lets call him DIPPY – acronym for Dickheaded-Ignoramus-Petty-Pathetic-Y-front-wearer) came down to meet us, his opening line was, “I haven’t slashed your tyres, but…”. He then launched into a bitter tirade against people who make a beeline for his tree.

We were all standing around looking bewildered (especially the Swedes, who’d had no coaching on how to handle parking-space wankers) so I asked DIPPY, (merely to clarify) who owned the double garages directly behind his car? ‘I do’, DIPPY says.  Mystified, I asked him why he needed the space under the tree when he has garages? Becaaause, DIPPY wants to park directly in front of his house to bring his groceries up. If DIPPY parked in his own double garage he’d be required to walk a whole extra 4 paces.  Duh!  DIPPY wants his garage space, the space in front of his garage, the tree to the left of the garages and the road in front of the tree.  The PUBLIC ROAD in front of the tree.  HuuuHHH??? I thought of offering him cake at this point.

Mortified by his rudeness to the out of towners, I explained (patiently) that he does not own the curb and that (less patiently) he does not own the tree and how (really impatient now) he definitely does not own the fucking road in front of the tree.  Indignant, DIPPY asked me if I watered and pruned the tree. I had to concede that I didn’t, but added that I’m sure Council would be overjoyed to learn that he’d assumed responsibility for the welfare of the pine, but that sadly, he still DOESN’T OWN THE BLOODY TREE or the BLOODY ROAD in front of it.   

I suggested that if he really felt that he owned the tree, curb and road, he should put up a sign.  Something like CURB, TREE AND ROAD BELONGS TO ME NOT YOU, or PARK HERE IF YOU DARE or even MY TREE might do the trick.

DIPPY finally moved his car when I told him in my best Judge Judy type voice that what he had done was illegal (mmm, will actually have to double-check that) and that I was going to get the Traffic Authorities post-haste to tow his car away.  

In closing, DIPPY must be a very special kind of stupid.  Who parks-in a big SUV with a tow bar and a bullbar?  Had we been tyre slashing, rebel kind of folk, we might have just revved up the ol’ SUV’s engine and muscled our way out of there.  Looking back, I wish we’d had the guts to.

(BTW, GAG was in class again today. During the floor exercises she shouted out CHANGE THE MUSIC, ITS MAKING ME ANXIOUS. And, a violent scuffle broke out in the back row over who gets to put their mat where. Suggestions on how to deal with belligerent adults are welcome.)

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gym class hero's part 2...

This week held quite a few potential blog topics.  Karl Lagerfeld was reported saying that he thought Adele was “a little too fat”. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure that the opinion of a man who carries around a woman’s fan can be trusted.  Perhaps he needs it to hide those ‘a little too fat’ lips of his.  

TooFastTooFurious asked me this morning if dogs lay their own babies.  There was too much to correct so I just said, ‘yes’. Then I got thinking about how he was a little bit right because dogs have puppies when they’re lying down, but birds lay eggs when they’re sitting, not laying, and neither dogs or birds actually get laid. Honestly, I think they just make up the English language as they go along. 

Anyhow, I had to stick to a blogging plan and as last weeks post sparked lots (OK, maybe three people) of discussion, I thought we could continue with those gym-weirdo’s out there.  Case in point, a chap phoned in to Gareth Cliff to say he was really annoyed that when he wants to use a machine the person using it says “Sorry man, I’m still on my first set.” 

For Gym Class Hero’s Part 2, I thought its time I introduced Gray-and-Grumpy.  For ease of typing, we’ll just call her GAG.  GAG has wild, curly, grey hair - which might be why she isn’t altogether pleasant (relatable really, this often being the cause of my own bad moods).

GAG is an artist. This means she sometimes get paid for the work she does and sometimes she doesn’t. This might be the other reason why she’s grumpy. I don’t think she sold very much at her last exhibition because she kept nagging me to come but as I’m not really a purveyor of art, I didn’t go. Also, I get the feeling that she can be a bit of a bully and that I may well be talked into buying a painting of a something like a giant vagina. I also get the feeling that she’s the kind of artist who would include real hair samples in her painting and I truly can’t go there. I’m just not that arty.

From the outset I’ve been a bit frightened of her. On my very first class she arrived late and said in a loud voice, “WHY MUST THE AIRCON BE ON. IT’S SO UNHEALTHY”.  I would have thought that aircons in gyms were pretty self-explanatory and though I’m personally not a huge fan of aircon (ehem, excuse the pun) ninety percent of gym goers like to delay their sweat somewhat. Some hate to sweat at all, and that would be the class I teach.  Fortunately for me, GymClassHero1 took charge and, shooting GAG a viscous stare, simply said ‘we want it on, leave it alone’.  One point GymClassHero1. Nil points GAG.

The next time she came to class she shouted at the top of her voice (which ironically is a very loud voice) “THE MUSIC IS TOO LOUD, TURN IT DOWN”. I didn’t hear a ‘please’ in there and assumed it was an instruction and not a request. Rolling my eyes inwardly I started making my way to the music maker - to obey the painter of vaginas.  Lucky for me, GymClassHero2 says dangerously to GAG ‘No! We like it loud’ and then (equally dangerously

to me) ‘leave it’. One point GymClassHero2. Nil points GAG.

This week, exactly 8 counts into the warm-up, GAG blurts out something. Loudly.  Seriously, I’m starting to think that this woman has tourette syndrome or something. Fool I am, I thought she was asking me a question so I said, ‘pardon?’

‘WHAT AWFUL MUSIC, she said. Ideally, I would have developed a thick and leathery hide for GAG by now, but I havn’t.  I have to wonder what reaction she was hoping for? Perhaps she was expecting me to stop the class and go through my library of 1778 songs right there and then, to make a selection she approved of.

To put it all into perspective, what exactly was this evil music I had chosen?  Was it The Prodigy? Was it ACDC? Was it Black Sabbath? Was it KISS?  No, it was Martin Solveig and Dragonette. I’ve played it backwards and forwards and listened for the voice of Satan and still can’t quite hear it.

I too like a little Steeleye Span but I’m not sure they’re quite right for a gym class.  I’ve searched and searched (unsuccessfully) to find a Bob Dylan song that has 125 BPM to play for GAG.  Perhaps I should just play ol’ Bob as is, regardless of tempo, let loose my unkempt hair and float around (un-ashamedly farting at regular intervals like a lentil-eating, weed smoking artist) and see if my heart-rate reaches its desired target?  GAG has told me that she dislikes the yoga instructor (too?) and I have to wonder, is a gym the right place for GAG?

As punishment, I’m making a mix of the loudest punk bands I know, mixed in with a bit of EMINEM and will play it at the next class.  Just so that GAG can appreciate how very tame I have been up till now.

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