Treadmilling Pachyderms

Yes, it's true, ladies and gentlemen--the diet craze has hit the animal kingdom full-tilt. It has been announced that Maggie, an African elephant in an Alaskan zoo, has grown too big for her britches. And she will soon be treated to 3-hour workouts on her very own custom-made elephantine treadmill. What a lucky gal.

This is a subject near and dear to my own heart, having spent approximately 1/3 of my waking life on a treadmill myself. The good news for Maggie is that she resides in Alaska, so at least the view will be somewhat scenic. The bad news is that I doubt she owns a television or, say, an iPod. In which case, poor Maggie is looking at many many hours of sheer out-and-out boredom. I feel your pain, my sister.

Her treadmill will be approximately 20 feet long and only 5 feet wide, which seems a tad narrow by my estimations. The treadmill I currently use must be at least 4 feet wide. But what do I know?

In any case, I am glad that Maggie will be receiving some exercise at least, as I have seen the pens those poor animals are kept in, and it is a sad state of affairs indeed. It's no wonder why all the animals in the zoo are off snoozing somewhere every time you visit. What better have they got to do? Except the babboons, who are quite content administering oral sex to each other all the live long day, in front of small children and your grandparents and everybody. They are certainly not shy about their bawdy sexual practices. Kind of like Britney Spears!

I say release the poor elephants into a refuge somewhere and let them live their lives in protected bliss. And strap Britney to the 20-foot treadmill and let-'er-rip! Now THAT I would pay GOOD MONEY to see....I'm just FULL of good ideas....

Yank it, Fat man!

So it should come as no surprise to you that I had yet ANOTHER freak encounter at the gym yesterday. I'm starting to think maybe I should work out at home...

So I was using the cable machines last night, for which they have all different arrangements--they have 'em for arms, legs, abs, chest, triceps, biceps, what have you. I happened to be using the triceps cable machine. And right next to me was the biceps one.

So along comes this really BIG dude. And I mean BIG, as in EXTREMELY WIDE. He comes lumbering along, and the first thing I noticed was that he looked a little unsure of where to go or what to do, which was somewhat understandable for a person of his "stature." He looked new.

So of COURSE he picks the bicep machine next to me and sits down. It is a simple apparatus--it's basically just a bicep curl, but instead of holding onto a weight, you're holding onto a handle and getting resistance from a cable on a pulley. It's a no-brainer, really. Easy to use, with directions right there in front of your face.

So what does he do? Any guesses? Anyone?

He grabs hold of the cable handle and starts YANKITTY YANK YANK YANK YANKing it. Like, REALLY fast. I had absolutely no idea what he was doing! I could see him out of the corner of my eye, a-YANK YANK YANKing on the handle, and I won't tell you what it looked like to me but that's what it looked like, and it was ALL I COULD DO to keep from sniggering loudly! It took every ounce of restraint in my body, I tell you!!

So I was sitting there attempting to get my facial quiverings under control, when this girl walks up to him. "You're doing it wrong," she says. "You're supposed to go slower." "I'm feelin' the burn," he shouts, and continues a-YANK YANK YANKing on the handle. She looked at him, sadly, and then just walked off. He then proceeded to switch hands and started YANKITTY YANK YANKing with the other. That was it--I was forced to get up and leave IMMEDIATELY. I mean, honestly! How is ANYBODY supposed to maintain a straight face under those conditions??

So now I have one MORE person I have to avoid when I'm working out. My list is just getting ENTIRELY too long!! I can't go anywhere without running into these yahoos! What is a girl supposed to do??

Honestly....

Oh for the love of.....

I should just start calling this blog "Chronicles of Hildy B's Run-ins at the Gym." It's official--I have like, some kind target on my forehead that is apparently visible to everyone but me.

So I'm treadmilling away yesterday, minding my own business, WITH my headphones on (meaning I'M BUSY, DON'T TALK TO ME) when the guy on the treadmill next to me holds up a CD in front of my face. I glanced over at him. He looked to be a beefy mid-fortyish Italian gentleman approximately the color of doggie Beggin' Strips (aka, tangerine), wearing a tight white tank top and donning a handful of gold chains around his neck. Ay-ay-aye. He waved the CD again.

I removed my head phones. "Do you want to listen to this?" He says. "What is it," I said. "It's dance music," he says.

*Weary sigh.*

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's dance music. It's too loud and fast. I don't get it--I just really don't enjoy it at all. It just sounds like total crap to me, and it gives me a friggin' headache! But he was offering, which was, after all something of a friendly gesture, so I had no choice but to take it.

"All right, I'll give it a whirl."

He handed me the disk, and I stuck it in my player and hit play. Ugh, then the fast thumping "dance beat" kicked in and it was just God-awful! As expected. I hit fast-forward. Track 2 was no better. I moved on to 3, 4, 5, 6---and after about a minute, I had to hit "Stop" to preserve my own sanity. What did this yahoo like about this crap, anyway? I couldn't give it back to him right away, though, because then he would know how much I hated it. So my only option, of course, was to stand there and PRETEND that I was listening to it.

So for the next 20 minutes, I had to walk in place with my headphones on, in silence, pretending to listen to his shit CD and hoping that he wouldn't talk to me again.

Before long, I saw his hands waving in front of my face again. Oh, no.

"Plug into this," he says. "This is my favorite song!" He hands me his player.

Man oh man. I plugged in and hit "play." THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP and then some shrieky lady starts screeching over the top of it. It was absolute hideousness! Like those awful Siren-ladies in Odysseus! Just this awful pounding and screeching. I could only manage a few seconds of it before handing it back.

"You like that???" He says. "Mmm--hmmmm" I muttered. And I took the opportunity to give him his CD back that I had been PRETENDING to listen to and decided to end my cardio right then and there. I couldn't think of anything else to say to him, so I managed "It was nice and upbeat" when I gave the disk back.

"Glad you enjoyed it," he says.

Somebody just shoot me, shoot me now........

I put the meat WHERE?

So it looks like more leftover troubles for Hildy B.

I made a huge pot of pulled pork. It was DELACIOUS. Slow cooked all day for sumptuous barbecuey flavor.

I ate it for dinner and remarked on how much there was left--easily enough for another 3 days' worth of meals for two people. Then I put the leftovers away.

When I went for it the next day, it was nowhere to be found. I searched the entire refrigerator 5 times. I checked the dishwasher--maybe hubby had eaten it all (!!) and thrown the tupperware container in the dishwasher. Nope. I checked the sink. Looked all over the counter. Searched the refrigerator again. Nothing.

So I blamed Hubby, of course.

Hildy B: "Did you eat ALL of that meat?"

Hubby: "No."

Hildy B: "You must have. It isn't here."

Hubby: "I didn't."

Hildy B: "Then where is it?"

Hubby: "I don't know. You must have eaten it all."

Hildy B: "I didn't eat it! There was a ton left! And now it's not there! YOU must have eaten it!"

Hubby: "I didn't! I swear!"

So we began picking apart the kitchen. Drawers, cupboards, the oven, you name it. The good news is, I located the leftover meat. The bad news: I found it in the tupperware cabinet.

So I've been a little preoccupied lately. I can't help it! I've had a lot going on! So of course, I made a half-hearted attempt to blame Hubby again.

Hildy B: "I found it! But it was in the tupperware cabinet. How did it get there?"

Hubby: "Gee, I wonder. Way to go. Look at all that wasted meat."

Hildy B: "I don't remember putting it in there."

Hubby: "Mmm-hmm."

Hildy B: "Maybe I DIDN'T put it in there. Maybe YOU did."

Hubby: "What???"

Hildy B: "Well, yes, I ate it, but maybe I left it out. And maybe you found it, and YOU put it in the tupperware cabinet."

Hubby: "Nice try."

So the meat-wasting tupperware-challenged couple strikes again. Why do we seem to have so much trouble with this? It's not a difficult concept. I just don't get it. We are relatively bright individuals. We attended college. Why are we seemingly incapable of getting the leftovers INTO the refrigerator like normal people?

I dunno. I'm at a loss. All I know is, I've simply GOT to start keeping something at my desk besides beef jerky and sunflower seeds.....

American Idolatry

So I have never been able to watch American Idol. I just haven't been able to get into a bunch of teenagers singing tired Lionel Richie songs in the hopes of achieving fame and fortune.

Until this season, that is. I'm not sure what happened, but this time around I'll admit to watching it on more than a few occasions. I've "been there done that" with the Apprentice, and The Bachelorette crashed and burned this time around, to my utter delight, and was made to answer such questions as "Were you not having good sex with the Bachelor you chose" on live television. It was a beautiful thing. But now it's over, so I'm left with Scrubs, which was awesome last night by the way (Zach Braff, if you're reading this entry: I love you) and American Idol, which is kind of like a vegetable that you used to despise, but now you see that maybe it's not SO bad after all, if eaten a certain way (perhaps doused in cheese or lots of butter). I personally like to watch American idol lying flat on my back on the couch with either (a) a jumbo sundae or (b) a tall bag of Cheetos. If watched this way, it somehow becomes bearable.

I've also come to the conclusion that Paula Abdul, while friendly and well-intentioned, is incapable of adding anything of value to the assessment of the performers. The two men seem to actually have a relatively good grasp of whether or not a person is up to the challenge of having a successful singing career. Paula Abdul seems to have a solid grasp of whether or not somebody "looks good" on any given night.

Also, the judges do not seem to like it when peformers sing "current" songs by "succesful artists in their prime." They react badly when these songs are chosen, and they inform the American Idolatry that they should be "careful of choosing songs by someone on top of their game." So--what, they should only sing songs by Kenny Loggins? Songs that were (or possibly weren't even) popular 20 years ago? They seem to like Gloria Estefan. They do not like songs by Celine Dion. But then, I guess that's pretty typical.

Anyway, it's been interesting. There is a poor soul named Constantine who I fear will be going home tonight. He is tall and white and in a rock band. And on American Idol, rock music is bad. Whitney Houston = good. Aerosmith = bad. "Playas" = good. Tall pasty leather jacket-wearing fellows who idolize Metallica = very, very bad. Sorry, Constantine.

All I know is, Clay Aiken guest-starred on Scubs a couple of weeks ago, and I---Scrubs...Zach Braff....yummy....