Greetings

Hi people. I sort of pop in every 4 months and say, "I'm returning to blogging!" right before I drop off the face of the Earth again. This time I'm going to really ease back into the whole blogging thing on a regular basis. Bear with me as I try to corral my thoughts into some sort of cohesive stream. It might take awhile.

So what's new??? I hate when people ask me that question. What are you supposed to say? I typically respond with, "Well, you know . . . same old, same old." However, since it's been such a long time, there have been gradual changes which makes things not quite the same they were 10 months ago, when I was blogging with some regularity.

So what has happened? I traveled quite a bit - Brazil, Chicago, Washington DC, and Canada (I was like a Toronto local, seriously). And I'm going to Hong Kong for 9 days! Leaving on Friday! Hence the return to blogging. I'd like to chronicle my travels, so this post serves as a sort of preface right before I jump straight into pictures of dim sum and Buddhist temples (I realize there is more to Hong Kong than dim sum and Buddhist temples but these were two of the images that were immediately conjured when I thought "Hong Kong"). I'll be visiting Tennis Boy, who is now Tennis Boyfriend (I should give him a proper name on this blog, because he's perfectly wonderful and TB makes me think of tuberculosis, which is not nice and lovely).

Anyways, I'll be back soon. Promise.

The Gym Revisited, Or She Returns

You think you’re in shape until a 20 year-old pip squeak-personal trainer named Pacha asks you to do some push-ups and you need a break after 5 minutes “To catch your breath,” because all of a sudden the floor looked like it was on the roof.

Pacha gave me a concerned look and said, “Sorry, your blood pressure was normal, I thought these exercises would be okay.”

Let’s not even discuss the beginning part where I stepped on a “magical” scale, and some body fat/muscle ratio was 23%, and Pacha says, “That’s kinda high, let’s get you down to 17%.” I use magical in regards to that scale loosely, I feel like he should have at least measured the circumference of my thighs, THEN that 23% would have been warranted.

Since I lost the ability to do complicated math in my head a couple thousand wine bottles ago, I waited till I got home before opening an Excel spreadsheet to figure out how much weight I would have to drop to get myself down to this magical 17%. Why 17%? Why not just bring me down to 13%? (Please note my sarcasm.)


102.

When I did the proportions, that's what my Excel spreadsheet told me. Actually it was 102.73 so I could get away with 103 pounds and I think i could still get that magical 17%.

There is no way I am ever getting to 103 without losing a leg. Or cutting out wine and booze from my diet. Which will happen when Hell freezes over. Even then, it's negotiable.

Oh, I just realized, for the more math savvy amongst my readers (if I still have any), you can totally figure out my body weight.

I'm guessing height and age must play some role in this 17% because I really don't think Pacha expects me to lose a leg, and if he expects me to stop drinking wine and eating cheese, I'm going to find a personal trainer who believes in the power of grapes and cultured bacteria to cleanse and detoxify. Or something.

If You're A Man, Skip This Post

I didn't think twice about sending out the following email:

Hey Camping Group,

This is probably overshare. I hate to bail on people last minute, especially after the car was just booked, but I just checked the monthly calendar. There's no way to say this delicately - I'm going to start hemorrhaging starting on Thursday or Friday. I'd suck it up for anything other than camping. Camping is already a bit unhygienic - I'm gonna be a walking toxic waste. And bears can smell blood.

I'm sorry - I feel bad about canceling last minute.

Do you guys want to reschedule our camping weekend? Or do you guys intend to still go even though I'm out of the carpool? Although now you'll only need one tent.

Cheers,

M

I didn't think it was too much overshare; I was trying to convey the direness that is the first day of the female period to my camping group (which includes men).

Then I forwarded the email to Lil' and the following ensued:

Lil’: Oh my lord, lol
Me: How was that? TMI?
Lil’: Talk about overshare. Holy shit.
Me: Really? I wanted to convey the seriousness of the situation
Lil’: I mean, I don't think even I would have said that lol.
Me: Geez
Lil’: It's hilarious, I think it was the "hemorrhaging" and "walking toxic waste"
Me: Lmao, I was trying to be honest.
Lil’: You're so cute
Me: I called the park. They said there are bears.
Lil’: LOL
Me: The lady laughed at me on the phone. I thought it was a valid question.

They Lie

New York City is not the largest city in the United States.

That's the only way I can explain how I keep bumping into random people I know in the most random locales, and this happens all the time.

Last night saw me leaving the apartment of a friend on the Upper East Side after a movie at Union Square (Up. Loved it.) and dinner at his apartment. He cooked while I sat my lazy bum on his couch with a glass of wine and the cutest black Puggle in the world on my lap. Slightly woozy from a head cold, I didn't have the energy to whip out my umbrella in the light drizzle, so I'm getting slightly soaked as I'm swaying on my feet from exhaustion and a full belly of beef, mushrooms, and Swiss Chard, trying to keep my eyes peeled for an empty cab (Seriously, what are people doing at 11 pm on a Wednesday night?).

From the corner of my eye, I see a tall-ish guy walking across the street towards me but I ignore him as I keep my eyes on oncoming traffic. Suddenly, he stops on my left side and grabs my arm and says, "Margarita!"

I must have looked slightly befuddled for a second before it registers that he's speaking to me.

My eyes focus on his face and his chocolate brown eyes . . . and then there was recognition. (You guys should click through and read that post. I hate clicking through too, but he was a Douche of the First Order and that post really sums him up wonderfully.)

I don't recall what we talked about but after a few minutes, he went on his merry way, and I went on mine. All I do remember thinking is, "Why don't I dress up more for work?"

Once home, I ask Lil, "So how do I look today? Be honest. I just ran into The ManWhore (that's her charming name for him, very apropos if I might add)."

Lil, seeming to realize that I wanted a real answer, says sincerely, "You never look bad but you're not looking your most fabulous right now." Then she hastens to add, "But it's a good thing that he saw you looking the way you are now because you weren't even trying and you still looked fine!"

I was mollified. It's not that I particularly cared about his opinion, it was simply a point of pride.

The funny thing is, something made me think of him a couple days ago and all of a sudden, BAM! there he was in the flesh. Very nice flesh, if I might add. This is probably a rhetorical question, but why are such a high rate of attractive men complete and utter toolbags?

A Huge Pile of Randomosity

I had the urge to blog, but I didn’t have a specific topic in my mind, just a whole jumble of thoughts that were in no way connected, but I thought I would give Blog some love, kind of like it’s a person. Then I reasoned that I’d be on vacation for a whole week without internet access, and I’d better show Blog some love NOW, and then I looked at my sidebar, and January and February only have two posts apiece while May is already at 3. I’m averaging a post a week at this rate, and I was like, woah, M, don’t start setting the bar TOO high, or people will start expecting you to blog on a weekly basis.

Those 122 words should be an indication of the kind of post you’re getting.

Lemon Zest Luna Bars are the most disgusting things ever.

This morning I rush to work to finish a project that my boss wanted to see at 9:30. THE MAN CALLS IN SICK. Yay, blog! Bad boss for making me rush and look like I rolled out of bed and put on random clothes.

My cell phone went off at 10 AM this past Sunday morning. An annoyingly chipper male voice said, “Still on for tennis at 11, right?” “Yes, but it is 10 now. Why are we discussing this? This is M sleep time.” And I hung up. Yeah . . . don’t ever assume I’m a nice person, especially before I’ve had my coffee. 30 minutes later, I get a text as I’m sitting on the couch watching the Lost season finale, “I’m going to be 15 minutes late picking you up so you can finish your coffee, baby ;)” For some reason, I was touched by this . . . and then he roundly kicked my ass in tennis, which lost him any brownie points he may have garnered. Maybe.

Speaking of Lost, that show is a nice glass of red wine, a chocolate brownie, and a new dress all rolled into one. The suspense for the new season is going to kill me.

I am questioning the wisdom of letting Catchy dye my hair next week. She is emphatic in the quality of her dyeing skills, but some part of me is thinking, “Your little sister is doing something potentially horrifying to your head.” And she would totally take a swig of her wine and be like, “Oops, forgive me?” with a sheepish expression, and I would.

The third date with Tennis Boy is tonight! Third date for me is when things take a sharp nosedive or plateau into nothingness.

In two days, I will be lying on a sandy beach in a bathing suit arguing with my cousin whether we should have mojitos or margaritas with (or for) lunch.

Until then, I still have to pack. I refuse to check my luggage unless I am traveling with wine (which I’m not this time around) so I bought 3 ounce size samples of all my toiletries. Trusting the airline industry with your luggage is like trusting that guy in a wife beater at the bar with your drink while you go to the bathroom. Both of them will leave you wondering the next day, “Where the hell are my clothes?”

Food . . . We're Still Friends

After being silent for a month on the blogosphere, you get bombarded with the daily minutiae of my life.

In the spirit of saving my pennies, and as a revolt against the hemorrhage of last month’s credit card bill (food, although fickle, is quite tasty and at times, expensive), I’ve decided to bring my lunch to work every day. Bringing lunch to work means shopping for groceries. This is something I tend to do at random times, like the middle of the weekend or during my lunch hours, which are moderately busy. Trader Joe’s is the exception; that place is jam packed from open to close. Tonight, acting on a whim, I ventured to my nearest Food Emporium right after work.

Have any of you gone to the grocery store right after work? It’s a total shit show. I had no idea this is when people did their grocery shopping. I can’t imagine this is only a regional thing. How do you people cope?

So I spoke to my mother, a font of information of “all things mothers know”, i.e. what some people might call common knowledge or common sense, and I asked her, “When do you grocery shop?”

Her response? “7 AM or I don’t go.” She hates crowds, too.

Ah, like Mami, like daughter. Except for the being awake at 7 AM thing.

Anyways . . .

My mother always goes to the store with a list; she is the grab-and-get-out kind of food shopper. When my sister and I were children, she would stand at the deli/bakery counter and send us out on missions for the items on her list. It was a game. My sis and I would race to find the items and the winner would be the one who came back first. So my mother would try to pick items that were equi-distant from her, while handicapping me since I was the older child and, therefore, faster. Catchy and I had the brands and sizes that our Mom wanted down pat, because if we brought back the wrong one, we had to go return it, and lose precious game points. Our knowledge came in handy whenever my Papi was the one doing the grocery shopping. My Dad, although my Mom always gave him a list, is a meanderer; he likes to go up and down the aisles and look at new fun things to try (I am also this kind of grocery shopper, I should ask Catchy what kind of shopper she is. I bet she’s like my mother). However, he never knew which brands to get, and Catchy and I were more than happy to chip in with our two cents, “But that’s not the one Mom gets!”

Meandering back to the conclusion of my grocery store expedition . . . one should not meander for groceries after work. It is highly inadvisable.

Food is a Fickle Friend

Rewind to Monday morning, my alarm clock goes off, I do my usual roll over and the SLAM of the snooze button. In the process of rolling back onto my side, whatever is inside my stomach is doing the shimmy shimmy shake and not in the fun way.

My first thought was, "You can't call in sick today; you're going to be "sick" that long weekend in June. Maybe you'll feel better after it's all out of your system."

Let's just say I didn't not feel better when it was "all" out of my system.

Cuban food . . . you're the food of my people! Was that really necessary?

Me: Maybe I should have some ginger ale and that will make me feel better.

Stomach: You're putting something else inside of me? Are you nuts? I'm going to toss it, muahahaha.

Me (a couple hours later): It might be time for chicken and rice.

Stomach: Ha! You're not very bright, are you? Put that fork down. Good job.

Me: I'm just gonna stick with the ginger ale.

Stomach (two hours later): Okay, I'm getting hungry. You do have to feed me at some point.

Me: Because that worked out so well before. More chicken and rice?

Stomach: . . . I make no promises.

Me = 0, Digestive System = 1.