Breasts are not conducive to push-ups.

*<i>This is like the 9th re-try of this post. I kept screwing up the formatting. Sorry bout that.</i>

Because I cannot fetch a proper relationship I've been attending this weight lifting class. Actually I've been attending this weight-lifting class to tone and firm my body but I'm doing that for the aforementioned reason so there you go.

Please see my last post on whether or not I need/want a relationship. It's not that I really want one, I just feel that I need one. Mostly because I wake up in the mornings and find my uterus doing a jig at the end of my bed sticking its tongue out at me with its thumbs in its ears and proving yet again that I still suck at life. SCORE! Before you ask, yes I do find it odd that my uterus has ears. I don't know either.

And I feel that if I am indeed going to be reproductively successful I'd like to have a partner to do that with because we, as humans, have the reproductive strategy that benefits from the pairing of two individuals in order to raise a tiny human. And someone else is going to have to change the tiny human when it poops because I am not doing that. I am currently accepting applications for 'Tiny Human Collector of Poo.'

So I've decided once again that I'm single because I'm fat and not because I'm fucked up as a football bat. I do so enjoy making these decisions.

Except damn ya'll, I'm getting kind of HAWT. I hate to brag but damn. The waist keeps getting smaller and while as yet the bust is shrinking it looks bigger because my waist is smaller and my ass is just getting higher and tighter. God I look like Gena Lollobrigida (I have no clue how to spell this). Doesn't that suck? MWA HA HAA, Right, yes it does actually because I look like that in this, the 21st century. You menfolk think I'm fat.

Frack the lot of you.

Anyways. SO I'm doing this weight lifting class. And for our chest we do these flys with free weights and then about 9 million push-ups. And in the midst of doing these 9-million push-ups I glance into to the mirror and guess who I see in said mirror on the stair master staring into said room?

Oh that would be Sex-on-Skates.

Maybe you do not have awesome breasts. I do. Maybe you can do multiple push-ups. I cannot. I can do a bajillion flys and and a bajillion bench presses but apparently if I was dying and had to support my upper body weight with my T-Rex arms I'd die in about a minute and a half. Mebbe just a minute. They're awesome, my breasts, but it sucks trying to move them. I mean I can do it. I amm hardcore. I just cannot do it often right now. Because I'm a girl. And I have T-Rex arms. And breasts.

So anyways that is my opinion on why breasts are not conducive to push-ups and I don't think that I should have to do them. Not that I do a lot of them to begin with but still.

I'll leave you with this lasting thought: You know those uber-hard-core muscle bound women on those fitness shows that can do one-handed push-ups and all the other assorted sundry push-up type things? Do they have attractive breasts? Do they even have breasts at all?

Ooh! I just thought of something else! Chickens! Chickens have significant breasts, because they're genetically modified but still, and they cannot do push-ups either!

There you go. Conclusive proof that if you have breasts, you cannot do push-ups.

I think my vagina is telling me to bake.

Everyone knows about Sex-on-Skates right? The hot ass neighbor whom I'm secretely trying to woo with pie and assorted desserts. And who appreciates my pie and assorted desserts and told me not so long ago he was mad at his girlfriend while I fed him and his friend pound cake. Yes, that's him.

Anwyho I had this dream last night, it went somewhat like this -- imagine swimmy stuff that indicates a dream sequence. There is no onomatopoeia for that. Let's just move on.

Me, room-mate, and another friend are sitting on a large porch of a Southern house that doubles as a dining establishment at one of those large family style tables. It's right about dusk and there is a pond somewhere nearby because the bullfrogs have started their evening chorus. We're drinking sophisticated drinks. There is probably Kentucky bourbon involved. A gaggle of well-to-do twenty somethings come and sit down at the table with us. I keep looking at this one particular blonde and thinking 'Damn she looks familiar.' Then guess who comes and sits down beside her? Sex-on-Skates. Apparently homegirl is his homegirl. Groan.

Some nebulous amount of time passes because in dreams time is always nebulous and somehow it's just me, roommate and Sex-on-Skates left at the table and guess who is aggravated with his girlfriend? Bingo.

We all decide to go back to our apartment and have a snack. So we teleport there because traveling in dreams is always left out unless you're flying or driving a run-away car. We're all sitting at our kitchen table and Sex-on-Skates reiterates his request for a snack. roommate says 'I have these Jello snack cups!' He hands them out and we begin to eat them. Sex-on-Skates is visibly upset; I inquire as to why. He petulantly tosses his jello snack across the table. I say 'Is there something wrong with your snack cup?' and he then says 'You couldn't even make me Jello! What the hell?'

I then wake up.

After some considerable dream analysis I've decided two things. Number 1 being that my vagina is telling me it's time to fire up the oven and get to baking. Maybe if I bake he'll come home, kind of like in that baseball movie, 'If you build it they will come.' 'Anna if you bake it he will come.' He's not been home in a while and I'm not exactly sure where he went. I say my vagina is behind this hub-bub because what else would be directing me to bake for Sex-on-Skates? It most certainly isn't my -- well, I'm at a loss for body parts that would want me to bake. My vagina though, it has a mind of its own.

Secondly I must have a subconscious need for Jello. So I made some. Just to be prepared, you know.

You're just going to have to cut me some slack.

You may or may not have noticed if you've interacted with me in the last week or two that I'm slowly cracking up. It's because it's February. February has always carried some sort of anxiety with it. Always. The closer it gets to my upcoming 2nd 25th birthday (Remember the time warp folks.) the more and more scattered I become.

I'd like to say it's because I've been super busy at work. Or the fact that I took out my Ring which was keeping my hormones on an even keel. Hell I could even blame it on the zany weather we've been having. We've already established that the crazies come out when it's warm but I think this would be a disservice. It's because my birthday is in February...

Birthdays, like Holidays, make me nervous. Really nervous.

This year I said to myself 'I'll be armed with tools to fight the anxiety!'

'I'll have lost 15 pounds and have the exercise to fall back on!' While this is true, I've lost 13 pounds since my last birthday (Somehow I've gained 4 pounds in the last two weeks because apparently the weight loss gods HATE ME) it doesn't seem to be helping too much. I'm still pretty much bananas. I thought that exercising would burn off all that extra energy and it does do that, it just creates twice as much energy as I had before so now I'm really on a rampage.

'I'll have had another whole year of being single and appreciating a single life!' I'll say this about that. I've had my fun this past year, but not too much fun. Actually is was almost exactly zero 'fun' but I did manage to get some practice in right under the deadline. I'm still almost practically celibate which according to the Church works for some people. Not me. And when you're just a bit off-kilter it helps to have someone around to yank you back down out of the clouds. Not that I'm super-duper crazy but I am a little aloof. But like normal woman aloof. Unless I'm besought with a demon and in that case maybe celibacy is the right path for me. I'll starve the demon out or something.

*Although Sex on Skates did move in next door to me which is either extremely fortuitous or God has a really sick sense of humor. I haven't figured out which one yet. I'm still working on that one. Next on the list of culinary treats is banana pudding. Boys like banana pudding right?

But if you get right down to the meat of the problem, ignoring the issues with mortality that birthdays bring, ignoring the anxiety that planning a fun-filled event that people will enjoy brings, ignoring the attention people shower you with on your birthday whether you deserve it or not, it comes down to one thing and one thing only.

For one entire evening I'll be forced to sit and choke down a meal with both of my parents all the while praying they'll behave. That they won't make asses of themselves in public, in front of my friends or even in front of me. They'll sit there and do their cute flirty, angsty bantering back and forth and people will laugh and I'll cringe because I know what it really means.

That they're about one asinine comment away from stabbing one another in the eyeball with a fork and creating an incident. An incident that only I can deal with because they thought it necessary to beget one singular progeny. Me.

I'm about to cut a bitch.

Her name is: Katie.

She is: skinny.

With: Red hair. (Where the fuck am I going to get red hair?)

Why I hate her: You may or may not have met 'Sex on Skates' but he's totally in love with me. Well maybe not, but I'm working uber-hard at making him in at least lust with me. And then I find out I'm not the only one making Sex Pies. WTF?

For serious ya'll there is about to be a bloodbath, I'm not kidding.

PS - Somebody tell me a good pastry recipe with bourbon. SOS loves bourbon!

Fine, you do not want to go to gym. I will punish you with this blaring alarm.

I had the best of intentions this morning. I was going to the gym after work. Then work actually happened. After that, the bus ride home. By the end of that adventure I was in no mood to do anything but eat, flop around on the couch and watch re-runs of Mad Men to see Don Draper (Who I'm very afraid that I may be developing actual feelings for. It's scary, I know.).

Apparently God was angry with my choice.

The exact minute that I had on my pajamas, had my dinner laid out before me, lounging under my blanket, with the credits to Mad Men rolling, Voila! Yes, that aggravating noise would be the building fire alarm.

I spent some time in the industrial setting working in an actual factory where there are literally 12 different alarms for everything ranging from a CO2 dump (To extinguish a fire on a machine.) to an alarm for tornadoes and heavy winds. You haven't heard annoying until the wailing cacophony of the same note falling flat and rising sharp in rapid succession for minutes on end. But I will say this about our fire alarms; our fire alarm has the added bonus of a very pleasant woman coming on to tell us that 'A fire has been detected on an adjacent floor. Please be ready to evacuate if needed.' This is in addition to the aggravating siren like wailing of the alarm.

Of course the cat goes ape-shit and dives under my roomate's bed. For the first several minutes I continued to eat my dinner and listen to this nice woman repeatedly tell me that at some poorly defined point in the future I may need to evacuate. Then I decided that maybe I should ready myself and the cat. I put my real clothes back on (Look if I am caught outside of the apartment building while it burns to the ground I'm reasonably sure that Sex on Skates will be there and I can't be caught in my oh-so-alluring holey plaid pajama pants. He may want to seek solace in my arms and I need to be looking my best for that.) and go to fetch the cat. I never did find her cat carrier so I guess if I had ever managed to get her out from under the bed I would've just dumped her in a pillow case. To be safe I texted my roomate that the building was on fire and told him his cat loved him. I neglected to mention my plan of tossing her in the shower and shutting the doors with the water on to protect her from the encroaching flames.

As it turns out, some asshat set their microwave to the 'Manhattan Project' setting to cook their popcorn. The building never was on fire and avoided burning down. For 15 minutes I listened to the nice woman tell me over the intercom system to get ready to evacuate. Do you know what that accomplishes? Absolutely nothing. What do I do once I'm prepared to evacuate? Do I actually evacuate or do I just stand around waiting on her instructions? And how prepared do I need to be? Is this a drop everything and run emergency or do I have time to grab some things? Will there be a follow up message of an equally polite woman directing me to evacuate? Or will it be some maniac screaming 'Run for your lives!' and 'Please take the stairs in case of emergency'?

Wouldn't it just be simpler to direct people to evacuate? It seems to me they're sending a somewhat ambiguous message. 'You may have to evacuate but we're not really sure where the fire is yet or if there is a fire or hell, it may just be a blip in the system, but keep on the lookout just in case. And remember, rent is past-due after the 5th!' In public school they send you outside no matter what, shouldn't the same principle be applied here?

I ask you, in the case of fires is there really room for ambiguity?

Ripping off the hands. . .

Sooo. Apparently 'Sex on Skates' has a girlfriend, which isn't surprising. Who's probably blond and beautiful, which isn't surprising. And he's totally nice and sweet and easy to talk to, which is a little surprising.

Then again, I suppose it's not. It's the short ones that are always assholes.

For some reason I've got this knot in my stomach. It's probably the sickening feeling of watching my biological success fly out the window. Obviously. (Here's a tribute to my bff.) I should probably just pull the hands off of my biological clock. That way it could just run and run and no one would notice. There wouldn't be the pressure of watching those hands move continuously around the clock face delineating my eventual decline. Towards the point of time in the future or maybe distant present when the pain in my stomach is the recrudescence of my insides. Or maybe the knot in my stomach is just a physical manifestation of all my doubts and insecurities. Which it probably isn't because if it was. . .It would hurt a hell of a lot harder than just a little knot in my tummy. It would be like that thing in Alien, the alien I guess, that goes tearing out of someone's (I forget who, actually I've never seen Alien. But I digress.) stomach. Not to say that I'm chronically insecure or fragile or anything. I'm kind of dichotomous in that regard. There are moments when I'm the most confident, charming, and vibrant person you'll meet.

And then there are times when I'm not. I'm timid and scared.

I find these latter moments strike when I'm asleep.

You honestly didn't think I was going to admit frailty did you?

I think it's because I always get my hopes up. Whether there is cause to or not. I truly am an optimist in that regard. I always think I have a chance. I always have confidence that I can do anything. I suppose you should blame my parents for that. After 20 some odd years of hearing that you're the best and the smartest, a person starts to believe it.

And then the grim truth of reality sets in. It's not anything to really be sad about. It just is. That's the thing about reality. There is no evaluative nature to reality. It's not good or bad. It's indifferent.

Time tumbles along without you. Whether or not you're happy about it or not. Just because you've ripped the hands off the clock doesn't mean it doesn't still run. You've just merely invented a device which clouds your perception.

That is something I can justify.

The Sex-Pie Incident

The sex-pie failed me.

But not in the way you're thinking. I still have not wooed said blonde David, but it was a success in a certain regard. I did prove that I could bake; I just didn't do my Southern heritage justice. Well I did in the pie regard, just not in the 'wooing-a-future-husband-with-baked-goods-regard.' I guess this just means that I have to step up my game. I'm not really sure where you go from homemade Peach Pie but you know, just look at it.

See below:

Apparently when you look like sex on skates you spend a lot of time away from home. I like to pretend he's at the skating rink working on his fitness, because he's 'Sex on Skates.' Get it?

Okay, he's probably at the gym working on his fitness instead. I refuse to believe he's shacking up with some chick. Refuse to believe it. So just don't mention it. He wasn't home the multitude of times I tried to drop off the sex-pie thus I was stuck with it.

It's probably because I started calling it the 'Sex-Pie.' When you enumerate these intentions things tend to not work out. Or at least that's the way it happens with me. Things are all grand until you apply that 'Label' and then it falls to hell.

Needless to say I feel like a lame-o-zoid creepo because I made a sex-pie for the neighbor and had to pawn it off on the building manager and a guy at work. Which knowing my luck. . .well one of them is gay so I guess that's not an option. You should probably know that I also made a pie for my gramma's 88th birthday and a gluten-free version for my friend. So it wasn't like I baked it out of the blue.

Although you could probably argue that's why I made my gramma and my anti-gluten friend a pie.

But we won't, will we?

I will not support or deny that supposition.