Yesterday afternoon I got the call informing me that my wedding dress had arrived at the bridal shop. It was all the prompting I needed to suit up in my new workout gear and hit the gym.
Ladies, if you think you have a hard time finding clothes that fit just right, just wait until it's time to go wedding dress shopping. At bridal shops, all of your body image issues will be laid out before you, with a numerical value assigned to each.
For me, that played out in the form of some disproportionate measurements when I ordered the dress this past fall: size 2 bust, size 6–8 hips, size 8–10 waist. (Gap.com tells me my thigh is a size 2 - just for another data point.) Not news to me, but it was still a bit deflating to see on paper. Knowing the hell I go through trying to find jeans that fit this frame, I have nothing but dread for the seven rounds of alterations I'm undoubtedly in for with this dress.
In an effort to control as much as I can of my own destiny, it's time to get back into the habit of regular gym-going. I'm telling myself that the fact that I went on December 29 instead of waiting until January 1 means it's not a New Year's resolution but rather simply a year-round good habit.
It's a drop in the bucket, but a two-mile jog is better than nothing, and it's enough to give me that general feeling of put-together-ness that's really the main reason I work out.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
What's My Name?
I believe any self-respecting animal, when brought into a household, will see that it earns itself at least two to three serviceable nicknames.
That's just a starting point. Additional nicknames can be dispensed according to the animal's propensity for mischief and hijinks.
Gizmo, for instance, is better known as Gizmeister, Gizmatic, Gizmodo, G-Money, and simply G.
Annie, on the other hand, has racked up Annabelle, Annie Sue, Princess, Pretty Girl, Annie Susannie, Annie Banannie, and Killer. Probably more I'm missing right now. More mischief = more nicknames.
She's "Trouble" when I walk into the kitchen and find her nose under the lid of the trash can. A sharp "HEY!" is enough to put all four paws on the ground, but more yelling never does any good. She just gives me the "huh?" look, with the doggie head tilt and the attentive floppy terrier ears that bounce along as she trots on to her next conquest. She's such a damn optimistic little dog. She'll never develop a conscience on matters like this — she'll just put a little bit of effort into not getting caught. Really, it's our fault for giving her the opportunity to get into trouble in the first place. So I just shake my head and take out the trash, which I knew I needed to be getting around to anyway.
"Problem child." There's another one.
Gizmo's current shenanigans of choice all involve the Christmas tree. I think it was deformed within hours of purchase after he sprang through the branches trying to attack my hand as I hung ornaments. But who can blame the guy. That's a kitty playground if there ever was one.
We're eyeing a nice little doggie named Kali at the Humane Society. Her description says she loves to play with other doggies — sometimes more than the other doggies really appreciate. That's Annie to the core. If this Kali thing pans out, we'll have to work on building up a bank of nicknames. I'll start with supercalifragilistic.
Based on her description, I think she'll earn a few more.
That's just a starting point. Additional nicknames can be dispensed according to the animal's propensity for mischief and hijinks.
Gizmo, for instance, is better known as Gizmeister, Gizmatic, Gizmodo, G-Money, and simply G.
Annie, on the other hand, has racked up Annabelle, Annie Sue, Princess, Pretty Girl, Annie Susannie, Annie Banannie, and Killer. Probably more I'm missing right now. More mischief = more nicknames.
She's "Trouble" when I walk into the kitchen and find her nose under the lid of the trash can. A sharp "HEY!" is enough to put all four paws on the ground, but more yelling never does any good. She just gives me the "huh?" look, with the doggie head tilt and the attentive floppy terrier ears that bounce along as she trots on to her next conquest. She's such a damn optimistic little dog. She'll never develop a conscience on matters like this — she'll just put a little bit of effort into not getting caught. Really, it's our fault for giving her the opportunity to get into trouble in the first place. So I just shake my head and take out the trash, which I knew I needed to be getting around to anyway.
"Problem child." There's another one.
Gizmo's current shenanigans of choice all involve the Christmas tree. I think it was deformed within hours of purchase after he sprang through the branches trying to attack my hand as I hung ornaments. But who can blame the guy. That's a kitty playground if there ever was one.
We're eyeing a nice little doggie named Kali at the Humane Society. Her description says she loves to play with other doggies — sometimes more than the other doggies really appreciate. That's Annie to the core. If this Kali thing pans out, we'll have to work on building up a bank of nicknames. I'll start with supercalifragilistic.
Based on her description, I think she'll earn a few more.
The Great Sage James Lipton Speaks
Can we just retire the word "sexting" and all media coverage thereof?
This morning, the top headline on IndyStar.com read "Poll: Sexting common among young people / Teens do not think about the consequences of sharing racy images, experts say." Earlier this week, the Today Show ran yet another segment on the dangers of "sexting," designed to frighten mothers everywhere with the tale of a teen who committed suicide after her racy photos were exposed to peers. Or something. I'll admit, I left the room when I saw her mother sitting on the couch with Meredith Vieira.
A tragic story, no doubt, but dirty pictures don't actually kill anyone. To draw a direct line between hitting "send" and ending one's life is a gross oversimplification of the complex tragedy of teen suicide.
A Google search for "the dangers of sexting" returns 110,000 results, but really, I can only think of one: nakey pix ending up in the hands of someone other than the intended recipient. If, in the image-centric years of teenagedom, the threat of that kind of exposure isn't enough of a deterrent, the dire scare tactics of the Today Show will at best be laughed at.
Possibly even more grating than the coverage of sexting is the etymology. Dirty pictures are neither sex nor text, but apparently the concurrence of Xs was just too sweet to pass up. And while my connection to teenagers is tenuous at best, the second definition on UrbanDictionary.com confirms my suspicions that the word is not of the kids' construction but rather the media's.
So kudos to LG for treating the phenomenon with humor rather than doomsday warnings in this highly watchable (and re-watchable, and forwardable) PSA featuring James Lipton. (Double kudos for resisting the urge to say "sexting".) Ad wizards have figured out what the national news media can't: kids will pay less attention to the sensational-but-rare consequence than they will to the more likely and relatable one.
That's the message, kids. Don't sext, lest there be tweets about your petes.
This morning, the top headline on IndyStar.com read "Poll: Sexting common among young people / Teens do not think about the consequences of sharing racy images, experts say." Earlier this week, the Today Show ran yet another segment on the dangers of "sexting," designed to frighten mothers everywhere with the tale of a teen who committed suicide after her racy photos were exposed to peers. Or something. I'll admit, I left the room when I saw her mother sitting on the couch with Meredith Vieira.
A tragic story, no doubt, but dirty pictures don't actually kill anyone. To draw a direct line between hitting "send" and ending one's life is a gross oversimplification of the complex tragedy of teen suicide.
A Google search for "the dangers of sexting" returns 110,000 results, but really, I can only think of one: nakey pix ending up in the hands of someone other than the intended recipient. If, in the image-centric years of teenagedom, the threat of that kind of exposure isn't enough of a deterrent, the dire scare tactics of the Today Show will at best be laughed at.
Possibly even more grating than the coverage of sexting is the etymology. Dirty pictures are neither sex nor text, but apparently the concurrence of Xs was just too sweet to pass up. And while my connection to teenagers is tenuous at best, the second definition on UrbanDictionary.com confirms my suspicions that the word is not of the kids' construction but rather the media's.
So kudos to LG for treating the phenomenon with humor rather than doomsday warnings in this highly watchable (and re-watchable, and forwardable) PSA featuring James Lipton. (Double kudos for resisting the urge to say "sexting".) Ad wizards have figured out what the national news media can't: kids will pay less attention to the sensational-but-rare consequence than they will to the more likely and relatable one.
That's the message, kids. Don't sext, lest there be tweets about your petes.
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