My college roommate, the esteemed KDN, introduced me to many fine things during our three years living together (and after). A sampling: The West Wing, Sports Night, Chipotle, the veggie burrito bowl at Chipotle (the guacamole comes with it!), The Food Network, Panera . . .
About the only thing that KDN introduced me to that failed to take was the elliptical machine. We went to the gym one day (KDN has much more self-discipline than yours truly, and had been there before.) so that I could try it out. How bad could it be, right? It’s not like a treadmill that you have to keep up with in order not to fall off; it’s not a freeweight system that could potentially cause catastrophic muscle/bone trauma. All gravy there.
So there I am, doing the odd elliptical stride thingy, starting to almost get into it, listening to my ginormous c. 2003 iPod to distract myself from the fact that I am actually at a gymnasium engaging in momentum but not getting anywhere (I never enjoy exercise, either purposefully or accidentally. Ever.), when the Worst Thing That Can Happen At The Gym happens.
A little pixie sprite-sized girl (ok, woman, she was over 18), maybe five feet tall, gets on the machine next to me on the right (KDN was insulating me from horrible gym strangers on the left). There was nowhere to run from the pixie-sprite’s running. Soon her tiny blonde be-ponytailed head was bobbing up and down as she — I kid you not — sprinted on this elliptical machine WHILE READING A TEXTBOOK. How did she do it? Why couldn’t I, certified logophile/bibliophile, read a novel while merely (oddly) walking on this contraption? Why wasn’t she sweating? After just five minutes I already looked like a bedraggled Linda Hamilton running from Ahnuld at the end of Terminator (minus her awful haircut, 80s clothes, and physique, which, while not as terrifying as in Terminator 2, is still pretty scary). The remaining twenty-five minutes I spent on the elliptical were filled with self-loathing, self-doubt, and an intensifying resolution never to set foot in a gym again.
It’s been nearly eight years, and I haven’t so much as set a toe in a gym. That’s my brand of self-discipline.
But I digress.
An awesome internet thing that KDN introduced me to: web blog/comics. A few months ago, her away message linked to an unbelievably funny blog, which I read for days. I got distracted for a while, and when I was thinking of the blog a few nights ago, I could not for the life of me remember its name. I tried googling word combinations from one of the entries with no luck, and I finally just emailed KDN, who sent me the link:
It is seriously hilarious. I laugh so hard that Mr. O sometimes thinks I am crying (note to sensitive readers: some posts are not entirely appropriate for the younger crowd). If you head over there, start with “The God of Cake” and “This Is Why I’ll Never Be An Adult.”
In honor of Allie B., who writes the blog (and encourages more drawing on blogs), I decided to do a drawing of today’s tidbit of domestic bliss:
Mr. O tonight made me dinner (spaghetti), whisked up some hot chocoa (thanks for the coinage, J!), and then, when I decided Baby O and I were craving more veggies, he went to the kitchen and cut up a crisp yellow pepper for me. I tried to imagine the pepper’s ambivalence about its self-sacrifice. I mean, Mr. Pepper is giving up his current state of existence for a worthy cause (my nutritional and deliciousness needs), but that Mr. Knife is awfully sharp. Mr. Knife, as you see, feels no ambivalence about his duties. [The purple thing, in case you’re wondering, is a cutting board.] It turned out to be a noble and worthy end. I salute you, Mr. Pepper.
Though it is highly unlikely that my artistic skills will ever improve, I may continue to do little drawings from time to time (especially when I forget to photograph food items before they end up in my belly.). I hope our Dear Readers’ sensibilities will not be offended.