Friday, November 12, 2010

Heads up!

To follow my new blogsite or read a new series of blogs about new adventures in Missouri go to:

Thank You!

xoxox and a long o...

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Skinny Jeans

Gynecologists around the U.S. sent a collective "Thank You Note" today to the makers of the popular Skinny Jean.

..."We want to thank whomever is responsible for the comeback of the Skinny Jean. Thank you. No really, thank you." ...

Reports claim that since the revival of the world's skinniest jean cases of vulvodynia, vaginismus and overall crotch-itch have skyrocketed. Doors of ObGyns have been swinging off the hook with angry, skinny women all complaining of the same symptoms; vaginal burning, itching and swelling. They all walk in slowly, like an ostrich. An ostrich whose pants are too tight.

When asked about this growing epidemic one tiny Gyne said, "We don't usually say crotch." Then she covered her mouth with her skinny hand and giggled.

Another less tactful Gynecologist said, "Take a number. I mean, look, their vaginas are "talking back". Like when you feed sauce to an ulcer. They asked for it. I just feel sorry for their vulvas. Not really."

Not everyone is happy with the rise of the Skinny Jean, however.

When not asked, the ever so vocal Oprah Winfrey interjected, "We're sending the wrong message to white people, I mean, young girls and gay men." Then Oprah asked if her new spandex pantaloons made her butt look big. When everyone said, "Yes", she smirked and said, "Good!"

Darcy Evans of Philadelphia agrees. When asked to comment on how skinny jeans make her feel she finished chewing her cheese steak and replied, "Those is white girl pants." And then she muttered something that sounded like, "I don't trust your skinny smile". Her friend quickly remarked, "She's just bitter they don't come in her size." But Darcy just rolled her eyes and finished that cheese steak.

Somewhere in Arkansas, business owner Bob Smith complained that the "new Skinny Jean arrival here" is causing excessive tardiness in his office. He said it took one employee 45 minutes to walk her dog because she couldn't bend over to pick up her dog's feces, leading her to miss the morning sales chant. Then Bob hiccuped and his stomach poofed out revealing his own Skinny Jeans. He quickly sucked it back in and smiled. "The price of fashion", he said.

Skinny Jeans are making quite an impression in the world of fashion, but some would say Americans are becoming obsessed. At least one woman did. "This is getting out of hand. Americans are becoming obsessed with beauty and ignoring their vaginal health", said the hippyish woman wearing Lee Boot Cut jeans and a yellow cardigan.

Perhaps she's correct.

Just last week Gap Kids jumped on the bandwagon, making skinny baby jeans called, Skinny Baby. A skinny mom admitted to cutting back on breast milk in order to get her little girl in those Skinny Baby's. "It's a suburban thing, you wouldn't understand", is all she would say. Ya, you're right suburban mom, I probably wouldn't understand. I'm Italian. My Grandmothers served ham hocks for breakfast and if we skipped breakfast we ate breakfast twice for lunch. I haven't seen a skinny jean since I was 4. And they weren't mine. But I'm not bitter.

Speaking of dominant mothers, we asked a group of Greek protesters outside a newly opened Old Navy to explain their protest. The group leader grabbed my cheeks, slapped me and asked, "Have you ever seen a Greek in Skinny Jeans, I ask you? It's just not fair. There's nothing here for us." "Make 'em in a size 16!", shouted another. "Our self esteem has plummeted since the rise of those little pants", said a group of curvy protesters standing side to side. "My ankles are swollen", said a passerby. We all scratched our heads and looked around, and not surprisingly, none of us had ever seen a Greek or anyone from South America in such jeans. Hmm.

California Governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger just signed a Bill preventing anyone over 142 pounds from wearing Skinny Jeans. "The Bill serves to protect the State from future forest fires", he said right before he removed a chicken sandwich from his wife's mouth. That's awesome, Arnold, because we all know that incessant thigh rubbing from overweight foreigners is the cause of most forest fires.

Another downfall of wearing jeans that skinny is infertility. This leads us to wonder how Keith Urban and every other country musician has been able to father any children. It also makes us wonder where Nicole Kidman puts all those "babies" she's apparently had. I mean, seriously.

Despite the health risks associated with wearing Skinny Jeans, Americans will continue to do so, enduring all, until the inevitable comeback of MC Hammer's Balloon Pants. This makes Darcy Evans very happy because as she just texted to her friend, "Bitch, I'm hongry!"...

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The Mile and A Half High Club...

Recently I traveled to Chicago on a certain airline of which name I will not say, but it rhymes with BrUnited. Now, despite not having brushed my hair in four years I think I'm pretty harmless looking. I perpetually look 12. Or 2. Yet everytime I travel I'm the one getting "pulled" to the side for extra security checks, baggage invasions, and intrusively wanded, which to some counts as sex when it hits your cervix. Being relatively newly single, this time I didn't mind the extra attention. But, Geezus.

It all happened so fast. The TSA man circled my ticket with his colored sharpie and gave me a creepy look that said, "I know what's about to go down, Ms. Costa, and I can't wait."

Shoeless, I made my way up to the grey bins, ready to pass through the metal detectors. And after I did, still belt-less, cell phone-less, and bag-less I was motioned to the "side" by a large woman named, it should be. While there, I was further stripped down, hair pulled, "wanded", ass-banged and given a small cup of water. You can really get parched in these situations. And all the while everyone was watching, including the little Asian girl with the salt water taffy and hopelessly sad eyes. And then it got scary. A bunch of A-Holes in blue shirts were digging through my carry-ons as if I was smuggling cocaine or Nick Nolte. Apparently they didn't find what they were looking for amidst my self-help books, boy panties, unfinished poetry, Superman knee-hi's and pictures of Tina Fey.

Across from me stood a petite frightened woman who was very much in the same predicament I was. I felt sorry for her as she cringed at the sight of the "love" wand. She took it well, however, and I was impressed. Small she was but she had the vaginal capacity of a much larger woman.

As Marge gave me the signal that I was clear to go I re-dressed and blew her a kiss. "Thank you, Marge", I said. "Thank you." She was a woman of few words but something in her He-Man Thundercat growl told me she knew I was "that" kinda Girl. I proceeded to my gate with my belongings, a little less dignity and a smile. It was quite the throwdown and not every airport is capable of providing such. And one never knows when one will find it again. After all, who's it hurtin'?

Was it a case of "racial profiling", I don't know. I'm mistaken for a Latina woman often. And if so I say, "Por favor darme más."

As I boarded the aircraft I quickly realized the difference between BrUnited and Southwest Airlines. Southwest crews tell jokes and act a fool. It's like flying with fun clowns & jesters. BrUnited, not so much. They're very serious about their time. And they love their videos. Instead of a flight attendant I had a video to ignore. I don't wanna know what to do if we crash. I'm pretty certain I'd forget what Betty said if we did crash and manage to survive anyway. And all though I do enjoy the spacious seating in the exit rows, I'm not being very honest when I smile, & nod & say I'll accept the responsibilities of sitting in such seating. And the pilot's red eyes didn't at all make me skeptical. As soon as we were in flight the tv screens came on again, this time announcing their new merger with another airline. But all my newly hypoglycemic self wanted to know was, "Where the fuck is my treat?!" I'm used to being "spoiled" by Southwest's generous bag-giving of pretzels and or trail mix peanuts. These "guys" provided a beverage and a sloppy business man sleeping next to me. I don't like assigned seating. It's not fair.

There's always a lot of turbulence when flying to and from Chicago but it was excessive this time and quite nauseating. I couldn't help but to close my eyes and grab the arm rest, squeezing and tugging hard as we flew through. Thirty five minutes later the "sleeping" business man next to me politely informed me that, "That's not the arm rest." Then he thanked me. Several times. But who's counting? Other than him... There's only one thing this man likes more than honey roasted peanuts when 30,000 miles in the sky. But they "Proudly Serve Starbucks Coffee", so I can forgive and forget.

I resorted to listening to music the remainder of the flight. Three songs into Michael Jackson's Bad album I got a violent nudge from an angry flight attendant. "We announced ten minutes ago that all electronic devices needed to be shut off and properly stowed", she said. How was I supposed to hear the "captain" when I was listening to my Ipod and texting above the clouds? I told her it was shut off and I just had the ear phones in my ear still. I lied, and all of a sudden I was back in second grade denying to Miss Nelson that Lamar and I were looking at her starch white panties under her denim skirt during circle time. As punishment I had to write. It felt more like a win-win to me. Even now. (looking off & up to the right and smiling) I could tell the bitter flight attendant didn't believe me, however, so I said, "Ok sir." She got the point. Then the man next to me asked her for another Coke and instantly her and I shot him a look that shouted, "Are you f*cking serious, dude?! You want Starbucks, a gay hand job, AND a second can of Coke?" That's when I knew my next ex would be that quick-witted flight attendant with loads of baggage. And for the next ten minutes we had a lasting relationship. One of my longest.

Upon landing I grabbed my bags and headed far from the gate, feeling all shades of cheap and used. I got on my Palm Pre and immediately booked another adventure, winking to all the flight attendants and TSA agents as I passed. I heard somebody yell, "I love you, Costa!", but I know what that means. It translates as, "You make me laugh and I love you for that but I don't wanna stick around and raise your big-headed children." "Me voy a volver!", I announced in Spanish. "Me voy a volver!". "That's what she said", someone quipped back.


Sunday, August 15, 2010

OCD or straight up crazy?...

When I was younger my Great Grandmother told and retold the story every Thanksgiving of a man who walked the streets of Italy eating Lupini beans (of the legume family for any non-mediterraneans reading this ) and tossing the skins behind him. As he tossed the skins there was another man who apparently was so hungry he picked up the Lupini skins and ate them. I don't know how long this man followed the other around Italy eating his scraps and I don't recall the point of the story. I do recall hearing it many times and every time I remember thinking, "That's disgusting", while thinking of all the saliva, dirt and bodily fluids that covered those bean skins. I even lost my appetite for nearly four minutes.

That may have been the first clue that young Chrissy had one of many forms of OCD.

Present day: Though I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks this I realize I may be in the minority here. Whenever I feel something wet hit me while walking, or see something weird on my burger, I always think, "Was that semen?" When the young boy smiles at me while handing over my morning coffee...I have to wonder. Why else would anyone smile at 6am?

I was caught in a rainstorm recently. It was coming down hard. (that's what she said) I had five blocks to walk and needed to get home where I was certain my over-anxious dog was stuck in the hamper, hiding because of the thunder. I decided not to wait out the storm and to just run in the rain. And I love running in rain. How fun does it look in the movies, right? But what they don't show you in the movies is how fucking impossible it is to run in the rain while wearing sandals. You may as well shellac your shoes with baby oil because the result is the same. So instead of fighting the inevitable ankle sprain I took my shoes off and bolted. A half of a block later I realized I was running through the 'hood with bare feet. All of a sudden that childhood fear of getting AIDS in my feet began to creep in. I stopped and looked down. The ground looked clear of needles, used condoms and Magic Johnson, but I still wasn't convinced I was safe. For the next several blocks I walked diligently home, monitoring my every step for anything that could infect my body. Twenty minutes later I arrived safely home, soak and wet from tip-toeing through the streets, and found my dog locked in the bathroom at the bottom of the hamper.

Just last week a womyn at bingo sneezed and blew herpes on me, and some semen too, apparently. At least that's what it felt like.

Don't even get me started on sweaty male mustaches and all the funk they transmit. Never trust a mustache. It's like over-fondling a pigeon.

While there is a downside to having OCD, there is also an upside as well. You become much more organized and usually smell awesome. And it's probably why I love movies like Pulp Fiction, 21 Grams and Memento. Look at me with my glass half full.

While I admit my cognitive thought process has always been one in question, I still am not ready to pop a pill. I prefer natural alternatives. Like recently I started "meditating". I hear it works well if you can peel your eyes from your fellow meditators and focus on nothing. I have a hard time with that. You have to surrender and trust all that's around you, so there's also THAT obstacle. And while it's best I shut my mouth for a while it still feels unnatural to have all those floating thoughts bottled up and levitating above my Higher Self.

It's kinda funny to watch a person who has OCD and A.D.D. sit in silence. All sorts of random thoughts (more so than the average day) make their way to the surface. Thoughts with no beginning or ending, like "the last salmon" just show up out of nowhere. And it's funny, so I laughed. It'll take some time. And while it's hard to shut off your cell phone for a few hours there's many benefits to meditating. I believe many relationships could benefit from some silence. Some people even look prettier when they have nothing to say. I've had some of my worst and best times alone with my silence. (looking off to side and smiling) And if that doesn't work there's always SAMe...or boxed wine.

I gotta go, the waiter just spilled a drink on me. Or did he?...

Monday, June 14, 2010

All In A Day (Daze)...

On my best day I'm far from the person I want to be.

On my worst day, I'm a super-sized douchebag. The vinegar kind. Or so I feel.

Today was not my worst day, but I did feel like a bag of douche with a slight scent of summer flowers. Mostly because I drove my bike into a rose bush while playing with my ipod.


I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things. Things that best accompany a bottle of liquor. Important things. Things Nick Nolte keeps in his 5th pocket. You know, limes & cork screws and the like. So upon checking out I realized I left my Superman wallet @ home and had only a few dollars on me. $7, to be exact. My bill came to $6.33 so I gave a nod to the man behind me who also didn't think I'd make it. What? And then it happened. The woman checking me out (no, not THAT way)asked, "Would you like to donate your change to help children suffering with Leukemia?" Instantly I felt guilty like Sag's are prone to feeling for not being perfect, and instead of expressing what I really felt and telling her I needed the change for laundry but would bring back more cash later, somehow I blurted out, "NO!". Really loud. The man behind me snarled. I felt my eyes get really big and my face was hot (no, not THAT way...ok, maybe a little) and we stared at each other, the cashier and I. I was at a loss for words. When someone says, "Hey, you wanna heal kids with cancer?", who says, "NO."? This Girl!
I tend to stutter and stammer when I'm nervous or feeling emotional or extra sensy so I grabbed my change and ran out the door with dramatic flair. Also a Sagittarian trait that seems to get me nowhere. I had gone too far @ that point to turn back and explain. So I went home and drank.

Now if it were the only time it happened this past week I'd feel bad enough. But it's not...

I was driving through my neighborhood a couple of days ago and came to a stoplight. As I did, three kids came running to the car window. I thought, "Where's a gun when you need one?" But that was only because they were BIg kids, like their mama's gave 'em too much hormone-injected food for 12 straight years. Their tits were bigger than mine. All 3 tits. For real. So I roll down the window to see what they wanted. One says, "Hey, you're Ms. Costa, you work at my school." I said, yes, I do". Then I said, "What are you selling?" The one replied, "lemonade". I thought, "well they're a bit old to have a lemonade stand in the middle of this fucking ghetto." Then the girl said, "Do you want some?" My phone went off and the light turned green and as I was rolling up my window I said, "Don't get hit." I never even answered her.


I was walking to work a few days ago and I passed a man who made it his mission to talk to me. He was polite but smelled of old alcohol and I have issues with that. He also smiled like one of the creepier clowns in my dad's old clown collection. So there's strike two. I spoke with him and quickly realized he didn't REALLY like me or my hair or my new sandals like he originally said. He wanted cash. Don't we all? I told him I had none. I lied. I just really wanted to be left alone so I could think about all the things I had done wrong lately. I didn't enjoy rejecting his request. But I did enjoy the venti iced mocha I bought at Starbucks, a few feet from him. And when I came out sipping it he stared at me with "How-could-you-eyes?!"

Sometimes a Girl is deeply misunderstood. And sometimes She just wants to be left alone.

Now come to me with a REAL problem, like Prader-Willi, and we'll negotiate.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Today I felt 80...

I found myself bitching about the weather to a woman in the bank today.
Then I went home and noticed another grey hair while bleaching my teeth.(this makes 2or 3...sometimes my dog's hair is in my pillow) I also saw a wrinkle on my head that I didn't recall earlier. And after fixing and eating a "sangwich", I stood up and heard a crack. It could have been my knee but it felt like my vagina.

How can I be aging when I still feel 12?

I don't have the credit of an 80 year old. Or the car, home, or appliances. I do, however, pee a lot.

On a semi-related note: I've been contemplating having a baby lately. I don't really like or prefer babies. Mostly I want someone to talk to and open my beers and be better than. I would give birth to a toddler if it was possible but I don't think there's a loop hole there. And trust me, if there's a loop hole I will find it. I've been breast-feeding for years if that matters. Most of it was consensual. Anyway, I still need to think this over. I have some plants I've been keeping up with and I was told to start there. Psshhh, little bit of water every other day, no problem. I make it home most nights.

Okay, enough about babies. Right now what I really want is a Vespa. I'd like to buy one before I find another grey hair or "laugh line". I'd have better parking at Whole Foods. I could walk the 25 feet from my studio to Whole Foods if my feet weren't so sore and blistered.

I'm gonna chase this beer with a little Metamucil and a Werther's Original and call it a night, kids.
Let's hope for a youthful tomorrow...

Thursday, May 20, 2010

IT'S A SMALL, SMALL WORLD: What Do You Do When You've Dated All of Gay Pittsburgh?(unedited version...for those who like it dirty)

A warm mist fills the air. Marigolds are in full bloom. A prostitute passes a clove cigarette to her friend. Ahhh, the sweet scent of an impending summer. Mix that with the sweat of hot bodies; the unclad men and women, and fashionably overdressed drag queens, filling the streets of downtown Pittsburgh and you've guessed it. Pride has returned! That's right!

As you ponder where to go and what to wear to one of the many pride festivities this year, you may also have a few woes plaguing your mind as well. Among the long bathroom lines, lost drink tickets, and getting hit with a jawbreaker by an over zealous parade participant on his own float, you're probably also a little anxious over that inevitable and often uncomfortable run-in with your ex.

If you're like most people you have an ex that makes you trample over some inept toddler, knocking trash cans over and hurdling strollers bigger than the vehicle in which you drove, to avoid. (We gays can be so dramatic). And if you're like me, you've a few. The question is how to either avoid or deal with that this Pride.
Let's face it, you can't shake a stick on Liberty Ave. without hitting some homosexual you once shared a feline and a box of condoms with.

You look in the distance and notice a wry smile. You smile back, seductively, of course because you're wearing your new pants. Then you look closer and realize, "I know her. And her. And her. What the?!... I dated them all. Why are they hanging out? When did they all meet? Did they just see me?" Given the blank stare and hypothetical dart just spat in your eye you've no choice but to believe yes, yes they did. And then your friend goes, "Is that the girl she left you for?" You can't even distinguish the "she" she's referring to because there's so many and they've all formed a posse and are now blocking the entrance to the french fry stand you want to hide under. That's when it hits you that they've all moved on. Now all you have is your new pants.

For the love of carbs, don't stare too creepishly. That's what got you the restraining order in the first place. Play it cool. You have a few options here. This could be your cue to bend down and "tie" your sandal and head toward the exit. I'm not one to back down to confrontation so I'd suggest something a little more mature. I'm saying to kiss first person who walks by. This is much better than leaving and it could make at least one of those exes jealous. With any luck it could be the mayor. Or me. And if you're feeling a little confident you could go for the assertive approach by walking up to all of them and greeting them with a hand shake and offering a penis-shaped cookie. This is known as campaigning in politics and it's also the way my siblings and I met our father. I digress. Anyway, if this is the approach you decide to take I urge you to make sure your assertiveness is succeeded with sincerity and a smile. And on an even lesser "evolved" note, make sure you look better than the person they're now dating. Each and every one of them.

Break-ups are hard. I hear the first eight minutes after a break-up are the hardest. That's what my exes have all said. And the only thing harder than a break-up is when you're dumped for someone else. Like your mom, for instance. That's a really hard one. If that ever happens you should just give up. Nobody would even blame you. More than likely your mom won't be attending Pride, but I bet your exes will. So toughen up. They're all probably watching you read this right now, wishing they had another chance. Nah, they're all smiling because you never understood them anyway and now they all have someone who does. Forget about them. Keep your chin up and relish in the fact that you'll never have to deal with all of their annoying habits, smells and lack of attention in certain, um, areas anymore either. Take a look around at all the many people passing you by. There's bound to be a few you haven't yet dated. Your next ex is just around the corner. Literally. She or he is probably peeing behind a trash can around the corner. And the only thing sweeter than the cosmos being shaken up is the irony of it all. Happy Pride.

by Chrissy Costa

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Oops! You dropped your hair...

Today I stumbled upon a wig & a small tube of smashed lube in the middle of the street. Someone had a better nite than I did...

This weave pictured here, enveloping a small, used pamper was last week's treasure. I spotted it while walking home. I couldn't step away from it. I've seen weave laying on the ground before, in patchy chunks, but never so much. And never tangled around a soiled pamper. Pamper's such a fun word to say. P-A-M-P-E-R. See. Anyway, I couldn't help but wonder what the fuck happened. I mean, why doesn't anyone else seem affected upon seeing this nest of shit on the ground next to their car?! And when I showed friends they laughed but didn't question it. I, on the other hand, can't help but question everything. I only lost a little sleep coming up with the following scenerios...

#1- A baby, left to it's own devices, was seen wandering the streets of a certain neighborhood. The woman (or man) who spotted the baby child was in the process of getting her hair stitched on (I apologize, I've no idea how weave works. I have very short hairs)at a nearby salon. She immediately ran outside to save the child from oncoming vehicles and/or a few angry pigeons (both VERY unsafe), before her hair was properly sealed. Upon picking the child up she slipped on a used Magnum condom that are everywhere in this certain neighborhood, and she went headfirst into a parked Toyota (license plate, bbr-694U). She was unharmed as the airbag inside her hair piece exploded, leaving her safe but hairless. The child, stricken with fear over all the ridonkulousness he just witnessed, cried as he soiled himself, again. That made one heavy pamper. Too heavy to stay in place. So the pamper falls to the ground, landing on the weave that was just about to be picked up by the woman who ran to rescue the child. Now I don't know about you, but when my hair falls into/around/near a dirty pamper I just have to let it go. So did she. Hence, a pamper covered by hair. I didn't have the mental energy it would take to determine what happened after this part so we'll leave it here.

#2- I have always been disturbed over children's beauty pageants. It's just creepy to see a child in make-up and big hair. On a sidenote: did child beauty pagents originate in Pittsburgh? Just askin'... Anyway, our next scenerio revolves around a local beauty pagent. The contestant, Olivia, a little Caucasian girl who didn't know she was Caucasian because she could barely walk, entered the pageant because her parents were picked on as kids and had something to prove. Not having the appropriate amount of locks to be able to do fancy hair stuff, Olivia's parents decided to get her extensions. Now, where they went was probably their downfall. Olivia's dad didn't want to pay a lot because he had a rather large bill to settle with Rent-A-Center. So instead of listening to his "nagging" common law mate, he went to the outside hair stand next to the patchouli sticks and wooden beads. The woman in charge of the stand was mostly Asian with a bit of a southern twang. She spoke very fast and in circles. Olivia's parents didn't understand her, (who can, really?)so they shook their heads "Yes" and let her attach a large black "wig" to their child's little head. Everyone was happy. Until IT happened... As the family was walking to their vehicle an unidentified car, speeding up the street, slowed down just enough to toss a small pamper out of the window, hitting Olivia and pummelling her new hair to the ground. Angry that her cheap common law mate didn't just go to a salon to buy hair, Olivia's mom let the "wig" lay in the street where it fell and demanded her family go home immediately and never speak of IT. Olivia was never forced into another beauty pageant again...

#3- An elderly drag queen is still missing...

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

When will i FIT in?...

Everyone seems to be on this fitness kick lately, complete with healthy diet and exercise. So I thought I'd give it a half-hearted try myself. I did a shot of tequila, downed a salad, grabbed my ipod and headed to the park.

Upon arrival I noticed a lot of sweaty people with painful looks on their faces. I set out to be one of them.

Erratically, I ran a mile, nonstop, which was quite impressive as I stopped breathing after the first three minutes. "I know what it feels like to be a chicken", I yelled to the older man in Rockports who passed me by. He probably hears that all the time.

After that first mile I decided to "slow down" a little. This means I walked.
I noticed a tiny Asian woman pushing a sporty stroller containing babies that were also Asian. One looked to be 35. The other grinned and looked suspiciously like my father. The woman walked faster than I ever ran. In that moment I decided she was my competition. I was Rocky. She was the Russian guy. It was on. Unbeknownst to her, that is.

I started running again and it all became scooby doo-ish for a spell. I swore my feet were moving but I was going nowhere. It was then that I discovered it's not my legs that give out on me. It's my pants. I must have grazed the last remaining ice patch in the city, soaking my pant bottoms. I was now running and dragging pants and what felt like a small village of marmots behind me. Then I had to pee. I always have to pee. What do real runners do? To boot, the pressure from the new "runner's belt"/fanny pack I had just purchased on clearance from the teenager at Best Buy because my 2 year old ipod is now obsolete & no longer fits an arm band making it the equivalent to the car phone with the carrying bag according to Tommy at Best Buy, was causing my small bladder to ache.

I tried pulling my pants up but the wet ankles it caused felt too weird and I was in the early stages of camel toe. My fanny pack was riding higher and without warning it was camouflaged in deodorant stains. There was just too much pants, flesh, fluid, keys, erotic thoughts, ear buds falling out of my wet ears, chaos.

The Asian woman ran, pushing her stroller filled with children in complete serenity. I was the circus behind her. The Mad Hatter in Nike. I wanted to give her "the finger", but I couldn't catch her. She was fierce. She started off in cotton briefs and ran out in a thong. Not that I was looking.

I completed my second mile and could no longer see her. She vanished. Just like that. I'm not quite sure she even existed. I unloaded all my "equipment" and walked two more miles. It was safer that way. For everyone.

Will I run again? Sure. Until then I'm gonna keep eating salads. They never fill me up. I just get tired of chewing and have to call it a day. It shaves calories. Whatever it takes. Six in one half a dozen in another. Whatever that means...