Not your typical Wednesday post: It's my Dad's birthday!

My father never had a son. However, he was “blessed” with two girls who brought joy and sunshine and warmth to his heart every day. Also, I put “blessed” in quotation marks because I’m pretty sure that there was a decade (or more) where “blessed” wasn’t so much what he felt like and “tortured” was more appropriate.

However, for the sake of today’s post, let’s go with blessed.

Let's cut to the chase:
Hair needed to be
one of my priorities. 

But growing up, I always sort of felt like my dad’s hybrid son. I mean, I was wearing my mom’s makeup and dressing up in her high heels and gowns, but I was quick to scuff those shoes and tear that dress as I made my way out to the driveway to the basketball hoop where I could practice being the next WNBA star.

Or, you know, not lose every single game of HORSE.

I mean, let’s get real. My dad lives firmly within reality and noticed quickly that my air balls and concern over what my hair looked like meant that, just perhaps, professional athletics were not in my future. 

Nonetheless, we’d spend hours out there talking, laughing, learning. And then I’d go out into the garage and watch him do various things with tools on the car. And then I’d watch him do various things with tools around the house. And then, one time, I got to watch him do various things with tools in the bathroom, which lead to me hearing the F word for the first time ever and confirming that, yes, there are moments in life where the only appropriate thing to do is scream profanities until someone takes the cabinet door off of your foot.

The lessons came in a variety of shapes and sizes.

But one thing I realized as I got older, was that my dad raised both my sister and me to be more than strong women. He raised us to never question whether being a woman was something that anyone would consider "less than." 

I never asked my dad if he wanted a son, and honestly, he is way too forthcoming with the truth for me to risk that answer. But there's a part of me that knows that it honestly never mattered to him. Because just as he could've been throwing the ball around with his son in the backyard, he threw the ball around in the backyard with me on countless summer nights.

Sidebar: One of those summer nights may or may not have ended with me, a split lip, a Band-Aid, and, I'm guessing, a couple of Tylenol. Also, if any of you question the validity of this story, just take a look at the scar above my lip next time we chat. I have pointed to it in an attempt to guilt my dad on any number of occasions which, in a shocking turn of events, has never worked. 

But I never thought that being a girl meant that I couldn’t compete alongside the boys, whether it be in sports or academics. Nor did I think that being a girl meant that I shouldn't have a voice, or that being a girl meant that I couldn’t be funny. And I never thought that being a girl meant that I couldn’t go to college and become anything I set my mind to. I mean, I think it became clear from a pretty early age that neither my sister nor I were to follow in my dad’s footsteps to West Point. But that had nothing to do with our chromosomes and everything to do with the fact that I saw West Point as a place I wanted to visit to check out the cute guys in uniform and my sister often fought against conformity.

Eh, you can’t win ‘em all, dad.

But I think this is one of the greatest lessons my dad could’ve taught me, and he taught it by example. Because I knew that I could go out and run track, play basketball, and get dirty, then come back to the house, curl up into a ball of emotions and pain, and ask my dad to go out on an emergency tampon run.

Dad: “The ones in the pink box, right?”

He accepted that mission every time.

However, it’s not as if my dad was out there burning bras or teaching us about Gloria Steinem. If anything, I think he was a pretty traditional guy when it came to a lot of things. But that’s what makes him one of my greatest role models, alongside my mom. He didn’t have to tell me that being a girl was something to be proud of, or that I was equal to the boys and could aspire to do and be anything that I wanted. He simply showed me all that was possible. 

And to this day, he's the one I call to talk to about baseball, basketball, books, movies, my career, and, of course, boys. (But don't worry, CB, he's annoyingly on your side.)

So while I know there are still moments that he must look at me and wonder how on earth I’m the spawn of him, I hope that he can also see that, without a doubt, I most certainly am.

It’s your birthday today, dad, so jump up and down (like I know you will), shout it from the rooftops, and know that I - alongside the whole blogosphere - am wishing you the happiest of days today.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!

I've been told I'm funny. By two people other than my parents.

So, my little blog got nominated as one of the Top 25 Humor Blogs by SkinnyScoop. Um, I had no idea until this morning, and the voting ends on February 28th - like, Thursday. What? 

First of all, I had no idea I was even in the running until this morning, when I noticed that a bunch of people were checking out the blog from this site. And I'm honored that one of you voted for me in the first place!

Um, so........what about the rest of you? Wanna vote for me? I mean, seriously, guys. As of right now, I have two votes. 

Wanna make it three?

Please go ahead and click here to vote for my blog! (and check out some of the other's - there are some seriously funny people out there!)

And then CB and I pulled sprinkles from our socks while I educated him on Disney princesses.

I’m not a kid person. Or, should I say, I’m not an every kid person. Meaning, most kids are like footballs to me. I totally know what a football is there for, and I can totally appreciate the skill involved with those who handle one for a living. But if you hand me a football, I’ll likely stare at it awkwardly for a few moments, wonder why someone just handed me a football, definitely hold it wrong, and then try to throw it to someone else who knows better.

Also, for the record, I’m almost positive I’ve never thrown a child. At least not without their consent.

So when I got multiple panic-texts from a friend on Saturday morning asking if I could run a four year old’s birthday party for her because she was on death’s door with the flu, I obviously said yes.

Or, I freaked, told CB there’s no way that I could do it, and then texted back “Of course I’ll help if you need me to.”

Sidebar: My mind’s ability to completely go against my gut is something that has frequently gotten me into trouble and often causes me to detangle myself from situations that I wouldn’t normally find myself in had I just listened to my gut in the first place.

Notice the look of mild panic on my
face while I contemplate whether or not
to throw the baby doll. It started at a young age.

Thanks a lot, mind.  

But let me back up. It’s not as if I dislike children. I mean, I certainly went through a healthy phase (called my twenties) where I knew for sure I didn’t want kids of my own. But as my friends and family started procreating and making kids that didn’t suck, I started to come around.  

Also, when I hold those little fresh-smelling babies in my arms, I have been known to stare at them for hours, wonder if I’m actually holding the meaning of life in my hands, and, like, sometimes forget that they’re not my actual child. But whatever. I eventually give the kid back and no charges are pressed and everything’s fine.

So I’m 100% on board with maybe feeling ready to someday have kids of my own. As long as they promise not to be super annoying when I’m trying to sleep OR go through any sort of challenging phase where I will immediately regret every sassy thing I ever said to my parents and then be forced to ground said child to their room until they’re 18.

But since this phase of potentially feeling closer to ready is also sometimes referred to by my doctors, journalists, friends, and strangers on the train as the “Do it now! Now! Have the baby now or you’ll never have kids and will regret it foreverrrrrrrrrr!!!” phase, I decided that saying yes to a four year olds birthday party was the exact right move to get my uterus more used to the idea of being aggressively angry at me for approximately 9 months sometime within the next 5 or so years.

Also, don’t panic CB. I’m slow to the finish line, there’s lots of time (just don’t read or listen to anyone who has an opinion that is the opposite of that.)

So, after looking at the sheer panic on my face and listening to me say “I can’t do this by myself” a conservative 172 times in the course of 3 minutes, CB decided that he should probably just come along with me so that I didn’t (a) ruin our friend’s business forever and (b) terrify small children and their parents with my complete lack of knowledge regarding what 4 year olds like.

Also, CB wins the award for Best Person on the Planet. Sorry, everyone else. You lose.

However, in a shocking twist of events, my first challenge occurred just as I walked through the front door, saw the mom and a kid that was small, and said “So, this must be the birthday girl!”

And then the mom looked at me quizzically and said “Um, no…this is her little sister. She’s one and a half.”

Whatever, I don’t know what a four year old is supposed to look like. I mean, it’s possible that my niece was four a few years ago, and some of my best friends currently have four year olds that I spend a decent amount of time with. But I saw a person who was small and standing in front of me, and so I played my odds.

Also, never send me to Vegas with your money.

Cut to: 30 minutes later when the actual four year olds started to swarm into view, all dressed as various Disney princesses, while CB immediately regretted ever loving me.

But, shockingly enough, this is where I was in my element. While I detest everything Disney has ever created, I’m surrounded by it with the previously mentioned four year olds, and so I totally know that the pale blue dress is Cinderella’s and the dark blue dress with yellow sleeves is Snow White’s and so I had this covered.

Princesses and being a girl is something I was intimately familiar with as a child and can totally relate to as an adult who thinks it’s a shame that there aren’t more sparkles on adult clothing.

And so, for the next hour and a half, we did everything from decorating cupcakes with sprinkles and M&M’s and decorating princess crowns with sparkle stickers, to running around on a sugar high until I decided it was time to break the piñata open and send them home with even more candy.

Hey, they’re not my kids. Deal with that crash later, parents. And you’re welcome.

So all in all, it went off without a hitch. Well, if you don’t count the time I thought a one year old was a four year old and the time I may or may not have looked at CB in the middle of the party to re-think our life goals by saying “I think a life of travel could be the way to go for us. Who needs kids?!” and he emphatically nodded his head in agreement.

However, even though we will have sprinkles stuck to the bottom of our socks for the rest of the year, and I napped on the floor of his apartment immediately upon getting home, I think those few hours of panicked partying with four year olds brought us even closer together. If for no other reason than the shared experience of pure terror, panic, exhaustion, and laughter that overcame us at one point or another (sometimes all at once) during the afternoon.

And really, when you sum it all up, isn’t that what parenting is about?

Happy Monday, everyone! 

Friday Funday Wrapup!

As promised, I'm bringing you a brand new Friday Funday Wrapup. So let’s get right to it, shall we?

***

Everyone has good days and bad days. But even after the kind of week this has been, I can take comfort in the fact that I am not a lady who is addicted to stinging myself with bees. And for that, I count myself among the lucky ones.

What the….

Yeah. This was totally the subject of “My Strange Addiction” this week and it’s f’ing insane, you guys. She stings herself more than 10 times a day because she thinks that it helps her arthritis. But riddle me this: aren’t you sort of just trading one pain for another while also being completely insane?

I mean, it’s sort of like when you have a headache and you decide that chocolate will help, and so you eat a piece of chocolate, but then you still have a headache, and so then you drink some coffee for the caffeine and then your stomach starts to hurt because you not only just ate chocolate and coffee for lunch, but you totally still have a headache that’s now making you nauseas…or was it the chocolate and caffeine?

See my point? Also, that totally never happens to me.

But what was even weirder than, you know, having a ton of bees sting her on a daily basis, was that now it’s apparently some sort of aphrodisiac that she and her husband swear by. Also, she plays to the flute to them.

And no, sadly, I did not make any of that up, which should terrify all of us.

Anyway, these are the things I’ve experienced this week while trying to unwind. I’m a good time.

***

So are you guys ready for the Oscar’s? CB and I have been trying to make our way through some of the nominees, as you may remember from my recent post about Argo. Still the best date of CB’s life.  

And so far we’ve seen "Argo," "Zero Dark Thirty," and "Flight." 

Also, wtf, "Flight"? You wigged me out.

Anyway, who do you think is going to win on Sunday? If you need a re-cap of the nominees, this should help.

***

This week’s book review is Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan. I haven’t read it, yet, but my dad (obviously) did and it actually sounds like something I might be picking up. So, check it out here for yourself – and enjoy!

***

Dancing to "Rosalita." Summer 2011.

And now, the Video of the Week. 

It’s been quite a week for CB and his family, but all of your comments, emails, thoughts, prayers, and anything else good you’ve sent our way has been so appreciated. Thank you! My readers are the best. And I promise to be back next week with brand new posts. 

I know, right? You can barely contain your excitement. 

Anyway, in the meantime.....this is for you, DK.  

  

Phoning it in? Never! But maybe a little.

Thanks for all of the well wishes you've sent via email, posts, Twitter, Facebook, and via the universe in general. You all rock. You know it. This is why we work.

But since I don't want to leave you without the wisdom you so obviously come to this blog for on a weekly basis, here's a post from last year that seemed to strike a chord with several of you. Probably because I so obviously have parenting NAILED. My future kids are so lucky.

I'll be doing a full on NEW Friday Funday Wrapup tomorrow, so stay tuned! And thanks, again!

***

So today I was walking behind some moms and their kids, though I have no idea how old these kids were. Let’s just say that they were old enough to walk on their own and young enough that they’re still being supervised by parents. As we’ve firmly established, I struggle knowing how old kids are until they’re about 25.  Anyway, as I was de-tangling my headphones, I started listening to the conversation between the mothers about all things parenting. Usually this is just like white noise to me because, well, I don’t have kids and so it’s pretty boring to listen to unless you do. And maybe even then? Not sure, just guessing.   

Anyway, one of the moms was talking about the organic milk she just found at some store in the city. The other mom then talked about some article she read about the various types of organic food you should be feeding your children and how she won’t shop at the grocery store anymore because she can’t imagine putting that stuff into her kids.

Question: if you don’t go to the grocery store, where do you get your food? The organic farm on your fire escape? I was intrigued. Also, if by “that stuff” she means Oreos, then I consider that child abuse and those kids should immediately be removed from her house and sent to mine until they start to crash from the sugar I give them, at which time I will then promptly send them back.

Meanwhile, their kids may as well have been wrapped in bubble wrap. (sidebar: if/when I have kids, they for SURE will be wrapped in bubble wrap, but that’s merely because they will be the spawn of me and, to be fair, I really should have bubble wrap on at all times to protect myself and others. ) Anyway, the one boy who looked between the ages of 5-15 was wearing a helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and a vest. The vest had some sort of reflector on it. It was daytime.

The other kid, roughly the same age-range, was wearing all the same stuff except the reflector vest, but wasn’t riding a bike. Or walking along side one. I’m guessing they were sharing? No idea. But boy was he prepared for any kind of trip or fall!

And that got me to thinking: kids today, fresh with the challenges of youth and all things digital, are maybe missing out. Why? Because they totally don’t know what’s coming to ‘em. And what better way to parent than to completely terrify your kids about the realities of the cold, cruel world and let them fall off their bikes and scrape their elbows once in a while?

I should totally write a parenting blog.

So, since I have a really exciting commute, I compiled a list of a few things from my childhood that my niece and all future Becky Kids won’t have the pleasure of experiencing.

Let’s proceed:

Not winning all the time.

When I was a kid, I lost at a lot of things, especially anything math related. And it was all good. Know why? Because when I actually won something or excelled at something, it felt great. But nowadays it seems that everyone wins a trophy! Uh, not to brag or anything, but I totally won a trophy in the form of a piano glass when I was in elementary school because I had the best costume during our piano recital. I was Holly Hobby - obviously -  and that glass is still somewhere at my parent’s house and I still remember how awesome that felt because that outfit was killer.

Be jealous. 

But I digress. The problem, in my opinion, with everyone winning a trophy is that, while I think healthy self-esteem and encouraging kids to find their true selves or whatever is really important, I think it’s also really important to know that when you walk into work on your first day, fresh out of college, you don’t get a raise for knowing how to turn on your computer. Unless my job would like to start rewarding me for doing such a thing, in which case I take back #1 and parents today are totally doing it right.

Falling down and feeling it.

Maybe this is mean and perhaps the reason why the universe has kept kids away from me up until this point, but I think maybe it’s ok sometimes to fall off your bike. Ok, I’ll give you the helmet thing; closed head injuries are bad all around, and boy should I know. But c’mon, it’s called a calculated risk, people! It’s a bike, it’s not motorized, your kid needs to learn some balance already and nothing teaches a kid balance like a few scrapes and bruises.

Future Mother of the Year? Obviously.

And if you’re really intent on getting some sort of lesson out of bike riding that they can take with them that they won’t use against you when they’re in therapy later in life, you can make up some Oprah-esque thing about how riding a bike is like a metaphor for life, and throw in something about balance and learning how to pick yourself up and dust yourself off. OR you could just tell them that sometimes you fall off bikes and sometimes it hurts and that’s what Band-aids are for. Whichever approach works best for you. 

The art of the written word.

Alright, so I’m about to blow some minds up in here, but do you know that kids today (yep, that just came out of my mouth) don’t learn how to write in cursive!!!?? What?? How is that possible???? It boggles the mind. But I think what might be even more disturbing is that they aren’t learning how to communicate like human adults. Or really humans, period. And I’m worried for their future! Because if they don’t know how to even send a proper email, complete with proper punctuation and words spelled out in their entirety, I shudder to think about future work transactions and our ability to survive as a nation.

Also, I realize that I am officially a 344 years old AND an alarmist. But I own those titles proudly, so let’s move on. 

Patience.

I will admit that I struggle with this and I grew up in the 80s, long before bike helmets and organic Oreos, so perhaps we could all learn from this one. But remember the days when you had to wait for a show to be on at, like, the time it just came on the tv? No Tivo, no On Demand. If you missed the Cosby Show you had to put up with everyone else talking about it the next day who didn’t forget that yesterday was Thursday.

If you wanted to listen to music and remembered that one of your favorite songs was track 5, you had to fast forward, rewind, or flip over the tape to do so. And you listened to entire albums, usually out of sheer laziness, but hey, it worked for us. Also, it’s the reason I can still recite every single lyric to every single song from the “Merry Merry Christmas” album by the New Kids on the Block. But whatever.

“We owe you one, tape players!” 

Oh! And you had to look stuff up in a book! I know, right? Again, I struggle with this one, too, since we all know my love for all things Google. But kids today (there it is again!) don’t even know what the Dewey Decimal System is! For shame. And I won’t even get into the days when we all had to wait a week for our film to get developed and ended up with 22 doubles of my mom’s left index finger and a picture of our family cat running in front of the one shot that came out not blurry.

And there you have it. An incomplete list of things that worry me about “kids today,” complete with non-anachronistic examples! Win/win. Also, highly important to all parents, I’m sure, and something that will likely turn the tables of parenting as we know it. Obviously. So if you have anything to add to the list, let me know!

Happy Hump Day! 

Not really blogging this week. Digging into the archives!

So some of you may have seen on the blog's Facebook page, but for those who didn't, CB's family is dealing with some pretty heavy stuff at the moment. So, the blogging is likely on hold for the next few days while I focus on not being ridiculous and just make sure I'm there for whatever is needed.

Whatever you believe, whatever faith you may have, please send some good thoughts/prayers/call-it-what-you-will their way. And thank you.

Also, stay tuned next week when I tell you how I sometimes think that my body defies science and then I'm proven wrong by science.

I know, right? You're hooked.

Anyway, never one to keep you without a post for too long, I'm digging into the archives. This seems to be among the most popular, so please revel in the fact that you're not me, but also be a little jealous that you didn't own that cat sweater at 12.

Enjoy! (and thanks for your positive thoughts this week).

***
THEY CALL ME THE RAIN MAN OF LOVE

Today I accidentally rested my hand on a strange man’s behind for about 7 minutes. In my defense, I didn’t know I was doing it and it was very comfortable. Also, there were a billion people on the train and I was using his behind accidentally so as not to fall over every time the train lurched.

Yes, I just said “behind.”

Anyway, when I finally realized what I’d been doing, I apologized, took it off, fell into him, and then put it back. We had an unspoken agreement that feeling him up was better than knocking him over. Whatever, there are worse ways to start your work day. And again, it was very comfortable!

But this is on the heels of a conversation I had with CB last night where I told him that he’s lucky to be with me now and not when I was first learning how to interact with the opposite sex. Because, for real, I don’t know how I didn’t get diagnosed with some social disorder as a pre-teen. And if you think I’m exaggerating, just know this: even my own sister called me The Rain Man of Love for about 3 years at one point. We have a very close bond and never point out each other’s flaws. 

Who wouldn’t want all of this goodness? 
It’s a mystery. 

Ok, it’s not so much that I’m awkward if (a) I know you really well or (b) we’ve already established that we totally dig each other. It’s just all the stuff that comes before that really seems to throw me off. Or did. I’m totally down with how it all works now, so don’t hate the player. Also, don’t ask CB if that last part is true because sometimes he lies.

For example: when I was 13 or 14, I had a crush on a guy who played the french horn. I know, right? Who didn’t. Anyway, he was one of those dangerous french horn types who totally had a leather jacket when he wasn’t playing Mozart and I’m pretty sure he smoked cigarettes, which was just about the height of rebellion to me at that age.  

So obviously I decided that he should love me back and devised a really genius, fool-proof plan. I’d just go to where he went to school – you know, casually like people do - hang out and wait for him to come outside and then woo him with all of my skilz.

Inexplicably, that didn’t work out so well. I know, it’s really shocking.

I enlisted the help of a friend, who honestly must’ve thought either (a) I was way more skilled in this department than I actually was or (b) she’d be in for a good laugh. Either way, she was totally on board with the pre-internet stalking days of “casually” waiting around for someone for an hour so that you could bump into them. And we had a whole plan: he’d come out, see me, obviously be struck by the rom-com nature of this happenstance meeting, strike up a really witty conversation about brass instruments, and then we’d fall in love and have babies after he stopped smoking.

What actually happened went a little something like this:

Only three minutes 'til Wapner
 so let’s just sing this out so I can get home. 

French horn guy walks outside, sees me, and starts walking towards me. Friend jumps up and down really subtly in excitement. I get that weird, queasy feeling of love or food poisoning. French horn player approaches and says hello.

All normal up until this point, yes? Yes. Then I start singing “Two Princes” by the Spin Doctors at him until he walks away really confused.

What? Yeah. That actually happened. I actually started singing a pop song at him instead of talking like a normal human person. And, hard as it is to believe, he wasn’t charmed.

I swear to all that is holy, to this day I still can’t figure out what the f I was thinking.

When I told CB this story last night he shook his head, didn’t look at all surprised, and said “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” And then he said a secret prayer of thanks to the Smoking French Horn player who totally missed out on all of this. He’s so lucky.

                                                           

I'll be back!

Happy Presidents Day! I'll be back and blogging on Wednesday, so in the meantime, go read some archives, why don't you?

See you soon! Happy Monday!

Friday Funday Wrapup!

I'm still full from a phenomenal dinner last night, the sun is shining, and there's a three day weekend ahead! It's time for the Friday Funday Wrapup! Let's get to it.

***

This week's book review is brought to you by my sister, who's choices haven't been highlighted here yet. It was actually a recommendation my dad suggested because, while I like a lot of different types of books, my sister and dad sometimes read stuff that my mom and I will pass on. And I think, at times, we miss out on some great ones - like the one I'm highlighting right here.

So, go check out this week's book by clicking here - and enjoy! And, as always, check out the site in general for some really great reads!

***

Some of you have already hopped right on board with the new Stories about My Underpants Facebook fan page - thank you! But if you're interested in staying up-to-date on all things blog-related, click here, "like" it, and BOOM. Informed.

***

This little boy is. The. BEST. I've watched this, like, 10 times in the last two days. Also, he's totally right - the "shprinklesh" are NOT, in fact, completely empty. Enjoy.

***


For those of you who don't have the pleasure of knowing CB in person, I want to preface what you're about to see.

CB, in a lot of ways, is the ying to my yang. While I tend to not know the meaning of "inside voice," CB will often sit there quietly, observing those around him, occasionally adding his two cents to a conversation in a nice, normal volume. He's not one to draw attention to himself or show off in any way, shape, or form.

Except for on the dance floor.

The legend of The Disco Chicken was one I'd heard about for quite some time during the years CB and I sat next to each other at work. And then it popped up again once we started dating. However, I didn't get to experience just what the DC was all about until about a year ago on New Year's Eve, when CB had consumed enough Budweiser and Jameson to bring out the funky side.

However, I've come to learn that alcohol doesn't have to be involved when the music is right and the funky mood strikes him. Though it helps.

To be clear, CB does not refer to his dancing as The Disco Chicken, and instead, this phrase was coined by our dear friend DK some years ago when she was overcome with the unstoppable urge to swoon when CB hit the dance floor.

And last week, complete with drag queens and boas, CB braved the elements and got out there to shake it.

You're welcome.

And thanks to MK for coming up with the idea to get him on film for the blog so our dear readers here could get a taste of what I get to experience every day. The quality isn't the best on either video because they were taken with iPhones and not, you know, professional video equipment. But I think you'll get the gist here, and I don't think you'll be sorry.

Also, this is especially for MK and NK this weekend in the hopes of bringing a few smiles to your faces.

So, without further ado, the Video(s) of the Week, brought to you by CB and The Disco Chicken.

Happy Valentine's Day! You gotta love the love.

Surprise! It's a Thursday post because I love love and want to bring a smile to your face on this Valentine's Day.

Spread the love, everyone!

***

This is how CB and I met. Obviously. 

***

This is both disturbing and amazing, all at the same time. 

***

And this had me laughing out loud. 

***

Happy Valentine's Day! See you tomorrow for the Friday Wrapup! 

On why the Bill of Rights isn't ever romantic and how Valentine's Day can get confusing quickly.

I love love. I also happen to love Valentine’s Day, which opens me up to ridicule every single year from beloved friends and family who totally don’t know how to get on board with celebrating every holiday to the max.

Courtney: I don’t understand why on earth you like this made-up holiday.
Me: I love love and I’m impervious to your judgment.

Me: It’s Valentine’s Day Week!
CB: Seriously? You’ve turned the one day into an entire week?
Me: Um yes. Have we met? This is how I roll. I love love.

  

However, I think maybe I’m doing love wrong? Because I just read an article where nearly every single “tip” about how to romance it up on Valentine’s Day left me realizing that either CB has gotten the tremendously short end of the stick, or people who write love tip articles have closed head injuries.

You be the judge.

1. Do things in a big way: Craig liked doing things in a big way. He was a dramatic and loud (though lovable) kind of guy. Mary, on the other hand, was proper and quiet (and just as lovable). Craig sometimes criticized Mary for not being expressive or outrageous enough. Until . . . one day when Craig returned home from a business trip and was greeted by Mary and two hundred forty-three members of the local high school marching band on their front lawn.

"I can help you bring in the noise,
the funk....and the sweet, sweet lovin'."

Ok, a couple points to be made here. One, I appreciate the writer drawing me in by giving names to this couple. Right away, I totally understand who Craig and Mary are, though I doubt she’s quite as lovable as he is. However, I’m unclear about just who would consider John Philip Sousa marches romantic. Nonetheless, I can appreciate the gesture that Mary is making here, and for that, she receives one point. 

However, if I came home to a two hundred and forty-three member marching band in CB’s studio apartment, a few things would happen: 1, I’d immediately begin worrying for CB’s safety and wonder where he was, since he would likely be crushed by the tuba player who was layered up on top of the trombonist because his apartment is approximately 400 square feet. 2, I’d wonder where CB met a high school marching band in his free time and would perhaps have to begin a conversation about hobbies.  Either way, romance lost, moment ruined.

Moving on.

2. Go through revolving doors together.

I basically just skipped right over this one because it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. But let’s play this one out, just for kicks.

First of all, shoving yourself into a revolving door with your partner isn’t romantic. It’s mildly terrifying and probably a fire hazard. Also, you’d be so busy giving each other footing orders on how to properly make it through this moment alive and without face planting into the glass, that you’d totally forget that you were supposed to be sharing a romantic moment altogether.

Uh, and don’t even try to give each other a peck or anything. That’s just asking for a Bridget Jones moment, and you’re probably not even getting to kiss Colin Firth. Not worth it.

3. Practice "Even-Day/Odd-Day" Romance: On even days it's your turn to be romantic, and on odd days it's your partner's turn.

Yeah, I’m just going to go ahead and say that this sounds way too close to a math story problem for me, and so I’d have to skip the love all around. Also, what if one of you was sick on your even/odd day? Does the other person take over romance duties? What if you’re too sick for romance? And then do you double-up? And then when do you decide who’s day it is after you’ve each done double-duty after you got over pneumonia?

It’s very complicated, gives me anxiety, and also sounds like something unsustainable – like dieting. Again, romance lost, no love for CB. 

4. Want to jazz up the presentation of a special meal? Buy a little hunk of dry ice from a local ice house. Put it in a bowl of water and place it on your serving tray. You'll create wondrous, billowing white clouds!

Oh sweet Lord, please don’t “jazz up” my food. I’m barely able to wait for us to both be served before diving in as it is because I’m like a bear who’s been hibernating all winter. Also, if there was weird, billow-y smoke coming from the serving tray I didn’t know we owned, I’d probably worry that it was on fire, run to get the fire extinguisher, and put out the fake romance fire. Thus, ruining the entire meal altogether. And, most likely, the romance. Because that foam-y extinguisher stuff is hard to get out of the carpet, and I hate a mess. 

Truth. 

5. Dress up for dinner at home. Tuxedo for him, evening gown for her.

This could work for CB if he wasn’t dating a Golden Girl. The first order of business when I walk through the door is to immediately take my clothes off, and not in a romantic, Victoria’s Secret-type way, either. I’m like “Ugh, I need my house pants, stat!” while CB sits there and counts all the ways he can’t believe he got so lucky.

Also, CB is bringing the perfect amount of romance on Thursday by taking me out to dinner, and so I made sure to really class up the moment by asking him if I had to wear a skirt, which then caused me anxiety over clothing options. So, let’s just go ahead and assume I don’t own an evening gown, m’kay?

6. Hire a pianist to play during a romantic dinner at home.

Please don’t do this. First of all, not only will you have to hire a pianist, but you’ll have to ask him to bring his own piano, and then it just gets weird for all parties involved.

Also, let’s think this through. While it might be quaint for a few minutes, it’d get weird REAL fast. I mean, not only is there a stranger playing music in your living room, but he’s sitting there while you try to have a romantic meal? I sort of picture it feeling similar to when someone has a guitar and takes it out to play for you, but then the song lasts a little too long and then you’re not sure how much longer you can hold an interested smile before giving them the subliminal message that it’s gotten weird in an uncomfortable way.

I mean, I’d be good for two or three short diddy’s TOPS, and then I’d be like “So no, for real, is this guy staying through dessert? Because I’d really like to put my house pants on sometime soon so I can let the pasta expand and get ready for the chocolate.” 

7. Learn calligraphy so you can create incredible love letters for him/her.

Case in point. 

Question: can anyone ever actually read calligraphy? I thought that this was just something we all thought was pretty, like Sofia Vergara, but didn't actually understand. Am I alone here? Because I can’t tell you the last time I understood anything written on the Bill of Rights. I mean, for as long as it took them to put that thing together, you’d think it’d be easier to read!  

Also, this would go hand-in-hand with the hobby conversation from Romance Item #1 above. If CB has enough time to learn calligraphy, perhaps he has enough time to think of something not lame to show his affection. 

8. Give her one Hershey's Kiss. Give her one thousand Hershey's Kisses. Remove all the little paper strips (that say "Kisses" on them) from a couple hundred Hershey's Kisses. Fill a little jewelry box with them. Wrap 'em up and present them to her. Write a clever certificate explaining that the little paper slips are coupons.

After throwing up a little in my mouth, I really thought this one through and realized that it might be the worst romance tip yet. First of all, giving someone one thousand Hersey’s Kisses pieces of paper is like the love equivalent of when people put those sparkle bombs in the party envelopes, and so when you open your mail, there’s, like, one billion pieces of glitter all over your rug.

Also, please don’t give me paper you ripped off of chocolate candy. Just give me the candy. Are you new here? 

9. Select a theme for the weekend based on a type of movie. (It could be a film genre, like westerns, science fiction or musicals; or it could be based on a favorite actor or character in a movie.) Rent three movies that match the theme and then: Rent costumes that match the theme! Exercise your creativity and sense of fun with a little fantasy!

Don’t do this. Also, if someone ever made me act out a science fiction or western, I’d probably break up with them over the mere fact that we clearly have no common interests.

However, I will admit that I played this one out in my head, just for laughs, to see if it’d actually work. 

For example, letting me watch “When Harry Met Sally” and then taking me to Washington Square Park while I wear long khaki shorts and a blue cardigan could be fun. And also not outside of my normal wardrobe.

However, it’d probably have to end there, because otherwise we’d just be walking all over New York City while CB says stuff like “Pecan piiiiiiiiiiiiie” and I’m really annoying when we order food. And then we’d both get tired of it after about 15 minutes, realize we were all the way in the city anyway, head over to Beth and Matt’s to hang out and play Cranium, and call it a day. Romance lost, moment ruined.

10. Buy an extra bag of Valentine Conversation Heart candies and save them for use six months later.

And then after you do that, call your dentist because you will break all of your teeth. For real. Have you eaten a candy heart on a normal day? Those things are challenging. Leave ‘em in a bag for 6 months and you better have the oral surgeon on speed dial.

I’m just saying.

***

So perhaps it’s just me, but I need to hazard a guess that I’m not the only one who thinks some time alone with someone you love and some dessert thrown in there for good measure is really all a person needs in life. No?

But you tell me. What are you all doing for the day that love calls home? 

Birthdays and boas and drag queens, oh my!

Do you ever have those moments in life where you feel like everything has come full circle and you stand in awe of your own life?

Yeah, me either, but this weekend I did have a “this is your life” moment as CB and I posed for pictures with a drag queen and watched one do the splits in a dress.

Also, if I had any moment in my life to do over, it would definitely be the one just as I was opening the bar doors to a sparkling pink, boa-filled lobby, complete with a photographer and a drag queen. Because the look on CB’s face when he realized that this, in fact, was the right address and we weren’t in the wrong place - just as the drag queen pulled us close for a photo op - was one I will never be a good enough writer to express properly.

But I digress.

As some of you know, when I moved to New York City nearly twelve years ago, Beth and I really had our lives together and knew exactly what we were doing. And in order to prove this to the world, we decided to introduce ourselves to the neighborhood by going out on the town like girls from Sex and the City.

So we put on our fanciest hooded sweatshirts and headed out on the town with $10 in hand and looks on our faces that said “Here we are world, we totally know what we’re doing!”

Picture this outfit minus any glam.
And covered in a hoodie without my hair
 looking fierce.

And then we got to the club, paid the cover, and realized we only had enough for one drink between us. Also, zipped-up red hooded sweatshirts had, apparently, just gone out of style minutes beforehand because nobody else was dressed like a poor college student from the Midwest.  

The mind reels.  

However, never being ones to let reality hold us back, we decided to kill it on the elevated dance floor, where they were playing house music we didn’t know and the entire state of New Jersey had come out to party in black sequins with an accompaniment of hair spray.  We blended quite well.

Or, we stayed for an hour and then decided to go home and watch taped episodes of “Felicity” for the rest of the night since we couldn’t afford cable.

Either way, though, it made for a memorable evening that we still laugh about to this day. I mean, we’re obviously totally sophisticated now and completely fit in with the fancy New York City party scene, so it’s just that much funnier.

Also, we’ve noticed that a really good way to fit in with that scene is by not taking part in it, and instead, playing Taboo on the couch with each other over a bottle of wine.

Anyway, this weekend, for the first time since zipping up our hoodies and leaving the bar with our pride, I went back to the scene of the shame, armed with CB and some experience. I’ve come a long way.

However, as soon as the flash went off and we had our new Christmas card photo taken, we headed downstairs to the party. And when I say “party”, I mean that this 30^th birthday bash was nicer than some weddings I’ve been to. Though, to be fair, I’ve never had the pleasure of hanging out with drag queens at a wedding, and for this, I’m ashamed.

And then it happened.

As the drag queens were putting on their performances – one to Lady Gaga and the other to a 90s music medley (it’s like they knew I’d be there!) – Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” came on and I swear to you I was THIS CLOSE to tossing myself onto the dance floor and into the drag queen's arms so that she’d spin me around a few times and I could ask her about her workout regimen.

For real, her legs were to die for. See video below for proof.

But forget the fact that she did the splits in a dress shorter than anything I own. And forget the fact that there are actual photos of me, jaw-dropped, watching this performance in awe of everything magical.

The fact of the matter was simple: here I was, twelve years later, hundreds of miles away from the home I left in a U-Haul with my goldfish and best friend, watching a drag queen dance to my go-to happy song, surrounded by friends I love, in nearly the exact same spot I’d fled from more than a decade ago because I didn’t fit in.

The only thing missing was Beth, who’s birthday was this same weekend yet was postponed until we could get something killer on the calendar. So of course I had to call her immediately and re-count every minute from the night before, because it just wasn’t right that she wasn’t there next to me to have this same moment.

Beth: It actually hurts my heart that you almost missed this party so that you could sit in my apartment and play Cranium after we put the kids to sleep.
Me: Um, that sounds amazing. I’d be there in a heartbeat.
Beth: I know you would. But seriously. Do people party like this? Where are we?
Me: I know, right? I don’t think we’re in Michigan anymore.
Beth: But ok. You have to tell me everything. Especially the parts about how you’re going to break it to CB that you now want to have drag queens at your wedding. Possibly as the officiants. Ok, go.

And so I did. And we laughed until we cried and it made the moment complete.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’ve changed all that much – I still don’t own the fancy shoes or hairspray – but this time, I knew it was exactly where I was supposed to be. I mean, CB, an open bar, and drag queens dancing to 90s music on the eve of Beth’s birthday?

Now we’ve arrived.

Happy Birthday, Beth! Nobody can beat us.

And happy birthday to Lisa  - you gave me memories for a lifetime! (and thanks for finally being 30! Took you long enough....)

Oh….and happy Monday, everyone! 

I stopped recording just before the splits and Whitney Houston. 

To be honest, I dropped my phone in awe. 

It's the Friday Funday Wrapup!

There's a Snowpocalypse outside, people are calling into work and snuggling into their sweats, and the weather people are all losing their minds. It must be Friday! Let's get right to it.

First order of business is a WELCOME to those visiting from the SITS Girls website today. My little blog here is lucky enough to get featured there today, and while it still sort of stuns me that complete strangers find anything I say even remotely interesting amusing, I'm definitely flattered. So thanks for the love! And of course, that love wouldn't be spreading (sounds dangerous) without the continued support of all of you who have been reading faithfully for a some time now.

Thank you!

***

The second order of business is a great big THANK YOU to the Guest Blogger from yesterday's post.

Um, first of all, quit making me look bad, GB. Just because you're witty and an excellent writer, all of a sudden people were all like "Wow, the blog really got taken up a notch, this is a classy joint now!" And I was all like "Um, he used the phrase 'atomic horse fart.'" And they were like "Yeah, but he did it with style."

And I couldn't help but agree.

So as I've said before, that door is always open for him to come on back for more male perspective on all things NOT involving my underpants. Because that would be weird and then this would be a very different blog.

Anyway, thanks to GB and to all of you who showed your support for yesterday's post. Best.

***

So by now I'm pretty sure you've all heard that the world may or may not be coming to an end via a giant pile of snow sometime later this weekend.

First order of business: relax, people. Second order of business: I do realize that I sometimes have a very casual attitude towards weather events that sometimes really do cause, like, a whole ton of problems. Which may or may not be the reason I ended up eating condensed soup out of a can with no electricity for four days back in October.

However, I refuse to get on board with naming every earthly occurrence that happens, Weather Channel. That's just plain ridiculous and I don't care who knows it.

Me: Are we seriously naming this thing "Nemo"?
CB: Yeah, they name all of the storms.
Me: I have several problems with that.
CB: I'm shocked.
Me: First of all, Nemo is a stupid name for a storm. Uh, Nemo was in ocean and this is snow, not water.
CB: Um, snow is water.
Me, pausing: Ok, fair point. But it's still a stupid name. Plus, I just think it's so weird that all of a sudden we're naming everything. Let's just stick with naming hurricanes and tropical storms.
CB: The weirdest things bother you.
Me: What do you mean?
CB: Like, you're totally laid back about almost everything, but then really random things that don't bother other people really get under your skin.
Me: Like how I hate Nicholas Cage?
CB: No, that makes sense.
Me: Or Val Kilmer?
CB: I don't mind Val Kilmer.....no, it's more just like why does it bother you so much if they name the snowstorm or not?
Me: Val Kilmer has a weird rat face and I can't watch him on screen.

Silence.

Me: Anyway, naming storms is stupid and pointless. Also, you may be right that random things really bother me.
CB: But it's easier as a point of reference. Like, instead of having to say "Remember the snow storm from 1978?" And then people are trying to remember that storm. But if there was a name, it'd be easier to reference.
Me: So what you're telling me is that if they had named the snow storm of 1978 "Bob", then people would be like "Oh yeah, Blizzard Bob was a beast, I totally remember that."? I don't buy it.
CB: I can't believe we're talking about this. They named a storm. It's not a big deal.
Me: I'll just let it bother me silently then.

But whatever, I stand by my annoyance and believe I cannot be alone on this one.

Also, all of these statements will be retracted and I will start naming my morning showers if I can get out of work early because of the snow.

***

Something tells me that I need to find this girl's love of trains so that my commute is WAY more exciting each day.

Love.

***

For the book review of the week, it's sort of a gimme, but I don't care. If you need a good laugh this weekend, pick up Bosspants by Tina Fey. I'm serious, you guys. I don't even watch 30 Rock (and no need to write in to tell me how crazy it is that I've never seen it, I've heard that for years), nor do I find most of anything on SNL funny these days. But this book had me crying from laughter more than once.

I dare you not to laugh. BOOM. Challenge.

Enjoy! And if that's not for you, check out the other book reviews here.

***


And now onto the Video of the Week. I do want to point out here that I actually possess a pretty healthy and admirable appreciation for music. However, I also possess a pretty healthy and admirable appreciation for terrible music, and that is what has consumed my soul most of this week.

Why?

Because I discovered the beauty of the Tiffany playlist on Pandora. This playlist is genius. It mixes the healthy cheese of all things Tiffany pop songs from the 1980s with unforgetable-yet-you-totally-forgot-about-them songs that you used to roller skate to on the weekends. Paula Abdul? Check. Debbie Gibson? Check. NKOTB? Check. Air Supply? I mean, I could go on and on, but then you guys would just be way too jealous that I found this before you and I'm not here to rub it in your face.

Anyway, the cheese has taken me over. I apologize. And you're welcome.

Happy Friday, everyone! Stay warm/dry/safe!

And then the blog got taken over by a boy.

PRODUCTION NOTE: This blog is meant to include photos. However, Blogger has decided that it doesn't like it when someone else takes over this space and is refusing to upload any photos. No joke. SO, while I hope to have that fixed later today, I don't want it to hold up the blogging.

Anyway, as promised, today I have given over all of my blogging power to a guest blogger. And, untrue to form, I didn’t even get all control-y about it! Also, it helped that it didn’t need my hands involved at all because I think he pretty much killed it.

So, without further ado, I give my blog over (for just one day, don’t get any grand ideas, people!)……

***

Becky calls this “guest blogging.”  Let’s call a spade a spade.  I am an interloper.  No question about it.  I just ask that you bear with me while I explain why exactly I’m taking up precious space on this blog with the following pile of nonsense that doesn’t involve - in any way - Becky’s underpants.

I am a surviving member of the group of insanely good looking people who accompanied Becky to the birthday extravaganza at Soul Cycle that was the subject of Becky’s Monday post.  I realized as I read that post that something was missing. 

Not content.  Obviously present and accounted for.

Not style.  That goes without saying in these parts.

Just…perspective. 

I'm not just an interloper,
I'm also an incredibly
fashionable dresser. 

I, the interloper, am a male member of the group, and more importantly, the unidentified friend on the bike next to Becky.  I, as you may recall, am the one who may or may not have been kicked (I was kicked) as Becky gracefully dismounted.  Short answer – I’m qualified because I was there, up close and personal.  Right next to your beloved blog host.

While Becky knocked that entry out of the park, what it was missing was a male perspective.  Not her fault.  She doesn’t have the plumbing for that, which is no fault of her own and surely a great relief to CB.  Nevertheless, she is unable to provide the perspective of someone who, up until that trip, operated under the mistaken impression that “spinning” was somehow similar to “knitting.” 

In preparation for our trip I did some research which uncovered the following information.  Consider this the gospel by Google.  

Soul Cycle is in fact the pinnacle of physical activity.  To hear it from Soul Cycle hardcores, it’s kind of like riding a stationary bike if Tony Little, Jack LaLanne and the dalai lama were also on that bike.  Google searches for reviews produce returns that include words like “inspiring,” “enlightening,” “amped,” “zen,” “deep burn,” and “life changing.”  All well and good, but you’ve set the bar pretty damn high my friends. 

Here’s what it’s really like. 

First, co-ed locker room.  Becky covered this.  No reason to beat an extremely awkward dead horse.  It was surprising.  Not nearly as surprising was the fact that I managed to keep my pants on in a room full of strangers, which I can only assume is the reason that I don’t have enough stories to maintain an entire blog named after my underwear.  Also, everyone else managed to pull that off as well.  Except Becky.

Second, Jake Gyllenhal.  I can’t personally attest to the fact that he was there.  I kind of only caught a view of his legs as he walked by, and my first impression was that the legs I saw looked a little bit like my mom’s.  From what I understand, however, it was Jake Gyllenhal.  Therefore, the first informative point I took away from my trip to Soul Cycle was that Jake Gyllenhal has legs like my 57 year old mom.  So far, an enlightening experience.

Now on to procedure. 

There’s only one “workout room,” and it houses (give or take) 60 stationary bikes.  Two issues here.  First, classes run back to back with little if any time to spare in between.  Second, part of the experience is sensory, so the only door to the only workout room stays closed through the entire class to keep exterior light out of the room.

This creates an interesting issue. 

I swear to you on my life that when that single door swings open at the end of a 45 minute workout for 60 people that produce sweat, grunts, and life-affirming revelations, the smell that comes out is like an atomic horse fart released without warning from the fiery depths of hell. 

The females in our group uniformly smelled opportunity and burnt calories. 

The only guy in our group who is from Missouri told me that it smelled like a horse fart.  I’m not stupid enough to question him.  The man is an expert. 

The scene inside – dark.  Like, really dark.  No electric lights that I can recall.  Just a few candles at the front of the room which I have to assume are symbolic of the deep burn I read so much about. 

The bikes are, for all intents and purposes, on top of each other, which makes this a trying experience for anyone like me.  I’m talking to all of you obsessive compulsive germaphobe readers out there who also have personal space and bodily fluid issues. 

I cannot stress this enough.  Dem bikes is close.  Fo’ real.  More on this later.

As for the workout, no arguments here. Soul Cycle is a hell of a workout.  High intensity, full body, interval, blah blah blah, everything else that showed up on the cover of Men’s Health this month.  And last month.  It’s a bear.  No two ways about it.

But for those of you who have never been to a workout class with an instructor, here is the basic outline.  Someone who is younger than you and in better shape than you - and who is being paid to attend at whatever ungodly hour it is that you dragged your sorry butt into the gym - unleashes a tirade of unrealistic physical demands at you through a Britney Spears headset mic, broken up only occasionally by a mindless motivational platitude about finding your happy place or some crap to that effect, while bouncing about fueled by what I can only imagine is a potent mix of amphetamines, Red Bull, and spirit.

In this respect, Soul Cycle does not fail.  Halfway through the class, all 60 of us mindless drones would have gotten off our fancy little fake bikes and plowed head first through a brick wall for that instructor without so much as batting an eye. 

Such is the power of Soul Cycle.

That’s the good. 

Here’s the bad.

The arrangement of bikes and friends was such that Becky was at my left elbow, a male friend, JK, was on my right elbow, my friend MK had his face virtually in my plumber’s crack, and my face was virtually in MKs wife’s plumber’s crack. 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MK’S WIFE!  So happy I could join in the celebration.

I’m pretty sure Becky and I exchanged enough elbow sweat that I should probably get tested for whatever it is that I’ve heard CB has.  I was close enough to JK on my right that I swear I could hear his thoughts. 

As for me, MK, the birthday girl, and our unholy chain of butts and faces, I maintain the position that jokes regarding butts and their proximity to faces are softballs.  I’m not lowering myself to that level, even for a guest appearance. 

But let there be no question - faces were close to asses.

The girls had no issue with this.  Just communally working out the toxins.  Rocking in alarmingly precise unison to the bone-jarring beat.  Benefitting from each other’s energy.  Feeling each other’s drive.  Through the females, I was able to see what Soul Cycle is all about.

A quick view of the guys in our group produced a different impression.  In fact, I dry heaved.  No joke.  I was absolutely disgusted.  The girls were feeding off of each other, moving in rhythm and genuinely helping one another max out their results.  In short, they were doing it the right way. 

The guys looked like a half a dozen monkeys trying to hump a football.  Out of sync.  Mouth breathing.  Dripping things from places that raised serious questions about what was going on in that room.  Present company included. 

Thank you, Soul Cycle, for the wall of mirrors.  Nice touch.

After 45 merciless minutes during which I lost eighty percent of my body weight in sweat, pulled a calf muscle, and got kicked by Becky harder than I can really describe in print, we were released back to the bizarro coed locker room to survey the damage. 

Women everywhere were talking about the next class they planned to attend.  What their favorite part was.  How they were frustrated with themselves that they didn’t “really press it during that last climb.”  No worries, there’s always tomorrow, maniacs.

Our group of guys?  We just stood out of the way and engaged in the kind of mindless conversation that we should patent before another bunch of guys steps up and starts doing the same thing.

TK:  It was hot in there.
Me: I hadn’t noticed.  CB, I thought you were wearing a gray shirt before.
CB [standing in a 3 inch deep puddle of his own sweat]:  I am.
Me:  Looks black to me.
TK:  It’s moisture wicking.
Me:  Define “wicking. “ Because it’s aggressively dripping from the bottom.  There’s not even a sweat mark.  He just looks like he showered with his shirt on.
CB:  Yeah.  It wicks sweat away from your body.
Me:  Something tells me this is not what the designer intended.
CB:  It’s moisture wicking.
Me: Yup. You mentioned that.

Final impression?  I get it.  It’s fun.  It’s different. It’s a hell of a workout.  More importantly, Soul Cycle diehards are a unique mix of incredibly fit people, masochists, and idiots.  Luckily for us, the birthday group had plenty to offer from each of those categories. 

Or at least enough to make it a damn good time. 

Happy Birthday DK.  Hope it was a good one.