I Don't Understand Texas: Part 2

You may remember a few posts ago, where I briefly mentioned my disapproving feelings of the idiots who try to work out, but don't have a bone in their body that reflects their desire to do so. I don't have that many posts thus far, so it's not that hard to figure out which one it is. However, if you need more of a clue like Steve in Blues Clue's, look below.
/smartasswithclass/2014/01/resolutions-benefit-no-one-how-often-do.html

I'm a snob because when I say I'm going to work out, I in fact, work out. Right? I grab one of the million t-shirts I've acquired from 6th grade, throw on running shorts from TJ Maxx, a sports bra from Target, and hit the streets. I can say with pride, the nicest and most expensive thing I usually am wearing is my tennis shoes. Without them, it wouldn't be a fun experience. That's like showing up to a rodeo with a donkey. You need decent foot wear if you're pounding the pavement for miles (feel free to insert your own sexual joke here).

Everyone says they hate working out, and it has to be earth shattering news to hear that I'm also one of those people. WOAH, hold the phone. I'll admit I'm athletic, and played plenty of sports until college, however, that was me in a setting where I was "playing" so to speak. I wasn't sitting on an elliptical, or running on a rubber band the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger, and becoming irritated that I hadn't moved in over 20 minutes (technically speaking). You'll grow to understand my need for forward motion in everything. Playing all those sports with my friends was physical work, but it felt like fun to me. What I nice perk. Then college came, and I realized the fun was over. I had reached the point of no return, where I would have to start working out, in order to get my usual fill of physical exertion. Sex wasn't an option, since I was raised in the most polluted petrie dish with the highest STD rate in all of America. I'll pass on grass until the pastures are a bit greener. You think I'm kidding? Look it up, Douglas County, NE. Enjoy that fun read.

So onward and upward, I started running. Luckily, I met a girl in college who LOVED running and encouraged me to run a half-marathon with her my sophomore year. I did it, and it felt Amaze-Balls!!! Then, the inevitable happened and I HATED running immediately afterwards. I loathed it. I ran so much before the half-marathon, that I thought my feet would become nubs. So fast-forward to today, where I'm back to running again, for several reasons I won't go into. It's boring anyways. My like and dislike of running is something I'll never pin down. Sometimes I really look forward to it, and other days I force myself to do it, despite my lack of desire. Regardless of my feelings of running or working out, I still motivate myself to work as hard as I can, while I've got my running shoes on. Here's my point, I promise.

This idea that many women have about working out baffles me. It was pretty obvious in college, but since moving to Fort Worth, I'm noticing it on an extreme level. Working out isn't necessarily about getting hopped up on your endorphins and feeling FAB-TAB-ULOUS, rather, it's more about how you look while doing it (insert second sexual joke). HUH??? I don't get it???

Lululemon is all the rage in Texas for your workout attire needs. Did I mention it's $$$$$. If you're not dressed to impress in your bright colored half-zip sporty top, and black yoga pants to your calves, you're not looking the part. I encountered probably ten women, who fit the description of a robot and model for Lululemon, while running today. They were all moving at a glacial pace and in no particular hurry to exert much energy. While I on the other hand, was sweating buckets in a grey t-shirt and crummy running shorts, while these ladies sauntered by me in nothing less than the above description. I was given odd looks if you can believe it. OH MY, it's a girl who's actually running and not wearing the socially acceptable attire, let's all GASP!!

I saw two identical looking women, walking their babies in identical color coordinated strollers, wearing an identical outfit in different colors. Oh damn, I was hopping to say identical one more time, it was that amusing to me! They were clones from head to toe! My gag reflex about kicked in when I spotted them. They stopped, stared, and waited for me to pass, before they continued on their less than impressive walk around the block. Did I mention designer sunglasses are a must. I'm not hating on taking your infant on a sweet little walk around the block, but those ladies are asking for my ridicule, when they put off that much of an austere stench.

I thought I was plucked out of reality and thrown into the movie Pleasantville, where everyone acts the same. It could even be compared to a real life moment on Wisteria Lane. It was creepy as all get out, and made me realize, that all these housewives are drinking some spiked Kool-Aid! Fill my cup up pronto, I need the Jungle Juice!

Keeping up with the Joneses has a meaning far beyond my comprehension in Texas. It can't be taught to an outsider, that's for sure. If you don't follow the pack, they'll spit you up and feed you to their children. Ok, maybe I've finally reached the point of over-exaggeration.

I'll leave you with this final thought. Why go to all the effort to buy the clothes, put the clothes on (it's not easy to get your body into spandex hugging clothes, no matter your size), get yourself to a gym, walk out your front door, etc., if you're not going to workout???!!! What a waste of time, energy, and effort. Once the clothes are on me I'm working out, no if's and's or but's about it. My focus is to make myself feel like a grinning asshole as I jam to my tunes down Wisteria Lane, not to look chic to the neighborhood passerby's. That's reserved for the many runway shows of fashion week for the petite, and compact I get to strut for. In my dreams... I digress, by the end of my run I hope I'm a smelly, sweating, greasy, grimy, hot mess, that needs to be hosed-down to even walk into my front door. If I don't look or feel that way, then I'm doing something wrong.

I have one thing to be thankful for, and that is none of those women will ever approach me. My alien-like characteristics and foul smells keep them at bay. I can guarantee they'll keep starring and I'll keep grinning, as I bolt by them in one of my countless Husker t-shirts.

Transactions Have Become a Transgression

How long does it take for you to purchase something? Maybe ten minutes, if you factor waiting in line and bagging your items, then you're on your merry way. Sure, it doesn't take an exorbitant amount of time to wait in line to buy something, but I still think Americans are anxious when it comes to buying their groceries. Other cultures argue Americans are as impatient as an ADD toddler hopped up on sugar and caffeine. Did anyone else just picture Honey Boo Boo when she was about to perform for the toddler beauty pageant? We are a culture steeped in immediacy and having our every desires met, or exceeded at every corner. I'm not afraid to say I fit into this category of being an impatient person, however, I blame it all on my zodiac sign. I'm a leo, and if anything that could be our biggest flaw; zero patience. Ever.

You can call me out, and say I'm denying my upbringing in Generation Y, or not owning up to the fact that I am apart of the atmospheric culture, that depends upon immediacy at every turn. Here's why I blame my impatience on my leo-ness rather than my dependency on prompt customs.

I used to be that girl in high school and college who only paid in cash. I was taught from a young age to always carry the proper amount of "safety money", in case I was ever in a bind. I love the idea of cash. It's quick, dirty (think of all the strippers who have encountered your money), and to the point. You hand the cashier a 20 dollar bill, they give you change and a receipt back, and the transaction is done, fin, finished. There is no fuss and it's a straightforward way to pay. It was so easy to drop by the ATM in college. I would ride my bike or walk by at least one ATM a day. Prepare yourself, here comes my Boo Hoo moment, and my white girl problems. 

Since being out of college and driving everywhere, I'm not as conveniently close to an ATM at all times, so I started using my debit card on a more than familiar basis. It's a rarity for me to have cash on hand anymore. Sorry Papacito. I've grown to not use cash because I find it more of a hassle to drive 5 miles away to grab some money, when I only need to drive 2 miles to get a few groceries. It's for the sake of convenience and saving gas. I understand this sounds cavalier and ridiculous, however, I know most of you agree with me on this point. It just makes life a little easier and less expensive sometimes.

Here's where my impatience lies. It's not because I'm in a hurry to catch up on Mad Men, or because I'm late for my high priority southern blow out at the hair salon, or to put it more plainly, that I'm constantly in a hurry and moving faster than my feet. If that was the case, I would have been done with this argument paragraphs ago. I can't stand the bullshit that ensues while you pay with your debit card at most retail stores. Think about it. You swipe your card, then you enter your pin number, then they ask about your rewards card, immediately after, the cashier asks about signing up for a credit card or account with the company (you'll even get 20% off this purchase when you sign up), then they ask for an email address or your zip code, after that, they ask if you want cash back, then if you want to absolutely make the purchase, are you sure you want to make the purchase, let me ask one more time, is that your final answer? HOLY JESUS, YES, I WANT TO MAKE THE GOD DAMN PURCHASE! Sometimes they ask if I want a receipt, if I wiped my ass this morning and brushed my teeth, or did I make sure to wear clean underwear, or if I payed my last cable bill. 

Going through the motions of a debit card purchase, more likely than not, can be compared to an interrogation with the CIA. By the end of the transaction, I feel like the machine and the cashier know more about me, where I live, my life, and anything else they deem worthy about me, more than I do. I feel the need to shower afterwards. The machine sometimes turns into what I would imagine an overbearing mother would feel like. I was lucky and was raised by wolves, so I can only guess what that would be like.

I have become increasingly more aware of it and find Walgreens to be one of the worst perpetrators of them all. It's as though I fill out a questionnaire for an intense dating website every time I go in to make a purchase. My purchases there have become a weekly occurrence since I live a block away from one. Don't even get me started on renewing a prescription with them. If you can believe it, it's worse than just making a payment there. Just thinking about it makes me want to scream. AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!

I'd like to go back to the good ol' days where favors, bartering, trading, and maybe a shilling, was more acceptable than plastic. At least I'd talk to a person over a machine. I wouldn't feel emotionally violated by a plastic black box, that wants to degrade me for not giving a $2 donation to Make-A-Wish Foundation, EVERY TIME I go to the grocery store. Sorry Kiddos, I need to feed myself right now. I'll give back when I'm out of the ramen phase of my life.

Here's to wishing for a world which is less fascinated in trying to become my personal electronic best friend, on a very superficial basis, and just being happy for my continual support of your business. Your black machine at every counter does not make me feel cozy inside, it makes me feel ill to have to go through you, in order to leave the store. I want to dodge you faster than you can say dodgeball, but c'est la vie. 

However, I must thank the big box corporations of America. I'm going back to my old ways and leaving my debit card to collect dust. I'm strictly paying in pennies and $1 bills from now on. You're welcome, and enjoy the cheap strippers perfume that you'll have to smell as you handle my money. Suckers.

I Don't Understand Texas: Part 1

I recently moved to the south. More specifically Texas. I've been living in Fort Worth for exactly 6 months now and I'm still learning how to navigate this weird world they call the southern lifestyle. My origins date way back to the land of the corn and the beef, the Good Life, the foundation of oxygen (Arbor Day), and don't forget the Cornhuskers. If you haven't already guessed, I was born and raised on a farm in Nebraska with a horse and buggy. Yes, I'm Amish. Electricity is a new phenomenon to me!

The south operates by it's own rules, and Texas is no exception to the rule. This state definitely moves to its very own drum beat. I cry every Sunday when Chic-Fil-A is closed. Doesn't the CEO of Chick-Fil-A understand that that's when I need the peanut oiled chicken, and waffle fries to fulfill my hungover, lifeless body the most! Selfish.

Or how about, no one leaves their house on Sunday except for church. I could go streaking downtown on a Clydesdale while escorting the 101 Dalmatians, and no one would know. It is that desolate. I don't even think the police department patrols on a Sunday. The day comes and goes, with everyone acting as though Sunday doesn't even exist. Then suddenly, everyone's life resumes on Monday. For this reason Sunday turns into my Funday. That's when Project Mayhem happens... 

This is what really kills me the most; the weather. I had heard the horrific stories from my sister that Texan's were undeniably absurd, when it came to any sort of weather below 40 degrees. Folks, she's not lying. I'll break it down for you.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to a colder apartment than usual. I live in a garage apartment on the second floor. It's pretty drafty below my apartment since the garage is made up of foundation from the 1960's, and metal garage doors. I've noticed my apartment gets colder because of this, but it's Texas, so this is nothing to a northerner, such as myself. I was born in a blizzard! That's a lie, I was born in the center of the sun in July.

Anyways... I noticed outside my window a dusting of snow had appeared overnight. I got dressed and headed out the door soon after, and I was expecting the worst for my drive to work. It took me 30 minutes to drive 3 miles in a dusting of snow! It usually takes 10 minutes. I even received an email from the higher beings, letting me know that events were canceled later in the day, and there was a possibility I would not have to come into work the next day. I thought I was high. Where I come from you pray for this sort of thing to happen, but it never does. 

One inch of snow and the world shuts down! It's heaven for those of us who understand the white stuff (that's what she said!). For those who don't, than it's hell, or so I've been told. I think they're faking it. You Ferris Bueller wannabes!

I've worn my winter coat maybe a total of 5 times all winter and I see most wrapped up in FUR coats, scarfs, mittens, Ugg boots, and much more on a daily basis. I wish I was making this up. I actually won't be surprised to see someone in a plastic bubble, because they are that afraid down here of freezing temperatures. Remember that weird movie Bubble Boy?? What an extreme folly! And yet, you want to see it happen as much as I do.

That whole episode with Atlanta, GA shutting down and having their kids sleep in schools, is something to notice. 

I scuffed at it and a lot of Texans I know did as well. Hmmm..... the pot calling the kettle black, EH???
(I'm now Canadian)

I'll let that just sink in a bit. Has it sunk in yet. I'll wait a little longer...

I was in Colorado last week and they had snow piled up twice my body size. I'm as tall as a ten year old, so that's not saying much. However, no one even batted an eye-lash. Then I come home to the polar opposite. To say it's hilarious is an understatement! I've seen more precipitation in a dried up desert, than I've seen on the pavement here.

This was taken our first day in Colorado. It had snowed at least 48" in a matter of 48 hours. Nose goes to dig that car out!

Here's a picture of the remnants of our dusting/possibly an inch of snow.  So much precipitation! Shut the city down and call up the news stations. It's a snowfall for the record books!


I know this for sure, Texas and I don't see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. At least it's working to my benefit in the colder months.

Hair-Do or Hair-Don't

I may be noticing the conversation more and more because in my opinion it affects me, but truth be told, I find this constant discussion about girls with short hair absolutely ridiculous, and even more exhausting than watching Tom and Jerry reruns all day. Don't get me wrong, I love my fill of classic cartoons! Did I mention I'm watching it as we speak? However, this cat and mouse game online, in the fashion magazines, on blogs and probably the most traffic heavy totalfratmove, have me irritated beyond belief. I will say from the start that both parties involved in my rant are the extremes, but that doesn't make me any less annoyed by their vocal stupidity.

A very controversial (I only say this because of the rampant feminists that posted the webpage immediately upon seeing it on Facebook) blog post on totalfratmove appeared over the fall.

This sparked controversy with feminists, man-haters, and anyone who wanted to look for a pointless fight that women can and will do anything. Sorry boys you can't stop us. As you can probably guess, the website, written by a college boy somewhere in back east USA, claims that women lose their femininity when they cut their hair. Guys immediately find them less attractive, if at all, once the luscious locks are gone. Women will find it hard to marry or keep their man happy if they go rogue with a pixie cut. Here's my question for the masses. Why do I care? 

This is one guy's opinion and is writing for the generalization of the website's population. So it's curbed for the rest of WASP-y America. GIRLS, back off and take some xanax. In fact, I want some for myself after all of your bickering. If you have a problem with his comments, then I guarantee you won't be marrying him or ever dating someone who believes the same ideals. Actually I would like to see that. I would get a kick out of your relationship, especially when the argument about who takes the trash out becomes a stand-off, and ultimately ends in tragic warfare.

More recently, the polar opposite happened and another website posted about how short hair can be, and always will be, a political statement for women. I caught you with your pants down, didn't I? You couldn't have guessed that plot twist.

Cum again??? Freudian slip, come again???

So does this mean every time I dye my hair, put a headband on, put my hair in a ponytail, or otherwise change the overall look of myself or my hairdo, I'm therefore making a statement to the masses? This concept makes zero sense to me.

I choose to have short hair at the moment because I want to. Plain. Simple. Cut-dry explanation. I'm not making a statement to guys that I like vagina, that I bat for the other team, that I find midgets more attractive, that I secretly want to hook up with only people who resemble the androgynous kind, or the biggest statement of all, that I refuse to make you a sandwich in my pearls. NO. None of it. Who knew that hair could be such a topic of conversation? I have the right to choose my appearance, and if I like it, what difference does it make to the rest of the world.

My sister even gave me some flak because she fears it will never grow long again. I disagree. I have lioness hair and I don't fry the hell out of it. It looks baller without the help of modern day technology. Sorry Charlie, that argument was lost before it even began. Other's told me my long hair was my signature look. What? That's only because they knew me in college, I've had short hair plenty of other times in my life, they just weren't aware of it. I even got asked if I cried when I whacked off, Kill Bill style, my bodacious hair. YES, I pined and perished over my dead cut hair on the dirty floor of the hair salon. Absolutely not! Who are you people? It was a glorious day, and I couldn't have been happier to know I was literally 10 lbs lighter. No More Mane! I was going to growl at you like the MGM lion but I thought that would be a little excessive.

My second point. Femininity is something that I personally believe is something deep within a girl. She either possesses it or doesn't. Hair short or long, does not make you feminine. I bet you can name at least five girls in your lifetime (that's shooting pretty low too) who had long hair, and didn't possess the most girlish attributes or behavior. I like to think of the many girls who fit into this category. They try to dress up and wear high heels, but can't for the life of them understand how to walk or stand in them. It's really not that hard ladies, you just have to be aware of your body! 

High heels. That should be the only gauge for femininity. Sexist and old-fashion? Absolutely! But baby it works and it's the truth. I would know, I'm one of them. Oh wait, my application for a sex change was just accepted! 

I'll even play an interactive game with everyone. I'm posting a picture of me with long flowing locks that every guy dreams of, and a picture of me with butch, lesbionic hair. Do you agree with me? Did I loose my feminine qualities when I went for the scissors rather than the curling iron? I'm dying to know, and obviously want to perpetuate this notion until it becomes an epidemic among the two parties involved. Let the odds be ever in your favor! 

Look at those hair follicles! So Long. I just want to burrow in it and wear it as a coat in the winter.

Uh-Oh! That Bitch had the nerve to steal Miley Cyrus' hairdo. Sound the alarm!

Resolutions Benefit No One

How often do you hear success stories of people going cold turkey over the things they love most? How many smokers quit smoking and then go back to the habit after a month. Or how about the people who like to eat 6 Big Macs on a weekly basis and then decide that they will not touch one until they lose 20 lbs. Sometimes the will power to overcome your indiscretions outweighs your poor behavior, and you become a victor to your own weakness. BUT, more-likely than not, you cave faster than a soufflé made by an amateur, and you're back to where you started.

I despise the idea and sole notion of a new year resolution!

The advertising of weight-loss and dieting television adds sponsored by washed up celebrities is so overdone, that I'm begging for a hula hooping squirrel to make an appearance on the commercial instead. I'd actually watch that over someone telling me they lost 35 lbs, and all it took was a balanced diet and portion control made especially by yours truly, the company begging you to buy their product. Ladies and gentlemen, you can have your own balanced diet and portion control if you just read about it and maybe go to a produce section. It's easier than one may think, unless you're Pizza The Hut. Then and only then do you get a pass, because you're only allowed to eat yourself when things get bad. (If you don't understand that reference you shouldn't be reading this blog)

I choose to eat a cheeseburger because I'm human and like to be a sinner every now and then. I may throw the word "sinner" around a lot, and some may think I'm dramatic to use that word considering the circumstances, but Whataburger stole my soul and dignity long ago, which may have been sold to the devil. The jury is still out on that one. The point being, you have to be a little naughty, so to speak, in order to be nice. So here's my number one question.

Why would anyone choose to not be naughty every now and then??

The naughty and nice tug of war keeps me in balance, and hopefully a sane person. I should take a poll on that last statement. So what if I have some flaws, imperfections, and occasionally do something stupid? I'd rather be an imperfect hot mess and enjoy it all, rather than tip-toe around for the first few months of every year. What's the use, more likely than not you'll become an angry, unhappy bitch through it all. Maybe that explains Nancy Grace's behavior. In all honesty, only the lucky few maybe make it to March with their resolution.

This is a bold and not even close to being researched statement, but most everyone breaks their resolution by Valentines Day. My absolute favorite thing was going to the rec center right before Spring Break in college. Most girls that were there in the middle of March NEVER came to the rec before then (I would know, I'm actually Santa Claus watching over all of you. Haven't I been giving you good hints with all my naught/nice talk... think about it). So these idiots thought that one week of working out would "fix" their small beer bellies or tighten their butts. Who are you and what are you doing? You're drunk go home, and all of you should be fined for being such morons. Starting a resolution is not a fad such as these rec girls may treat it. it's suppose to resonate and be apart of your life for now and ever. Or maybe that's just how I view it.

If you care enough about your self being, you shouldn't have to set a resolution every 12 months in order to live by it. Live it, breathe it, swear by it, and then DO IT! Do it over and over again. I want it to feel like a broken record. Or better yet, it should be as if you're listening to Ben Stein's voice for the rest of your life, a constant, never-changing monotone sound. It's called a habit! Maybe some of you resolutioners should look the word up in a dictionary. I think I'm going to call it from now on A New Year Habit instead. What do you think? Catchy, right?

So here's my motto for everyone: SCREW RESOLUTIONS, THEY GET YOU NOWHERE.