Dear Stinky Man at the Gym

Editor's Note: This is a reprint of something I wrote a few months ago.

Dear Stinky Man at the Gym,

Hi! We've never formally met, but you'd probably know me as the bleary-eyed brunette on the elliptical machine in the mornings who yawns excessively (sorry about that--it's a side effect of my medication). Now, I understand that people aren't supposed to smell good at the gym--no pain, no gain, right? However, your odor is unique in that it is all-pervasive even before you begin to exercise.

It's not a typical body odor smell, either. I can't quite put my finger on it--maybe like a sea otter that has bathed in Aqua Velva? Or the love child of one of those discount perfume stores and the floor of a bus? Maybe you even have some weird medical condition. Whatever. The origin of your odor does not concern me.

Here's my issue: your unfailing proclivity, no matter how empty the cardio room may be, to hop on the machine right next to me. I know I'm being a wuss when I move to a machine across the room--hey, I try to be polite and wait at least a couple of minutes so that you don't pick up on the correlation between my leaving and the arrival of your all-consuming stench. Still, because I detest the treadmill and must flee the row of elliptical machines like a right-wing Conservative flees reason, I end up on the stationary bike, which is not a great calorie burner.

Thus, I must come to the conclusion that you, Mr. Stinky Man at the Gym, are the root cause of my recent weight gain. I'm going to have to ask you to make some changes. Of course, I am not a dictator! You naturally will have several options, put forth by me, in containing your malodorousness:

1. Stop coming to the gym for your exercise. How about an outdoor activity? Perhaps a sport that requires you to be out in a large body of water all by your lonesome?

2. Replace the cologne you hose yourself down with in the morning with Febreze.

3. Devise some sort of self-containment system--something akin to wearing one of those hamster balls to the gym. I recommend watching The Boy in the Bubble for inspiration.

And finally:

4. Soap: It's Not Just for the Ladies.

I do hope you understand that your cooperation is necessary for my continued health and fitness. I wish you only the best (as long as you keep your distance from me). I'm sure that somewhere out there is a colony of olfactory-challenged villagers who would be glad to welcome you into their fold.

But still: Soap. Seriously.

I've been around... Well, all right, I might not've been around, but I've been... nearby.

Sometimes when I get bored, I make up scenarios in my head. Like, "What if I'd been born in a third world country," or "What if my dog could talk," or "What if my feet weren't so huge." Does anyone else do this?

Lately one that's been roaming around my head is, "What if I was single—where would I meet people to date?" (And Jeremy, to be clear—I don't want to be single!) Because I look around, and there's not much out there that I run into in my day-to-day life. I spend a great deal of time commuting, which is, first of all, a weird way to meet people. Second of all, there are probably two single men under the age of 40 that ride the VRE. And thirdly, I'd have to abandon my much-beloved "Quiet Car" for a regular car, thus subjecting myself to numerous loud and inane cell phone conversations. All this assuming that I would actually go up and speak to a stranger (which, as those of you who know me know, would really never happen).

Then there's walking the dog. It is a great way to meet people who already have a dog (something in common!). But assuming my fictional single self would be living the same place my happily married (see, Jeremy?) self is living, I'd meet mostly stay-at-home moms and single women with little girly dogs. It is a plus that I have a friendly, non-girly, able-to-roughhouse dog that I imagine would appeal to a lot of guys. On the downside, about 50% of the time I'm out walking Tilly, I'm also holding a bag of poop. Which may appeal to some guys...but not guys my lovely fictional self would want to meet!

Then there's church. Sadly, it seems that most churches that have active singles groups are also the huge mega-churches that tend to be on the conservative side (I could throw in a snide comment about how it's hard to attract a mate around here when you're slightly to the right of Attila the Hun, but I wouldn't do that).

Work? Fraught with difficulties, of course: policies about fraternization, the whole "what if we break up but I still have to make his copies" thing...and, once again, assuming there's someone around that you'd actually want to date.

So, what's a fictional single girl to do? I guess she'd turn to the internet. I haven't been single since the eHarmonys and Match.coms of the world became mainstream, and I have to admit I'm incredibly curious what they'd come up with for me (I mean, fictional single me). I'm doubtful that they would put me and Jeremy together, although I have at least two friends who met their spouses this way. It's an unknown world to me, and always will be.

So the conclusion I've come to? Fictional Single Mary would be...the Cat Lady. Except with a dog. And bigger feet.

And I'll Never Have That Recipe Again

So I’m listening to Avril Lavigne in the shower this morning. And yes, I can hear you mocking. It's not that I like most of her stuff, it's that I knew it would be pointless to try and find a better option. There's the Jack Diamond Show, which best I can tell is a tiny room overflowing with interns whose sole job is to guffaw loudly at his "jokes." DC 101 always seems to be talking about someone's STD. The guy on 100.3 seems to get his material directly from People magazine, with the extra annoying benefit of ending each "news tidbit" with a long pause followed by a bad punch line. Ergo, Avril Lavigne.

Often I'll point out something about a song's lyrics, and Jeremy will say something like, "Oh, I never listen to the lyrics." Well, I do. Most are horribly predictable and silly. Some, however, are more inane than others. I give you:

When You're Gone

I always needed time on my own
I never thought I'd need you there when I cry
And the days feel like years when I'm alone
And the bed where you lie is made up on your side

*OK, uninteresting and cheesy. No surprise there.

When you walk away I count the steps that you take

*OCD much? Do you also make him flick the light switch a certain number of times when he leaves?

Do you see how much I need you right now

*Hello?? Are you listening to yourself? He just walked away. He can't see you.

[Chorus]
When you're gone
The pieces of my heart are missing you

*OK…have you somehow managed to extract your heart, cut it into pieces, and remain living? Did the pieces hold a vote on whether or not to miss him? Is a consensus needed, or just a majority?

When you're gone
The face I came to know is missing too

*Ew. Taken literally, unless this is some kind of Frankenstein's monster situation, this is really disturbing (actually, in both cases it is really disturbing).

When you're gone
The words I need to hear to always get me through the day and make it ok

*Uh…ever heard of a phone?

I miss you

*I think you've made that clear.

I've never felt this way before
Everything that I do reminds me of you
And the clothes you left, they lie on the floor
And they smell just like you, I love the things that you do

*OK, assuming the clothes remain where he left them (what a pig, BTW)…you can smell them from the floor? What does he do for a living—Zoologist? Garbage man? Manage a sulfur plant?

[Chorus]

We were made for each other

*More evidence for the Frankenstein theory.

Out here forever

*Out where? Do you live on a nature commune? House boat? Dude ranch?

I know we were, yeah
All I ever wanted was for you to know
Everything I'd do, I'd give my heart and soul

*All of your heart, or just a few pieces?

I can hardly breathe I need to feel you here with me, yeah

*You're doing a lot of screeching for someone who can "hardly breathe."

[Chorus]

***********************************************************************

Appalling, right? But sadly, still loads better than listening to Jack Diamond. Even more sadly, "When You're Gone" doesn't hold a candle to the inanity that is "Hey There Delilah." It rhymes "good" with…wait for it…"good." And yet, both songs made millions.

Perhaps I am in the wrong profession.

Stop, or my mom will shoot!

It's Phun with Photos! A random selection from my iPhone photo library:

If you look closely, you can see 5 microphones set up on stage. This is the New Kids on the Block concert. My friend La and I squealed throughout. It was awesome. However, none of them spotted me from a distance, pulled me up on stage, and asked for my hand. Didn't quite live up to the fantasies of 11-year-old Mary.

I stepped out of my car at the VRE one morning, and this is the sight that greeted me. How does this happen??

Earl! The toilet's broken!

Bring the truck around...we'll dump it at the train station! There's a lovely picnic bench there...it'll be real convenient for somebody.

As you can of course tell, here Jeremy and I are in front of Parliament in London. Jeremy is in the process of having his head sucked up by aliens. I am 3 hours into a crystal meth bender...okay, okay, no. It's a really bad attempt at an arms length portrait.

And finally:

My Tilly, rooting for her favorite team (or maybe watching squirrels on the deck while her favorite team plays). I'm sure she was at least listening to the play-by-play.

Well, Now I Just Feel Bad.

OK, well it turns out that the giant creepy pigeon was trying to build schools in Africa. So I am forthwith issuing a formal apology to Chris the Pigeon. Well done, old chap.

And now, a tribute:



Of course, every time I see Bert and Ernie lately, I think of Rod and Nicky from Avenue Q:



I guess it's a good thing I don't have kids, because after watching that musical I'd have a hard time not pointing out all the gay innuendo on Sesame Street.

How could we possibly hope to fight them?

I don't share Jen's loathing of birds, but even I found this rather disturbing:




That's a giant pigeon, standing on a platform in the middle of Trafalgar square, throwing something out to the crowd below.

Wanted: Unemployed ninny with no sense of pride. Must like crowds, heights, and tights. Should be able to fight off/run away from possible angry hoard of pigeons defending their territory. Master's degree preferred.