Subourbon Mom


Tips for “Manthers”
November 6, 2012, 2:46 am
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Hubby #1, in an effort to go back to being just plain Hubby, decided he could help me out by giving me a week off from writing. This was a great idea, because the Chipmunk Popsicle has gotten his revenge. I hit a deer with Hubby’s car and got rear-ended since posting that blog. The whiplash is just now starting to fade. Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up. The animal kingdom is a firm believer in Kharma.

So, Hubby went to a local bar (with the same friend who suggested covering the paralyzed chipmunk in peanut butter for a kitty snack) and took some notes on an actual attempt by a 50-ish guy to pick up a twenty-one-year-old girl. Peanut Butter’s Wife and I have since decided this was just an excuse for them to talk to 21-year-olds without seeming too creepy.

Tips for “Manthers” Trying to Pick up 21-Year-Olds:

1) Buy their drinks—seriously, Dude, that’s still the rule.
2) Don’t talk about your own 20-year-old kid.
3) Worse, don’t call your 20-year-old kid and have them talk to each other. It’s not a play date.
4) Don’t take a call from your (ex?) wife.
5) Don’t beat her playing pool—let her win. Chivalry ain’t dead.
6) Pay for your own games of pool—a half-assed offer to get quarters from your car says “I’m cheap and still paying off my divorce lawyer.”
7) Don’t ask them where they go to school and act interested.
8) Don’t start dancing like you did 20 years ago—you may pull a hamstring, and The Sprinkler was never cool.
9) Tuck in your t-shirt to avoid your beer gut sagging from underneath. And that soul patch/goatee and earring aren’t fooling anybody. Billy Ray Cyrus couldn’t pull it off either.
10) When the 21-year-old boyfriend shows up, call it a night!



Garlic Man and The Sprinkler
September 18, 2012, 8:11 pm
Filed under: Exercise | Tags: , , , , ,

Everyone knows that going to the gym will make you happier, healthier and less stressed. Everyone also knows that when you go to the gym there’s a certain amount of grossness you have to put up with. And because gyms are so full of random body fluids, they’re a great way to build up your immune system. I know that when I go, I most likely haven’t showered yet, and I was probably melting in a soccer-mom chair the day before watching Daughter #1 elbow, trip and push other girls for 90 minutes, or I was at a barn with Daughter #2 getting horse sweat all over me. So God only knows what comes off of me as I hit high gear on the elliptical (a.k.a. the “I-limp-and-drool machine”). But nothing at the gym can compete with Garlic Man and The Sprinkler.

Garlic Man is there everyday for at least an hour. He wears Middle-Age-Man’s uniform: too-long shorts with the wife-beater-that-looks-professional-so-it-must-be-workout attire-shirt. The wife-beater shows off arms that look like duck pin balls have been stuffed under his skin. Out of the too-long shorts poke hairy little toothpicks. His legs have been ignore, I assume, because the gym mirrors only go to knee-height. With skinny chicken-legs and a massive upper body, Garlic Man resembles Sponge Bob, minus the tie and the irritating laugh that goes straight through your spinal cord.

But the worst aspect of Garlic Man, as you can guess, is that he REEKS. No matter when I go, he is there, and he always manages to get on the I-limp-and-drool next to me. Ten minutes later, I am annoyed. The acrid smell of recycled garlic wafts across the eighteen inches of space separating us. After twenty minutes, Garlic Man has a miasma of funk surrounding him. My eyes water, my nose involuntarily wrinkles up, and I do a double check just to make sure it’s not me. Eventually, I am forced to hold my breath and retreat, leaving numerous casualties behind flailing at the arm-thingies on their I-limp-and-drools as they gasp for air.

Second only to Garlic Man is The Sprinkler. He looks innocuous enough: a mid-fifties, Flashdance-headband-wearing guy who probably works a lot from home. I give him that polite elevator smile as he climbs onto the machine beside me, then tune him out. At first I try to convince myself it’s someone using the disinfectant spray (and by the way, no one in the world is going to convince me that leaving ionized water on sweat-soaked hand thingies for 10 seconds is going to disinfect them!), but a quick glance shows no one is wiping anything down.

That can only mean one thing: The Sprinkler is beside me.

I look over and see sweat droplets pop off of his body, landing on my arms, the floor, his equipment, and the people in surrounding counties. If we could make all The Sprinklers from all the local gyms exercise in Lake Chesdin each summer, there would no longer be pontoon boats mired in the droughty mud–just a new brackish ecosystem.

Gagging, I leap from the I-limp-and-drool, hastily spray the useless disinfectant all over myself and the machine and huff over to the mats. I add my nastiness to several other layers of sweat and fluid that only a 10th of the population ever bothers to wipe off. The same for the arm and leg machines. After the last set of reps (that’s gym-speak for doing a few, getting tired and pretending you meant to stop for a minute “to rest your muscles”), I grab my keys and stalk out the door.

The endorphins have kicked in, and I am definitely happier, less stressed, and ready to face the world. Yep, nothing is healthier than going to the gym.




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