playing footsie

I've been having some problems with my feetsies ever since I started running again, but I DREADED going to the podiatrist.

The last time I had gone was about five or so years ago, to this guy I used to call "the foot fetish doctor".

He earned his name due to the fact that he was a bit of a perv, and I always felt like he was fondling my feet, and I felt kinda dirty. You know. Sitting in a reclining chair, having an older man fondle my feet while telling me how attractive I am. That's sort of not what's supposed to happen when one goes to the podiatrist, right?

My physical therapist had warned me about this guy, and really, it was kind of funny. He wasn't inappropriate enough to report, and he was a good doctor, ultimately, so what harm was there--he wasn't gross looking either, which definitely made it easier to stomach.

I called his office the other day to make an appointment, but he was booked solid for a month. I don't have a month. I need a doctor NOW. My feetsies hurt! So I went back to the drawing board, and looked up a doctor near work who could see me immediately. THIS time, I chose a woman.

My new podiatrist is around my age, and very cute in a Tina Fey sort of way. I immediately developed a girl-crush on her. She, however, did not fondle my feet or hit on me. I might have been slightly disappointed.

At any rate, towards the end of the appointment she asked me who my old doctor was, and I told her.

Immediately, we both started gushing about what a nice man he is. What a good doctor he is. Then there was a pause.

We both simultaneously looked at each other and started blurting out story after story about this man. How when she was in podiatry school she was told to "watch out" for him, and that if he was in the darkroom developing xrays she shouldn't go in there alone.

She looked relieved when she was done "confessing" these little tidbits to me. We had a good laugh, and then she said "you probably shouldn't repeat what I just told you, huh."

I told her it was a girl-to-girl conversation that needed to be had, and not to worry, it would never be repeated.

Except for on this blog, of course!

I Have a Dream

There is nothing worse than waking up in the morning in a total panic.

It happens to me a lot--I start out every new day with a feeling of dread. It's a pretty awful way to enter into the world after a night of sleep. It doesn't matter if I've had an amazing night prior, or if I am about to do something really fun...the anxiety persists. Thankfully, I can shake it pretty quickly, once I'm awake and realize what's going on.

But lately, I've been having the most annoying dreams.

I don't recall what happens in them generally. There's usually some sort of embarrassing situation, or my boyfriend is being really mean to me in front of people {would never happen in real life} or my mother is annoying the fuck out of me {would totally happen in real life}. It's never anything life-changing but I inevitably wake up in the foulest of moods and need to spend a few minutes each morning doing yoga breaths. So ridiculous.

This morning, I had a dream that I was at a dinner party. The dessert was on the table, cupcakes that had been made by the host and I offered to frost them...since I took pastry classes once and know how to properly frost things {the pastry class thing is true, but I never actually mastered the art of frosting, and quite frankly, when I try to frost my own cupcakes it usually ends up looking like a 5-year old took a bunch of finger paints, mixed it with papier mache, and voila, frosted cupcakes.}

I prepared the cupcakes and laid them out on the table--and then the next door neighbor, a kind of douchey guy wearing glasses, walked in. He took one look at the cupcakes and started critiquing the job I had done, showing the entire dinner party how much better it could have been had I done it some other way, which he demonstrated.

"What, did you study at the Bayard School?" I joked. I guess, in my dream, the Bayard School would be a fancy pastry school or something...not quite sure...but it got a few laughs from the dinner guests...so then throughout the dream I became the dipshit who kept making the same joke over and over...like a really sad version of George Costanza.

Everything he said, I'd say "Oh, did you learn that at the Bayard School?" The laughter started to trickle, until it stopped completely. So then I tried another tactic. I changed it to "Oh, do you work at Tisserie?" {a pastry shop at Union Square}.

Then I realized I'd gone too far, and the conversation had moved on, and no one was listening to me anymore, and I was, indeed, the biggest fuckwad at the party.

I have GOT to stop eating pizza right before bed!

Athlete in progress

So if one were to be eavesdropping on my life of late, one would unknowingly assume that I could quite possibly be a quasi-serious athlete, what with the two bikes in my hallway, the amount of times I visit prospect park in a given week, and the wet bathing suits that are always hanging in my bathroom.

Sadly for me, it is all merely an illusion.

True, I am training for a triathlon. I do work out six days a week. I have paid silly amounts of money for gear, and classes, and coaching.

However, there is still a motherfucking couch potato lingering inside me, and too often that fucker strays way too close to the surface.

Tonight I was supposed to run six miles, or more. We had a brutal class on Saturday, and I was still hurting from it, and decided that I was too sore to run and that I should take another day off...which, decidely meant that I was allowed to purchase a box of Little Debbie snack cakes on my way home, and chomp on a few during the walk down park place.

I am so hot I can barely keep my hands off myself.

ANYWHO, the guilt began to cripple me before I even got to my front door. For shame, I ate snack cakes, AND I wasn't going to work out? You would think my mother was standing over me with a wooden paddle, ready to whoop my ass for not taking out the garbage, I was so guilt-ridden. I decided that, since I was trying to take it easy, I would take my road bike out for a quick couple of loops in the park. Nothing crazy.

I am borrowing a road bike from my tri coach, because the hybrid that I own weighs about 5 million pounds and is just not going to cut it during a race {as many of you have commented that you know nothing about this stuff, I will just say that a road bike is the one where the handlebars curl under, and you are leaning forward when you ride. A hybrid is a cross between a mountain bike and a road bike, and is much heavier and slower. But you ride upright, which is much more comfortable}.

I am just getting used to the road bike, and it IS wicked fast, but it is quite a feat to ride. My biggest problem at the moment is the seat...my hybrid has a cushy gel seat with a hole in the middle for my girly bits.The road bike is more bare-boned, and when, I ride it I need to douse my crotch with Vaseline so my clit doesn't fall off. TMI, I know...

I decided that I was going to switch seats, I mean, how hard could it be?

So there I sat, in my Anthropologie sundress, sweat streaking my face as I took apart one bike seat with my screwdriver set from Ikea, that I have never used before...and as I tried to remove the other seat from my hybrid, realized that the screwdriver was too big. I couldn't remove the gel seat from the hybrid. Fuck.

Ok ok. So no big deal, I'll just go and put the road bike back together and voila, I'm ready to ride. Except that there were like, 3 little metal pieces that didn't seem to fit together anymore, and everytime I screwed it back together something seemed loose. It took me half an hour to figure out how to get it all back in working order. By then, I had black shit all over my hands, and smudged down my cheek. I looked like I'd just come back from the mines.

I certainly didn't trust my own handiwork, so fuck it, now I have to take the hybrid out, and it's already 73O, so I doubt I'll get more than 3 loops in, if I'm lucky.

Of course, I'm cruising around, sitting upright, coasting down the hill, braking a lot, certainly not looking like I'm prepping for a tri. I look up, and I see one of my coaches, Shane, not far ahead of me. Fuckin' prospect park. You can't escape, there's always some coach or another hanging around, and they ALWAYS see you, especially when you're slacking. Last week, one of the other coaches, Danny, apparently saw me cruising around like I was on a senior citizen's vacation--at our next class he called me out on it and was like "yea, you weren't exactly kicking it, but your form looked good." aye.

so yea, now I gotta hide from shane, cuz I'm on my hybrid, and I'm going slower than a turtle in a rowboat.

I'm pretty sure I was able to evade him, but then I got yelled at by a perfect stranger.

It's always the same thing, "YOUR SEATS TOO LOW."

This dude happened to be on rollerblades. What the fuck dude? You're on ROLLERBLADES? And you think you know my seat's too low? {it is}. "thanks man.. I know." I responded. I know, because once a week, someone yells at me that my seat is too low, but I'm too much of a wuss to fix it, because I need my feet to touch the ground or I think I'm gonna fall.

"It's bad for your knees" he continued. Why oh why is everyone a friggin know it all?

For some reason unbeknownst to me, I decided to take his advice, this stranger on rollerblades who yelled at me.

I raised the seat.

I tried it out. Lo and behold, my bad knee stopped creaking. I felt like I was riding a different bike. Wow.

What I wanna know is, how do people KNOW these things???

Girls Have Needs

After a session of mind-blowing, extended-play sex {I've got some badass hickeys to prove it} {I know, I know, I'm not in friggin high school anymore!}, complete with happy endings for all, and then some, I lay spent on the couch.

"Do you want me to get you off again?" the boyfriend asked.

Now, as we women know, usually after the deed is done, it can sometimes be a challenge to get the boyfriend to "finish things off" for us, due to the fact that - hey- they already got their rocks off, and dude, they're TIRED!

And although the boyfriend is very, very good about making sure I'm always taken care of, he had already gone above and beyond the call of duty once that evening. So a second time was purely a bonus. A bonus that normally, I'd jump on like a frat boy with a drunk, passed out chick.

I paused.

"Eh. I kinda want some pizza."

Sometimes, a girl needs pizza a little more than she needs penis. You know?

Yucko Oko

I was reading Time Out on the train this morning, during the most of horrendous of commutes (serves me right for trying to get to work early, ie by 9 am...I am usually on a much later train, and didn't realize the amount of freaks, psychos and overall miserable people that ride the train so early in the morning...starting with the woman who insisted on carrying the giantest of bags and not holding it close to her in order to not smack people in the ass with it, and ending with the neurotic fuckwad who kept getting bumped with said bag, and turned around like a snippy little sparrow to glare at the Bag Woman with the evilest of eyes...it was quite laughable actually, except that it was also annoying, and in truth, it made me a little bit of a nutter until I could finally get off the subway and escape these clowns}.

ANYWAY...sorry, where was I? Oh yea, Time Out.

It's been a while since I've picked one up, I have a subscription but they end up in a pile next to the bed...I don't have time to read them, much less go out to all the hot new places they keep talking about. plus I pretty much refuse to go out in Manhattan anymore and if I do...I certainly will NOT be going to a place that is going to be knee deep in youngsters trying to be hip. Oh God.

This morning, my eye was caught. I read a little blurb about Oko, a new frozen yogurt joint that happened to be on Fifth Avenue in park slope. Since fro yo is the new crack, according to all the celebs who are photographed holding
pinkberry cups in US magazine, which you KNOW is the bible for all things cool and trendy...I thought it sounded kinda interesting and vowed to check it out next time I was nearby.

Which happened to be tonight. Since I happened to be dining at Cocotte, which happens to be up the street from Oko.

I skipped dessert at Cocotte, which looked deadly and divine, by the way, in favor of checking out the fro yo crack that was calling my name. I should have been warned by the description, "the thick greek variety of yogurt is used as the base for this frozen treat." But I was suckered in, by the fact that the store is "eco-friendly" and they have toppings such as "fresh mango and chocolate ganache".

I will give props to the actual venue, it was very cute, bright, and modern. The toppings were all luscious looking, but damn if I saw chocolate ganache...the serving size was ample, but they only have two flavors at a time...and I asked for the "regular", which is seriously the equivilent of eating Total Greek Yogurt right out of the carton, no flavor, sour as can be...thank GOD I asked for chocolate chips and dried apricot...remember back in the 8O's {most of you won't remember} when frozen yogurt first came to be, and it looked so damn good, all soft-serve and creamy, but you would take a bite and tears would come to your eyes because it was so SOUR? That is what I was experiencing as I walked down 5th Avenue with my new yogurt.

SO much for new, trendy, and crack-like.

If you have a sweet tooth, like me, stay away from Oko.

But if you enjoy your frozen desserts tasting like they came straight out of the cow's teat, sat around in a musty bucket for a while, and then a goat pissed in it, then by all means, check it out. You might just like it.**

**I do realize that Oko is targeted towards people with a much more sophisticated palate than I, and I will fully admit that I am a hillbilly when it comes to exotic desserts. Just hand me a pint of Ben and Jerrys and I'm orgasmic.

And You Thought My Other Blogs Were Bad

TMI ALERT-for those faint of heart or who don't want to know explicit details about my sex life, stay far away from this post.


For two people who are so incredibly compatible in the bedroom (as well as out}, my boyfriend and I have had our fair share of moments during sex that can only be described as, well, awkward, at best.

Our favorite moment, and the one the one that would least land someone in the hospital, would have to be the time that an unsuspecting Beehive, face between my legs, got a front row seat to what probably sounded like a symphony of tubas playing out of my butt.

"Whoa! Did you just fart?" a confused and amused Beehive came up for air.
"Uh. Eh. I don't know. I don't know." I stammered. I think I was hoping I could pass it off as a queef.

Why are queefs so much more acceptable anyway?

It was early enough in the relationship that I was pretty darn horrified at the entire thing, but Beehive thought it was hilarious, thank God.

A slightly scarier, but no less awkward situation, is the infamous bloody nose caused by sex in the shower creating need for an ER visit on a Sunday afternoon moment.

Thankfully, other ER visits have been avoided,but only just barely.

One such time was during a very amorous night back in February of last year. I will not go into details but it involved a fist, my vag, my white comforter and a bottle of Lestoil. Use your imagination with that one.

Most recently, I had the pleasure of being allowed to spectate, which I thoroughly enjoy.

Apparently , my face got too close to the money shot, because next thing I knew, I couldn't see out of my left eye.

"Ow. I think I'm blind", I shot up off the bed, totally ruining the moment, and lept to the bathroom.

"My eye is swelling up " I screeched. Beehive followed my panic to my left eye, and just started laughing. One eye was way bigger than the other.

Funny, yea, until I have to go to the ER. I could just picture filling out the forms.

"Cause of accident--semen in the eyeball."

Yea, TOLD ya this was TMI.

Those Durn Neighbors...

As you all know, my neighbors across the way know pretty much everything there is to know about me.

Because of the way our apartments are situated, we can see right into each others living rooms. Neither of us has blinds, and nobody is budging to remedy that.

The bedrooms also face each other, but thankfully we both have curtains that stay closed perpetually {mine are sheer, however}, but if both parties have the windows open, there is no denying of the activities that are occuring in our respective homes.

Unfortunately, I have yet to catch my neighbors in any embarrassing or compromising positions...but I am quite confident that these people{2 guys live there} have heard/seen me doing any of the following--petting my bunny with or without battery-operated assistance, giving/receiving head, having mad, loud, dirty sex, crying hysterically about everything and nothing, fighting with my boyfriend/sister/mother, stumbling around drunk on Blueberri Stoli, dancing to 8Os music, waltzing around topless/bottomless/in the nude. Et al. Ad nauseum.

I have nothing to hide, at this point...

So, I came home tonight from dinner on Smith Street, and the two dudes were standing outside, sharing a cigarette .

I've seen them out in front of the biuilding before, puffing away. I know they know I'm there.

I could either continue to keep walking and pretend they don't exist, or I could just, for once and for all, introduce myself as that "wacky neighbor across the way" and pass myself as yet another cuckoo New Yorker who doesn't give a shit.

What would you do?