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“Cooter, or Couture, that is the question…”

This is the post excerpt.

juicy

Let me preface this by telling you that my life is filled with creative adventures… Some of these adventures are real and fruition into actual stories that I can easily reenact using my advanced skills in sarcasm and imagery, and there are some that I really just wish would happen the way that I see them in my head… Either way there is truth to all of my stories, and it’s up to you to decide which parts of these stories you would like to believe. My one promise to you is that you will NOT get bored.

Now let’s get started on our first adventure together…

I’d like to introduce you to my new found muse, Maggie. Maggie is the name that I will use to represent a middle aged woman whose very ‘hard’ lifestyle left her skin about as pink as a slightly undercooked tenderloin and as rough as an old pair of Nike’s that had just gone through it’s final wash after a year’s worth of hiking up the steep side of Runyon Canyon. Maggie’s face was quite worn down and had enough freckles to depict several constellations, and at least a few missing teeth. As my eyes surveyed Maggie I noticed a battered up handbag, flip flops, and an old unwashed sundress almost fully exposing two unsupported loaves of bread hanging down from her chest and resting slightly above her bellybutton. When Maggie speaks, you aren’t sure if she is going to ask you what your favorite scary movie is, or tell you that she is in fact… your father. Now that I’ve described Maggie in great detail, I think you are starting to get the picture of what I am witnessing.

Maggie will play a very important role in this story once I fill you in on a discussion that my boyfriend and I were having the night prior to meeting Maggie while we were watching Season 3 of The Real Housewives of New York. So as we were watching this show quite possibly the most loathed Housewife of all time, ‘The Countess LuAnn’, was utilizing the word ‘VaJayJay’ to describe her womanly parts as she was discussing with one of my all time favorite housewives Sonja Morgan how she likes to keep her hair down there (I’ve always just assumed that LuAnn would have a nice full bush, it just seems fitting). It was at this moment that my boyfriend paused the show with a mischievous look on his face and asked me the funniest word I had ever heard used to describe the female vagina. We looked at each other, and he instantly thought of the word: cooter. I won’t bore you with the details that followed like discussing sex toy name ideas (cooter-scooter to be one of them), but I will tell you that I was challenged with the task of figuring out a way to utilize the word ‘cooter’ in a sentence the following day. This was my challenge, and I did accept.

So here it is around lunchtime the next day, and I decided to take a gander at some fragrances in a nearby retail store (I’m always thinking of ways to bring more attention to myself) and thought that this would do the trick! As I approach the fragrance section, I can hear a faint beeping noise… I look up and this is where I see ‘Maggie’. Mind you, Maggie is being accosted by a rather terrified looking security guard. I can see the security guard cautiously looking in Maggie’s bag trying to discover where this beeping noise is coming from without successfully locating the source. Maggie then stands up nice and tall (at which time I can no longer hear the beeping), and she proceeds to tell the security guard that she doesn’t have “ANYTHING ON HER… NOTHING!”… To prove her point, she even decides to bust out the bread loaves at which time my eyes discover where she safely tucks away a package of Marlboro reds, an orange lighter, a bottle of pills, and what looked like a few packets of ketchup. All very practical things to store in between two loaves of bread, I suppose.

Fast forward 20 seconds, and I can hear the faint beeping noise once more… Maggie swears that it is not coming from her and she attempts to leave the store. As she is attempting to leave, Maggie tries to pull her bag out of the guards hands. This is when it happens… In a desperate attempt to get away from the guard, Maggie steps a little too wide, and it becomes clear where the beeping was coming from. The almost painful screech and blinding red light from the security tag can now be traced dropping out of her as though she had let out a little turdlette and shaken it down her leg. Maggie had somehow managed to wedge a 3.4 ounce bottle of Calvin Klein ‘Obsession’ up into her and held onto it as though she had vacuum suction coming from somewhere deep within. The force was strong, but it was not enough to keep this ‘obsession’ high and tight for long.

This is when it hit me… What if that bottle of Calvin Klein fragrance had actually been a slightly longer and slimmer box of 3.4 ounce Juicy Couture. Did I miss my chance to use cooter in it’s most appropriate context that day? Or, had I actually been given the ability to modify the truth and pitch an ever so slightly risqué marketing idea to the creative director of the fragrance empire?

What do you think? Is it possible that ‘cooter’ is the new ‘couture’?

“Fitness, flatulence, and the fear of fucking up…”

yoga-fart

I hope you enjoyed your first glance into my life as I explained how a mere shopping trip to a local retail store nearly got me sacked by a couple of loaves of ‘Maggie’s Incredible Bread’… Now that we know each other a little better, it’s time that I get a little personal with you.

As you all probably know Los Angeles is the epicenter of all people fit and good looking… It’s true, why else would I move here? What you probably don’t realize is that good looks and a healthy lifestyle often come with a pretty hefty price tag… Now I’m not just talking about the price of your Hermes bag or your Christian Louboutin shoes (Dorothy Wang)… But I am talking about the price of embarrassment you feel at your morning yoga class, and the disruptive noises in your evening prayer group that take your focus away from a higher power and into a lower abdominals… I’m even talking about the nutritional value of the composted product turned to air that you eat coming from the food processor riding in front of you on bike 7 at your afternoon Soulcycle class. That’s right, I’m talking about the ultimate claim to shame… Public farting.

I mean, we have all been woken up from a dead sleep by the random demons leaving our significant other in the dark hours of the night. However, it is a completely different story in public when a complete stranger expels  something so otrocious that you think to yourself ‘What on Kimye’s Green Earth could be responsible for a chemical reaction like THIS!?” “Who on Earth leaves the house when their body is uncontrollably expelling their Patronus Charm for all of the muggle world to see, hear, and smell!?” I guess that some people have no shame… In particular, let me tell you about the girl on bike 7.

It was early spring of 2017… I had just gotten into indoor cycling at a New York based based cycling company known as Soulcycle. My boyfriend was teaching classes, and to avoid embarrassing him (as the uncoordinated brownie in the front row), I decided that I would ride toward the center of the room in the middle row (This way he could admire my face, and I his, as we sweat away all of our sins from the night before). I surveyed the bikes that were available, and I saw a small intelligent looking girl with glasses on so I decided that I would take the bike behind her (I could see over her head, I imagined that she most likely wore deodorant, and I was at no risk of going unnoticed with her in front of me). What I am about to tell you next haunts me to this day… Every. Single. Time. I get on a bike.

Class began and everything was fine… I was vibing to some Ariana Grande and carefully trying to follow the beat. Then came the choreographed movements… The one that particularly haunts me I now know is referred to as a ‘tap back’. What is required of you to get this movement right is that you position your hands at the front of the handle bars, and as you are pedaling, you gently push your butt backward and up over the seat almost as a small advertisement for the riders behind you. Key word is: gently. Apparently, the delicate creature in front of me didn’t get the memo on the requirement to move slowly and gently because as she thrust her rear back a mere 4 inches in front of my face it happened… What could have been a subtle crop dust had instead taken form in some sort of nuclear warfare launching from her anus directly into my my air intake. I wish I could describe how terrible I was feeling about the entire situation, not just for me, but for her Lululemon’s which were clearly going to be left expanded and discolored after this ride, but I can’t even begin to describe the horror of this situation. After class the lights came on, people left, and the nice intelligent looking girl turned around to give me a high five. I am sure that I looked as though I had just out ran a serial killer because as I put my hand up toward hers I saw the sparkle leave her eyes, and at that moment I realized it… She knew exactly what she had done.

From that point on I ride in the front row, regardless of how I am feeling… It was that single experience that motivated me to work harder, ride better, and refrain from ever going to a cycling class if I had even the smallest indication that Trump had his hand on the trigger. I’ve also done a lot of research into cycling formats since then, so if you would like to know of some great Los Angeles based fitness classes that 1. Provide their riders with more space between rows 2. Avoid tap backs altogether, let me know… I’ve got your back.

Has anything happened to you during a fitness class that’s left you traumatized?