Posted by M on Jun 29, 2010 in
Savvy Travels
This may shock and awe you, but working in Human Resources was actually not always my lifelong goal. Prior to stumbling upon the delightful world of middle management, I actually had a variety of other aspirations in life. Let’s take a walk down the boulevard of broken dreams:
Age: 4
Dream Job: Grandfather
Perks: Already retired, pension plan in the works, wife cooking for you all the time, lots of television, kids already out of the house so no one except your wife bothers you
Drawbacks: I don’t think I could handle a wife. Girls are crazy.
Ultimate conclusion: This was a no go. Besides the fact that it just wasn’t even possible from a physical or human perspective, it also didn’t allow me to dress very cute.
Age: 8
Dream Job: Ballerina
Perks: Cute unitards to sport everywhere, permanently tiny waist, extremely buff men lift always on call to lift you above their heads.
Drawbacks: You aren’t really allowed to eat, so that permanetly tiny waist might actually be the result from what we in the biz call “bulemia.” Also, those buff men are typically gay, which is totally cool in my book, however, it means the chance of getting one of those super buff men to marry me is slim.
Ultimate conclusion: This didn’t work out either. If you’ve ever seen me walk, you know why. I’m so uncoordinated, I’ve been asked if I’m drunk before when I’ve been completely sober. No good.
Age: 10
Dream Job: Chef
Perks: Food! Food everywhere. Plus, Ramsy makes it look easy, he just swears a lot and he’s a millionaire.
Drawbacks: Kitchens are hot and they make your skin greasy, which makes you break out. Plus, I’m allergic to shellfish and dairy, and fried food, milk chocolate, or anything cream based tends to give me acid reflux. Oh, and I don’t drink anything but flavored water, green tea, and regular water. And I prefer to not eat red meat. And sometimes I’m a vegetarian, if I’m in the mood. So basically, if I were a chef, you’d be eating lettuce, whole wheat bread, and maybe some turkey if I wasn’t in a tofu mood. With a glass of lemon water. Do you think I’d be a hit?
Ultimate conclusion: If by choice, what I eat is that boring, I don’t think I should be allowed to influence any other person’s eating habits. My biggest success would probably be opening a restaurant specifically for people on the BRAT diet.
Age: 14
Dream Job: Model
Perks: The clothes are awesome, celebrities are everywhere. Someone to do my make up and hair everyday. Travel opportunities galore and I hear flavored water is very popoular on photoshoots. Plus, I would finally have people to commiserate on what being awkwardly thin was like in middle school (hint: awful).
Drawbacks: I don’t particularly like to starve and I don’t enjoy being told I’m fat, ugly, or not usable for some campaign. Also, drugs and binge drinking every night would do nothing for me except make me age prematurely.
Ultimate conclusion: No good. I like the idea of being told I’m pretty, but not at the expense of giving up Chocolate chip Cookies. Oh, and there’s the issue where I’m not at all photogenic.
Age: 16
Dream Job: Orphan Rescuer
Perks: I would get to rescue orphans, need I say more? If I’m extra good, I might even get to keep an orphan (does it get any cooler than that?) Plus, it’s like a surefire ticket to Heaven.
Drawbacks: I have the emotional stability of a toddler who got her favorite toy taken away. I cried during the season finale of Grey’s anatomy and I threw up when I saw a guy die on the street once. I would also likely come home with as many orphans as I could hide in my carry on. I don’t think I’m strong enough to go around rescuing babies.
Ultimate conclusion: I’ll adopt an orphan. And make sure the social worker knows to only give me one and never to let me inside an actual orphange, or else I’ll be giving away orphans as Christmas presents to all my closest friends (who would be excellent parents and provide a loving and financially stable home).
Age: 18
Dream Job: Book Editor
Perks: I would get to read all day long. I like books more than people because they don’t talk back.
Drawbacks: If I read all day long, what will I do when I get home? Have to interact with people? My social skills would be shot! I’m not very bright–my winning personality is all I’ve got!
Ultimate conclusion: I’ll just keep updating my library card. And move to a city with a library that’s not emberassingly small.
Age: 20
Dream Job: Trophy Wife/Stay at Home Mom
Perks: Hire a nanny to do all the hard stuff, like laundry, dishes, discipling the little rascals, taking them to soccer practice, etc, and then just go to Yoga, Spinning Class, and meet up with my friends (also aspiring trophy wives) to pick up soy mocha lattes with a dash of cinnimon and extra hot, please.
Drawbacks: The old husband part. My parents read this, so let’s not get into the nitty gritty of sex, but old, wrinkly, saggy skin…
Ultimate conclusion: I’d rather work and find a cuter guy to breed with. I’ll even compromise and drive the little Floodsters to soccer practice if the Husband does the laundry (or at least folds it. I hate folding!)
Age: 21
Dream Job: Lawyer
Perks: I don’t have to hit the real world for at least four more years and when I do hit the real world, I’ll have a bunch of letters at the end of my professional title, which will make me feel super important. And Doctor Brother and I are in this giant race to drain my parents of all resources, so if I get a JD, I’ll really be able to pick up my game in that competition.
Drawbacks: I hate overly opinioned people, which is the type that makes up the majority population of Law School students. Oh crap.
Ultimate conclusion: Let’s go with this. We can always change our mind later.
I mean, David changed his mind. Ann changed her mind. Cliff changed his mind. I really am right on track to success.
Posted by M on Jun 28, 2010 in
Savvy Travels
College is by far, the most amazing idea society has ever had. I get that the papers and exams suck, and I’ve had more bad professors than good, but the lifestyle is unbeatable. Find another time in your life when all you have to do is attend classes 12 hours a week, and as a reward, you get to live on your own, have someone else pay for most of your expenses, go to the bar on weekdays, and sleep in four out of seven days of the week. This lifestyle is gold. For all those naughty kids in high school who thought they were too cool to study and ended up at community college or working a job right out of high school: you’re totally missing out. Seriously. Sucks for you.
So summer, for me, is always bittersweet. Sure, I’m happy to have a break from constant stress and the dramatics that come along with putting 20,000 co-eds in a two mile radius (the major debbie downers in college life), but I’m always happy to regress to my former life when August rolls around. Still, the one thing I’ll say about corporate life is that, with a little inspection, the traits of college life have not been completely forgotten. Inside these cubicles reside 3,000 employees who used to party at the frat house, drink on Tequila Tuesday, skip class on Friday, and stroll the walk of shame on Saturday mornings. Let’s take a closer look at how college style and corporate style overlap a little more than we think:
1. The outfits
There’s two types of outfits people sport in the workplace: The first is the professional look. Blazers, pencil skirts, dresses, heels, black pants.Or on casual days: trendy jeans, professional yet tight in all the right places blouses, polo shirts, dockers. The works. You know what I mean. Look around for your newest employee or intern. They’ll fit this category. These outfits are usually super spiffy and nice towards the beginning of a job (much like that cute little black dress that makes an appearance the first week of class), and then as the job wears on, the outfits get a little, well, dumpier. You’ve already impressed people, so you stop trying so hard. Who wants to wear three inch heels all over a building all day? There’s stairs everywhere. Walking up stairs in heels is a major commitment and if you’ve got no one left to show off for, what’s the point? Might as well switch to flats and lower your risk of falling on your face, which would just increase your healthcare costs anyways.
In college, these types of outfits are brought out at the beginning of the year. When we’re all tan and happy and just back from school shopping with parental moneybags. These new outfits last about two weeks or maybe even a semester if you’re a freshman. But not that long. Don’t get excited.
Which brings me to outfit type 2: rumpled black pants, low wasted skirts (and yeah, those legs aren’t shaved), loose black pants, capris that don’t require three inch wedges just to look presentable, belts that are worn, shoes with scuff marks, collared shirts–with logos of sports teams or even other companies. Take a look at someone in your company who’s been around for a while. They’ll wear this stuff and they’ll wear it proud. They don’t have to look hot to demonstrate that they’re proficient at their work. These people, are your seniors and juniors in college. They’ve been to the bar, okay? They can buy alcohol. They have cars on campus. And friends. And they don’t even ned a map to get around. And yes, they believe your “dress” is cute, but really, maybe you should consider pants next time you’re around because your ass is hanging out. These employees are much like the kids in college who on Fridays, don’t feel a need to dress up for their 8 am lecture a half mile across campus. While the intern/freshman is sporting jeans that no one’s sure how she managed to slide into them, this employee/student is in the most comfortable outfit they own. It’s Friday. No one cares.
2. The Drinking
There’s a phrase in college that goes, ” We’re not alcoholics until we graduate.” Cue laughter.
But seriously, these crazy mo-fos in corporate life are all about the happy hour. In college, Happy Hours are from 3-7, and no one can make those because that’s prime napping time. But in corporate life? I’ve watched employees leave with their bosses early from work to go to happy hour! And frankly, who can blame them? If you have to sit in a four by five cubicle all day, you deserve a drink. And contrary to what we’re told in University-Land, drinking on weekdays is not a sole attribute of college. People in this “real world” drink every night of the week. Do they get drunk like college kids? Not usually. But I feel like that’s more because their livers can’t tolerate as much as booze after being violated so much in their undergraduate years–at least on weekdays. I’ve heard, on more than one occassion, co-workers getting together before dinner for “cocktails” or having “drinks before we go out.” We do that in college, too. It’s called PreGaming, which is when you drink your cheap booze before you go to the bar, where one shot is the price of an entire fifth at Meijer.
Not to mention, most people in Corporate life are much too sophisticated for tequila shots and beer. . Don’t fool yourself, winos, you’re the same as the kids in college who drink boxed wine–you just have deeper pockets.
3. The Dating Scene
College relationships are tracked via the internet in the form of “facebook.” When you get a Significant Other (SO), you update your social networking site so that your besties, gossip hounds, and exes can all hear it from you: you’re off the market. If you start dating a guy, you have the facebook chat: “ummm, so should we take single off our social networking page? Do you want to link to my page?” It’s a pretty big deal when it’s a “yes.” In fact, when my friends get a new boyfriend, the only thing asked is, “well, is it facebook official?” And if you see a cute guy at the bar and get his name? You run home and look him up on facebook. You can get a scope of his hobbies, mutual friends, major, and the biggest question answered: is he already in a relationship?
In corporate life, this equivalent is “The Ring Check.” New hire comes in. Perhaps good looking. The secretaries mingle. The co-workers gossip. The biggest question: “Was he/she wearing a ring?”!” A wedding ring, to clarify.
4. The Boss
In college, we have professors that lecture at us all day long while some diligent students (including me, Monday through Thursday), take excellent notes, while other students (including me, on Fridays) put a laptop on their desk and check out the world wide web while we’re preached at by a professor who reads off of a powerpoint he’ll post online later. The American Education System at its finest, ladies and gentlemen.
In Corporate life, we have bosses who read off Corporate letterheads while I set in my cubicle and look busy. The only difference between me looking busy at work and me looking busy at school? My work computer has a few sites blocked. But, don’t worry: I can still online shop, browse my favorite blogs, and if I shut my eyes in my cube, I can even feel like I’m back in an auditorium at state. Delightful.
These parallels are key to my adjustment to corporate life. And also, it’s nice to be paid to blog every day. Perhaps that’s something we could work on for when I’m in school, too.
Posted by M on Jun 25, 2010 in
Deep Thoughts While I usually write in this blog to declare sarcastic viewpoints on the world around me, I do have something that’s been on my mind a lot lately. And that’s body image.
I’m currently training for a half marathon, which means I run or cross train almost every day. I’m finally back in long-distance running shape, after a school year of fitting in barely effective work outs between lectures, study groups, and extracirriculars. This means I’m gaining muscle and becoming lean. It also means I’m gaining weight.
I might look skinnier, but I assure you the number on the scale is higher than it’s been in a long time. It doesn’t seem fair that getting in shape means having a higher weight, but after watching my food intake for a few days, I resolved that I wasn’t one of those runners that eat the kitchen sink after every run. I simply have muscle in my stomach, on my legs, on my arms. I’m a 21 year old girl and I can’t weight what I did when I was 13 anymore. I want to have kids and if I didn’t accept these changes in my body, I probably wouldn’t be a very healthy vessel for the very healthy babies I hope to have.
Still, the numbers climbing on the scale really bother me. I keep rechecking myself in the mirror: am I really becoming that much heavier? I question my decision to participate in these two half marathons. If they’re making me gain weight, is it really worth it? I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t drink any liquids except green tea and water, and my food is limited to a very healthy diet inspired by Target Living and Food, Inc. Am I such an anomoly that I’m the only person in the world who’s going to get fat off of oatmeal and green beans? The fact that I’m bothered by the numbers on the scale also worries me. I’m not interested in becoming one of those girls that counts calories or is too scared of gaining weight to spend a night at the bar or an afternoon baking cookies. But that’s exactly what’s happening.
So why is this an issue? Why is finally getting my body into great shape causing me to develop unhealthy concerns?
A part is certainly the media. Does anyone remember when this picture circulated the news outlets?
This is supermodel Tyra Banks. In this picture, she weighs 161 pounds at a very model height of 5′10”, putting her BMI at a very healthy 23.1. Tabloids blasted her for being “obese” and Ms. Banks immediately went on the defense, appearing on Good Morning America and eventually taking the cover of People Magazine, telling her critics to “Kiss my fat ass!” because she was healthy and young girls needed to see a healthy role model instead of the stick thin, ribs protruding, tiny waisted models plastered all over fashion runways. The picture above isn’t flattering, but Tyra, at this weight and shot from the right angle, looks amazing:
Except, after all the preaching about how healthy Tyra was and how she was being a good role model for girls everywhere, two years later, Tyra lost 30 pounds. She claims she watched Sex and the City for a half hour day while on the elliptical and replaced her unhealthy meals with better choices. Can someone just yell bullshit at her? I find it competely offensive that she paraded her healthy body in the media and then turned around and paraded her unhealthy, 131 pound body in the same manner. Tyra’s new BMI is 18.65, which is barely in the healthy range of BMI and frankly, most nutritionists would consider anything below a 20 unhealthy:
Frankly, I don’t give a shit if Tyra Banks is in the healthy range of her BMI or not. But as a young girl who’s stuck checking out her image every time I want to read a magazine, I would appreciate it if she would stop sending mixed messages. After losing 30 pounds, she was once again in People Magazine–but this time for her weight lose regiment. And nobody even pointed out how completely hypocritical she was being.
Tyra Banks, of course, is not the only celebrity guilty of this tactic. Consider Jennifer Love Hewitt:
This picture was taken in December 2007 when Jennifer was vacationing in Hawaii with her boyfriend. This particular image, as well as several other ones taken from even less flattering angles, was on the front page of the National Enquirer and New of the World with headlines proclaiming that she was a heifer, a whale, a previously tiny girl who had let herself go. Jennifer took a stand, writing in her blog:
“A size 2 is not fat! Nor will it ever be. And being a size 0 doesn’t make you beautiful. … To all girls with butts, boobs, hips and a waist, put on a bikini – put it on and stay strong.”
Since then, Jennifer has been in People Magazine and other glossies discussing how her boyfriend helps her diet, her fitness regiment, and how she’s toning down. But, she, of course, still loves her body.
I guess I’m confused. Jennifer and Tyra say they like themselves heavier, yet they lost all the weight they were ridiculed for. Can someone clarify for me how this works? Can someone explain why no one has called them out for their contradicting opinions?
Even if I wanted to lose a few pounds, I’m not sure where I’d even start. I suppose I could follow any of the diet plans advertised through pop-up windows that launch everytime I open my facebook page or positioned squarely next to my email. Using big brother antics to know my location and secret fear of obesity, they announce, “Looking for a Flat Tummy in Minneapolis? The secret? Click here!” or “Michigan State Girls Diet Right! Our Company can help!” I didn’t know I was looking for a flat tummy or that I was on a diet! Why are those the advertisements google chooses to show me? I just want to check my email, I wasn’t looking for a body analysis.
It’s impossible to turn on a television without seeing Jillian Michael’s telling me to get off my ass and exercise. Her TV show in itself is a giant contradiction: I’m supposed to sit on my couch and watch people work out? She muses that people will be inspired to get up and do the same. Doesn’t she realize that if I get inspired, I won’t watch her show? I’m tired of seeing the Kardashian sisters, a family who’s made their name because their dad defended OJ Simpson and their oldest daughter had a sex tape encourage me to buy their weight loss pills to “really ramp up my diet.” Most recently, I saw this ad during an episode of “The Secret Life of the American Teenager,” a show aimed at 12-18 year olds.
Diets in general are ridiculous anyways. They all claim to hold the easy path to weight loss success: Avoid carbs! Only eat watermeleon! Only eat this cookie twice a day! Have a shake! Eat our cereal instead of real food! Eat grapefruit! Eat cabbage soup! Don’t drink soda! Drink magic potion water! Only drink food! Don’t eat after 6! Don’t eat fruit after 3! Don’t eat after dinner! No carbs after 6! And of course, the age old wives tale: When you’re hungry, just enjoy that feeling because it’s your body burning fat.
I’m not a nutritionist. But, doesn’t it seem like your body should do a little of everything? Have some carbs, have some watermelon, eat soup sometimes? And why the hell can’t I have fruit after 3? At 3, does my body automatically convert fruit into cellulite and plant it on my ass? Furthermore, that feeling of hunger? That’s your body telling you it would like to be fed. It’s actually hungry because it’s out of fuel to burn so it can do stuff for you, like regulate your heartbeat and make sure your brain has the energy to think.
I’m baffled by the messages sent to me about exercise too. I’m supposed to exercise 5 times a week for at least 20 minutes, but I should also exercise 5 times a week for 30 minutes, and I should also try and do some intense exercise 5 times a week for 15 minutes. And I should cross train. And I should walk everywhere I can, always take the stairs instead of the elevator, park as far from the mall as I can so I get extra exercise in walking to and from the shops, invest in Sketcher’s new crazy shoes that apparently will make my walking even more effective so that I can get even skinnier while I walk, and I should invest in a pedometer so I know just how far I’ve walked every single day.
What the hell?! Between exercising as much as all these experts say and eating all these things (or more like, not eating) all these things these experts say, will I even have any time left over to have a job, raise kids, get married, and maybe watch some reality television every once in a while? It doesn’t seem possible.
The worst, offenders, however, are models like Gisele or Heidi Klum, or really, any celebrity mother who gives birth and within weeks, parades her Post-Baby body on the front of magazines.
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On behalf of women everywhere, including future and current mothers, these magazine covers and these people offend me. Their ability to lose 35 pounds in six weeks, while unhealthy certainly, is their own damn business. But, parading their bodies on magazine covers and giving interviews about how they did a lot of “prenatal yoga” and “breast fed” their way back into their size 00’s is completely misleading. Gisele, who gave birth recently to a baby boy, Ben, was modeling for Victoria’s Secret’s Spring Catelouge two months later. Her secret?
“I did kung fu up until two weeks before Benjamin was born, and yoga three days a week…I think a lot of people get pregnant and decide they can turn into garbage disposals. I was mindful about what I ate, and I gained only 30 pounds.”
And how did she get fit so fast?
“What helps me is the fact that I had a natural birth and am breast-feeding.”
The smart side of my brain just cannot believe that breast feeding got her looking like this:
The truth is, they hired a trainer, a chef, and a nanny and worked out until they couldn’t move. I’ve had friends younger than these women give birth and I’ve seen them six weeks post-birth. They can barely keep their eyes open, much less find the time to push out six miles on a treadmill and cook a healthy, organic, colorful meal of fish and steam veggies. They’d rather nap.
With the media shooting all of these images my way, it’s a constant battle between what I see every day on the street: beautiful, healthy women, and what I see everyday on the news: beautiful, very tiny women. My intelligent side says I should aim for heathy, but my vain side wants to be as tiny and glamourous as the woman on the cover of this month’s Cosmo.
Is there a meeting point? Is there a way to protect myself from further damage to my body images and self-esteem? And what about my own daughter someday? How do I convince her that she’s beautiful just as she is, when she has weight loss pills and diet tricks shown in commercials during her Disney shows?
I’m not sure what the answer is. I’m not sure how you to end this cycle of acceptance and yo yo dieting. I just know that it’s 10:19 at night, and I for one, am going to have some carbs.
Posted by M on Jun 23, 2010 in
How to Be a Grown Up
Nothing screams “America” more than pyromania, hot dogs, and heatwaves on the 4th of July. It’s one of my favorite holidays simply because everyone is just so flipping happy! People get the day of work, they eat carbs and processed meat that otherwise would never touch their digestive system, and in many cases, there’s cake involved. I’m a big proponent of any holiday involving cake.
I spent the first 19 4th of Julys with my parentals, being taunted with sparklers by my brothers and watching million-dollar firework shows over Bay Harbor (the fine people of Boyne City don’t have any money to pay their mortgages, but dammit, they won’t let a crappy economy get in the way of their fireworks!). Last year, I spent the 4th in Rome, where nobody cared that it was America’s Birthday, except maybe the British foreign exchange students, who likely were still a little bitter about how they lost an entire continent in the Civil War. Hold a grudge much, Brits?
This year, I’ll be saving $300 by refusing my parent’s invitation home and instead spending the holiday with my boyfriend and his family in Chicago. Chicago, if you aren’t aware, is where I intend to move when I’m older. Rational? I won’t have to drive (those who have seen my driving skills will agree this is a perk for everyone in America), the shopping is intense, and there are pancake places and cupcake joints all over the place. Shopping, cupcakes, and pancakes. Is this Chicago or is this Heaven?
Of course, the downside to Chicago is that it’s a little pricey for a girl clocking 40 hours a week doing, for lack of a better term, “bitch work.” As a result, my boyfriend’s brother and sister-in-law are much too nice and invite us to sleep at their apartment in the City, curling up on their couch and basically infringing on what little personal space one gets in a one bedroom apartment in a major metropolitan area.
Because I recognize that sharing a cubicle sized apartment with two 21 year olds isn’t exactly anyone’s idea of a great time, I try to lessen the burden by always bringing gifts. I’m ridiculously thoughtful. I start thinking of gifts weeks ahead of time. I would be emberassed if anyone truly knew how much time I put into any gift I give. It would probably be borderline creepy if I didn’t always pull through.
So, of course, the big question is: What do you bring two people who are letting you curl up on their outrageously comfortable couch for three nights, and who are also in charge of entertaining your boyfriend’s parents, his other brother and sister in law, and you? Because frankly, that sounds pretty awful to handle for an entire holiday weekend and I’m not sure there’s a gift out there that could soften that blow.
I went through my sure-fire gifts first: University of Minnesota shirts, Twins shirts, pictures, treats from Minnesota’s famous shops, perhaps a cheese wheel from Wisconsin? For one reason or another, though, none of these gifts were really striking my fancy. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but these were not it.
So I put myself in their shoes. If my grandparents were coming to visit and bring their other kids, what would my Mom want? What would make her day a little better?
The answer was obvious: wine and chocolate.
The big events in life seem to use wine and sugar to keep everyone on their best behavior: weddings,graduations, funerals. Family holidays do too. So, I’ve decided to bring a bottle of white wine (to seem classy), a miniture bottle of tequila (for when the headache sets in), and a freshly baked batch of chocolate chip cookies (because sometimes emotional eating is the only way to go).
Someday, when I finally move to Chicago and have enough money to fly an airline that’s not Southwest, I hope to repay their extremely generous hospitality. But, they’re so nice and wonderful, I won’t even need a bottle of wine to soften the blow. Which is good, because I prefer boxed wine anyways. I’m nothing if not classy, after all.
Posted by M on Jun 22, 2010 in
My Current Life
While I could write several blogposts on how I’m homesick and in dire need of attention, hugs, chocolate chip cookies, and chex mix, I’m also extremely, extremely homesick for….my treadmill.
My treadmill and I have a very dramatic relationship. Technically speaking, I hate it. It stands for early morning workouts before class, working out on an empty stomach (I challenge you to find a worse feeling than working out when your blood sugar levels are at alarmingly low levels), running after work or exams, when all I want to do is curl up and watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey, and having to skip this or that event becauseI need to work out (second to running on an empty stomach, it’s a gym goer’s secret to never skip a workout–it might feel good to not run today, but it’ll hurt twice as much tomorrow. I can say this as someone who used to often skip workouts).
At school, I have “My Treadmill.” I belong to a 24/7 fitness center, which is an investment an old boyfriend told me was worthwile because I tend to run when I’m stressed, angry, frustrated, happy, sad, or ambivalent. As those are about the entire range of human emotions, you can probably figure out that I get a lot of use out of my membership. I actually strongly dislike my gym–it’s full of guys that spend too much time pumping iron, personal trainers attempting to sell their services (um, no. I actually have NO interestin 4:30 am bootcamps to work on my biceps, thanks), and it’s fairly expensive for the area, so a lot of soristitutes with their cell phones tend to overtake the ellipitcals (which is fine, because as all runners/joggers know, the elliptical is for pansies–unless you’re on the elliptical because you’re a hardcore injured runner–in that case, I revoke your pansie title). I would probably give up my membership if it wasn’t for My Treadmill.
My Treadmill sits in the second row of treadmills, facing the plastic plasma television screens. There is a fan to the right of her, which is an extra little perk. She sits between two television. This is key because on Thursday nights, The Office and Grey’s Anatomy are on the same time. Usually I’d have to skip one, but because of My Treadmill’s perfectly designed location (and the fact that it’s Thirsty Thursday, so the gym is empty), I can usually put on both. The ultimate Team Pam and Meredith’s dream. Somedays, My Treadmill kicks my ass. And somedays, I kick My Treadmill’s ass.
The saddest days though, are the days that someone else is on My Treadmill. It’s not that I believe it’s really “mine,” per se. But, I mean, she kind of is. I feel a little betrayed that she works so miraciously for someone else, almost as if she’s cheating on our near perfect relationship. But, I can adjust, I can hop on her neighbor for the day and jog for a while. But, I have been known to beeline for her the minute the enemy finishes with her. She’s mine, okay? Get your own.
In my home-home in DeWitt, I have an indusrial type treadmill. She’s not quite as awesome as My Treadmill, but she’s adequte and seems to get the job done, so I can complain. She has some weird buttons you have to push though, and she’s really high up, almost as if she’s on a platform. I’m not a fan of heights in general, and platforms don’t really do it for me. If I wanted to feel like a stripper, I’d go to Striperoibcs, on M.A.C.
Here in Minneapolis, it is HOT out, baby. I try and try to set my alarm for 5:30 to go running before work, but so far, as they say in Peru: “no bueno.” That means no good. It’s just not working. I do get into work mighty early so I can duck out early, but have you gone running at 4 pm in the summer in Minnesota? I literally think I sweat half of my body weight off. It’s hard to breath, the air is so thick with humidity. Don’t even get me started on the fact that I have a farmer’s tan on my legs from my running shorts. And the formation of an armband tan line on my upper right arm, where I stick my keys and my iPhone. I dread the run all day long, it’s so hard and it’s so hot.
So why not run later at night? Well, little grasshopper with your cute little questions: it’s dangerous in Minneapolis at night. Ask my mom, she’s probably got a boatload of articles saved on her desktop she’s just dying to send me about joggers being stabbed and their cool iPhone armbands being stolen. Also, I suffer from work-related hunger. I’m starving when I get home, so I eat a huge dinner. I don’t think my body has the energy to digest a mini-thanksgiving dinner and go running afterwards. I’m a person, you know? Not a machine.
Furthermore, I miss working out in front of a TV. I like listening to my own thoughts and I can come up with some pretty entertaining daydreams to occupy me for a while, but I miss flipping on the boob tube and watching trashy tv, using the my necessesary exercise as an excuse. I’m tired of listening to Ira Glass ramble on about this American Life (yes we get it, life is hard. Next topic, debbie downer) and Pandora isn’t always right on about what I’m in the mood to listen to (In particular, I didn’t want to run to the Lion King’s Circle of Life” just because I didn’t give a thumbs down to Miley Cyrus. Have you tried running to
“The Circle of Life?” Not only is it depressing and opens a ton of psychological doors, it has no beat. It’s like running to Bach. I’ll save the classical music for when I’m trying to feel cultured, mmk?)
Today, I decided to be proactive and search for a place where maybe I could pay a few bucks and someone would let me borrow their treadmill for an hour or so. Just on days when it’s so hot, I have true concerns about thong sweat when I’m in my office seat (too much information?) I digress. To get a gym membership in Minneapolis for two months is outrageous. There’s start up costs, closing costs, membership fees, and more. I am far too thrifty (and loyal to My Treadmill) to pay to run, when there’s sidewalks and trails galore outside my doorstep. If times get desperate, I may have to ask the local Dick’s Sporting Goods if they mind me taking a run on their samples, but for now, I think I’ll have to suck it up, lather on sunscreen, hydrate, and hope that in an hour, all the pain I’ll put myself through will be a mere, sad memory.
In the meantime, if you’re driving down Grand River and happen to see an empty treadmill through the storefront window where I spend my free time, let me know. I wouldn’t be surprised if My Treadmill is out of order, because it probably misses me as much as I miss it. Don’t worry, Treadmill! I’ll be back in 55 days and we have an entire school year together. Until, of course, I graduate and my new puppy and my new treadmill move away. But that’s a concern for a different day.
Posted by M on Jun 21, 2010 in
Completely Biased Memories I’ve gone through phases where I’ve had cases of wedding fever, baby fever, peanut m and m fever, homesick fever, and Beiber fever, but right now, I’m suffering from a severe case of puppy fever.
I’m not sure if anyone but me recalls, but once upon a time, I graduated from high school and for an entire four hour period, I was the proud owner of a cute little puppy. And then my dad stole it. In hindsight, this should have been something I saw coming: the man can’t even watch a Nicholas Sparks’ movie without tearing up–of course he was going to hijack my cute little puppy! However, I couldn’t have forecasted Charlie being all in love with Cliff. That was a surprise. It’s almost as if I got asked out for a date by a really hot guy at the bar…and then he met my friends and married one of them. My ego would be a little scarred, but honestly, their relationship is probably the best for all parties involved. Charlie is more spoiled than I’d ever have been able to spoil him, and Cliff has someone to act like a dork around so he doesn’t embarrass me as much. And “as much” is completely relevant, because I promise you, he still manages to make me cringe when he wants.
Now that Charlie is turning four next month (July 21…I’m sure Cliff will send out the birthday invitation soon), he’s practically 28 in dog years. If he was a person, he could have kids, a divorce, and alimony payments by now! He also is forever Cliff’s. I can’t take him back after college-even if the parentals insist I can. Charlie would mope way too much. I’ve spent afternoon with Charlie where everytime the door opens, his little eyes burst with excitment as if to say, “Is my soulmate home? Is he? I’ve missed him so much and although your lap is warm, you don’t feed me and you seem to get annoyed with how smelly I am, which is something my lover never is bothered by. In fact, my lover LOVES my odor. He says it’s the scent of true love.”
how can you NOT love this face?
Once I graduate, however, I’d like to reattempt doggie parenthood. I think I’d make a good doggy mom, and it might ward off the fact that those cute little bonnets in Baby Gap are totally encouraging my maternal clock to start ticking. Besides the fact that dogs are adorable and are a great incentive to get off my ass and actually do something (unlike today, where I have not worked out and literally have spent over 10 hours in a chair), I’m actually a prime candidate for a dog because I’m probably the most ignorant person you’ve ever met. And I don’t mean ignorant in the bigoted or stupid definitions, I mean ignorant in the fact that I believe, truly and deep in my heart, that every person has the best of intentions.
I don’t want to scare the very same people who I intend to gift me this dog, but let me just say that until recently, I was that girl that always walked home alone at night. I never locked a thing. I’d rather take the subway in Chicago at night by myself than pay cab fare. I walked places in Italy alone that I’m embarrassed to admit. I run at night alone. It usually takes my boyfriend, my brother, or my dad very, very firmly telling me I’m being “stupid” and “irresponsible” before I get my act together and do the safe thing. I might mock my mom for telling me to buy pepper spray, but let’s be honest: she’s the only person who knows me well enough to know I’m going to engage is silly behavior–and she’s prefer I come prepared.
Ergo, I feel it’s in my best interest to get a small, hypoallergenic dog that not only is slightly obsessed with me, but needs exercise and would like to run trails with me at night, happily willing to bite or bark at anyone that’s giving off creepy vibes. I like puggles and goldendoodles, and even Yorkies like Charlie–just this time I’d probably not select the runt, since Charlie’s cute little legs can’t carry him very far.
Because I’m usually very bored in Minneapolis and my homesick levels are about to become quite elevated, I’ve started searching the internet. I’ve found some candidates that I think would make great additions to the Maggie Flood House of Awesome, but I won’t be ready to take on parenthood for at least another nine months–after all, the bar doesn’t exactly have a doggy door. Furthermore, I’m not sure where I’m going to end up, so I should probably make sure I have a nice, pets allowed pad before I pay a paycheck’s worth of cash to ensure my little precious baby snowflake is the perfect dog.
In the meantime, I plan on being homesick for little Charlie. I have high hopes that when I come home in 56 days, Charlie will give me a solid hour of his attention. Or at least until Cliff comes home.
In an email to my longlost brothers the other day, we (or I, since I”m the only kid that remembers this crap), realized that I would be the only kid in the United States for Father’s Day this year. Which means I’m probably the only kid that managed to send Cliff a card and likely, will be the only kid that manages a phone call (skype doesn’t count, losers). Besides the obvious factoid that I now have cemeted my place as Cliff’s favorite, this conclusion is interesting for two reasons: the first is that this is the first holiday ever where not one Flood baby is eligible to make it home and moreover, for Mother’s Day, we were all out of the country too. I find it a little ironic that two people spend the majority of their lives raising little zygotes into kids,those little former fetuseseventually peace out and aren’t even available for a simple brunch to celebrate the two investers (read: parents) who have funded their adventures.
It's totally normal to hike up 3 miles at Macchu Picchu at 5 am, right? Every family totally does that.
Perhaps for my family though, celebrating Father’s or Mother’s day is a little silly. Before you flame torch for me stating that such Hallmark Holidays aren’t pertient to the mental health of my parentals, let me assure you that my parents deserve holidays and special gifts more than any other parents I know. Traveling Brother, Doctor Brother, and I were not always the easiest bundles of joy to handle. And baby leashes weren’t even invented until I was like, 10, so they weren’t an option to keep us unde rcontrol. Plus, spanking became quite the faux paus around the time David took the stage.
Leashes weren't available, and apparently neither were cribs.
What I mean is that my parents do not fall into the typical Mom or Dad role. They approach their marriage and their family as a team effort. It’s not always flawless, but it has set an excellent example for my siblings and I as to what to look for in relationships: teamwork, unselfishness, and the ability to put others before yourself. I’ll save the analysis of their relationship for their anniversary (ha! who actually thinks I’ll blog then?), but I will say this: If I’m half as happy as my parents are when I’ve been married for 30 years, I’ll be happier than the time I lost five pounds following a strictly ice cream diet (oh, the days before lactose intolerance were the glory days).
So, for the parents out there that did parenting right, that approached raising their little seeds of joy using a tag team philosophy, I have invented a new holiday for you: Mathers Day. Here’s to you, parentals. You sometimes were annoying, overly strict, and frustrating but hey, I’m 21, not knocked up, and I’m pretty happy overall. You can label yourself victorious!
Cliff's parenting skills? Victory. His 'stash? Not so much.
Therefore, I would like to focus some kind words on Ann and Cliff’s parenting skills. For them, it was always a joint venture (if they hadn’t been so awesome, I wouldn’t have gone to college to even learn that term!) Sure, sometimes Cliff cooked more or Ann yelled more or Cliff used his stern voice while Ann approached things with a more sensitive attitude, but for the most part, every decision they made or assistance they offered us was after taking a time out to conferance as a team. They used their joint resources to make sure that each kid got the best of what they had to offer.
In this case, I’m the blacksheep simply because I’m lacking the matching haircut
Of course, you want examples. Readers are so needy. I remember when I was knee deep in the awkward years, I had some english homework that I didn’t understand. I spent a few (probably 30 seconds) attempting to comprehend it on my own, and then I went for help, seeking out my Mom rather than my Dad, simply because I always asked him. I figured she might want a shot. After reading her the assignment, she looked up at me and just said, “yeah, your dad’s a lot better at that stuff than me. I think he’s downstairs.” But, I also remember calling home once from college because I was really sick and wasn’t sure how to handle it. Cliff answered the phone and after relaying my symptoms, he replied, “yeah, let me grab your mom for you. She’s a lot better at this stuff than me.”
My mom picked out every one of my prom dresses, but my Dad was the only one I’d believe as to whether or not they looked pretty. My dad is the first person I look to for advice when figuring out what my next move should be, but my mom’s the only person I trust when it’s time to click the button or submit. Like most girls in their twenties, I have a body image slightly distorted by the media and sale associates in stores like Forever 21. The only person I trust with an outfit or to take me shopping, is my mom. And the only person I trust to tell me the truth as to whether or not that loaf of bread I had for breakfast made me instantly obese, is my Dad.
Nowadays, the mathers can only dream of me wearing a dress down to my ankles.
Now that I’m older, I appreciate the way I was raised more than ever before. I might have some self-confidence issues and I might be just a little corky, but compared to many of my peers, I’m extremely well-adjusted. My resume is super impressive–I’m currently in a 85% MBA internship program because of how much I’ve manged to cram into two years of college–and I wouldn’t have accomplished any of it without my parents constantly urging me to try a little harder, risk a little more, do the very, very best you can! Not to mention, my mom edited my resume and my Dad reviewed it. You can bet your ass there’s not a spelling error on that thing.
I remember the day my brother called home to tell my parents he was going to med school. I’m sure there were calls galore before this one and after, and I’m sure that it was not such a monumental moment as I’ve built it into my brain to be. But, I do remember sitting at the long oak table in our kitchen and Doctor Brother was on the line in the kitchen, telling my parents that he was definetly going to turn down his Big Boy job to pursue medicene. This job was amazing for a kid out of college—the kind of job that would support Brah for years.I remember each parent picked up a line, my brother said whatever little ditty he’d practiced, and then they hung up. My mom announced, “So Dave’s going to med school.” Cue glance at Dad, who nodded and they both kind of mutterred, “wellll, whatever makes him happy.” And then they just went back to watching Survivor. The thing is, that reaction to such a life changing decision, is the norm in my house. My parents put our happiness before all else: before our monetary potential, before our academics, and most notably, before themselves.
My how things change: Dave's a doctor, I'm 5'9''...but Cliff still enjoys gowns.
I think the best test as to how good of parenting skills one has, however, is when they kick their kids out of the nest and they see how they fly. And by fly, I mean how they make their own decisions. Parents hand them tools their whole life and then at some point, they check to see if you can do it alone. And if I may mention, I don’t want to do it alone. I’m not ready to grow up. But, Ann and Cliff gave me the flipping Prada of tools to make choices with–even if it’s not a choice they’d make me for me.
For example, when I decided to transfer colleges, it was a choice I made by myself. I can see my parents perspective on it: I was at a very good school and it was hard, but they knew the payoff would be worthwhile if I could just remember the Big Picture (future parents to be, take note. Big Picture is a metaphor that you should utilize often). But I didn’t. I made my own choice and they didn’t really get it at first. Except, they gave me every tool I needed to make that decision. And it hasn’t always been easy, but it was the right choice for me. If I had crappy parents or had been raised to not be independant and not make big girl choice solo, I’m not sure how this would have played out. But, I’m thinking not very well.I’m a super lucky little girl and I know it.
So, Happy Mather’s Day, Ann and Cliff! I’m sorry I’m not home to make you breakfast in bed, which would probalby just leave crumbs in that extra comfy bed you have (so a late night snack for Charlie), a mess in the kitchen, and likely give you a stomachache, since neither of you really eat breakfast anyways. Thanks for being super parents. If I knew sports, I’d totally use a metaphor here about how you should win some championship for parenting because your team is great. But I don’t. But I love you extra much anyways, I wish I could celebrate with you today!
Posted by M on Jun 18, 2010 in
Deep Thoughts,
How to Be a Grown Up If I hadn’t already decided many moons ago that I simply was just not going to be a member of the Real World in 2011, my first day of work really did it for me.
The people were nice, the coffee was hot (oh, Coffee…Diet Coke…my belly misses you!), I had a pad of paper to doodle on. I was you know, doing okay. I was hanging in there. Until that coffee ran right through me and I had to go to the bathroom. And in the bathroom, I had to look at my face.
Fluorescent lighting must be the world’s most unflattering light. It’s the equivalent of walking into a doctor’s office to be weighed after grubbing out on an Old Country Buffet. I swear I aged 15 years between how I looked outside, under the natural, soft glare of the sun, and when I walked inside, under the harsh glare of Corporate America.
Have you ever heard of a Monet? And not the painting. A Monet is a person who from a distance, is extremely good looking, but within much smaller distances, are actually quite horrendous looking. Most people use this term to describe girls at the bar who wear too much make up. I, personally, use it to describe alcoholic beverages, such as tequila, which seems like a good idea from a distance, but never seems to be a good choice when it’s close up.
I digress. Fluorescent lighting in the workplace is a monstrosity. But my Company takes it to a whole new level. In the bathrooms, there’s an extra thin, long light that runs horizontonally over the top of the mirrors. Which means that when I go to wash my hands (eh, let’s be honest: rinse them off), I get an extra bright fluorescent light showing off every single flaw on my face. On my neck. On my clothes. Nothing is overlooked by The Fluorescent Lighting.
The perfectionist in me sickly enjoys such horrible lighting. If my mascara is the least big smudged or my hair is the least bit out of place or has any type of shampoo residue present, I can guaurentee The Fluorescent Lighting is totally going to rub it in my face–so I can fix it. But Friday afternoon, when I’m in my jeans and barely took the time to brush my teeth this morning, much less apply make up, is the last period of time I want to have a wrinkle check performed on me just because I have to pee.
I’m learning to avert my eyes when I enter the bathroom, but I have some other ideas up my sleeve for when the Fluorescent Lighting issue gets to be too much for me to handle. The first is that I just don’t drink liquids all day. I think this is totally not practical, especially with my bladder that’s smaller than Jim Joyce’s current fan club. But, if you ask my parents or check out any of the plans I’ve made over the years, you’ll see that I tend to irr on the side of impractical anyways. I also have considered getting my car and letting my BFF, Bonnie, suggest a nearby restaurant/chocolate emperiom to use the facilities at. I figure Fluorescent Lighting will be present there too, but at least after I look at myself in the mirror, I’ll be able to make myself feel much better or at least numb the pain by entering immediately into a chocolate coma.
At the end of the summer, I intend on applying for more schooling or for a grant from the Ann and Cliff Foundation to live in their basement like a bum. Neither of those two options require intense fluorescent lighting (although chances are, Cliff will now spend his father’s day weekend building the ultimate fluorescent lighting contraption to guarentee I never move home). If, by some miracle of miracles I’m given a job in a year or God Forbid, I someday have a career where Fluorescent Lighting is installed throughout my new stomping grounds, I’ll have to figure out a way to deal with that. On top of botox, a face lift, a laser hair remover, and a professional make up artest, I think I’ll also negotiate some soft lighting into my contract. I realize most people would probably go for extra vacation time, but I won’t need as many vacation days (i.e. recovery time from plastic surgury) if I just look extra good at work everyday.
Not to mention, looking extra good at work every day is key in my plan on eventually meeting a very rich, good looking guy with great genes who eventually breeds with me, and then encourages me to stay home with our four children and pursuit my lifelong (okay, very recent) dream of opening a cupcake shop.
A cupcake shop with plenty of natural lighting, that is.
Posted by M on Jun 16, 2010 in
Savvy Travels I am a caffeine slut.
It’s true. There’s no true PC way to put it. I love caffeine. I love diet coke. I love coffee. I love green tea. I love anything that makes my alarm clock shrieking “WAKE UP LITTLE GIRL” at me at 6:30 am a little less painful.
But, the problem with diet coke is this: It’s actually not very good for you. I mean, as vices go, if you’re a DC fan, you could do a lot worse than a can or two of the most delicious beverage I can think of. But, if you’re like me and have gone to such lengths as to nickname Diet Coke the “DC,” well, you might be a little too into it. As I am. And, I’ve polluted my body with enough of the crap to actually be able to feel a difference in my body when I have it and when I don’t. And for years, and I seriously mean years, I’ve been trying to get off it. But with it’s sparkly silver can and it’s enticing red logo (devil red, in my opinion), I just can’t let go. It’s love, you know? To break it off would mean heartbreak and we all just want to be loved.
Coffee and I, however, are a more recent couple. I’ve been off and on with coffee since Finals of my Junior year of college. So, we’ve been doing it since December, and things are just about to get serious. It tends to tempt me on the weekends, when I’m out and about, and I have a hard time turning it down on extra cold mornings or when I need a little work pick me up. Coffee, however, is actually pretty decent for you. I know a lot of parents, especially those who are convinced that you know, anything non-organic, non-recyclable, or non-expensive is horrible for their little snowflake, but the truth is in the research: coffee has a bunch of crap I can’t pronounce in it that makes it not bad for you. The problem with it? It stains your teeth. My problem with that? I want a white smile. I like pictures. I don’t want coffee teeth.
My solution? Green tea. Green tea offers a lot of benefits, speeds up your metabolism (SCORE! to the m and ms I have socked away in my freezer) and is still warm and still will make my life tolerable when Corporate America insists I wake up so it can suck out my soul.
But okay, I see where your doubts lie. What makes this time different. Well, my little peppermint patties, this time it’s going to stick. I’ve purchased Crest Whitestrips. I’ve purchased whitening toothpaste. I’ve purchased Green tea. I’ve made my declaration public: I am shedding my slut status for a pearly white smile and some tea crap the Chinese love.
Updates shall be forthcoming. If you were a betting man, I wouldn’t bet on me succeeding. Unless you want to bet me, because I could really use the motivation.
I had never had the disgruntled experience of driving through Wisconsin until three weeks ago. My mother, always the savvy little traveler, had decided that we would avoid Chicago and drive to Minneapolis by instead taking the ferry that crosses whatever Great Lake is positioned to the left of Michigan (no one listens in middle school geography, okay? And if I really cared what lake was there, I’d use my iphone to google it. Actually memorizing the lake’s name seems a little overzealous to me) and drive through Wisconsin.
Oh Wisconsin. You waste of giant space.
I have a couple of key issues with Wisconsin.
The first is that this enormous state separates Michigan and Minneapolis. I realize that’s not Wisconsin’s fault, per se, but I’m not sure who else to blame but Wisconsin for its poor positioning strategy. Because of Wisconsin, a drive home for a weekend is impossible. And my God, have you ever tried to get a flight from Minneapolis to Michigan? Because of Wisconsin, it’s nearly $500 round trip! Flying to Chicago twice this summer is 80% cheaper. I could fly from Detroit to California and back for that price–and still have money to buy an LAX tshirt. Which is hands down, better than a Wisconsin tshirt. The only logical reasoning is that they have to jack the price up extra high in order to not lose money. After all, who wants to fly over Wisconsin?
Consider also that Wisconsin is known for…what? Cheese? Dairy farms? Great. I’m lactose Intolerant. I’m not exactly interested in spending 8 hours driving pass cheese shops and milk farms. Isn’t that a little discrimintory? How would you feel if I made you spend 8 hours driving in a car viewing things that would make your body bloat up like you’re five months into a pregnancy with twins? The two gas stations we stopped at had cheese wheels for sale at the register. Perfect. With my gasoline, I would really, really enjoy nothing more than a cheese wheel to snack on.
Wisconsin also has an extremely large Waterslide population. As in, every one mile there was a waterpark. Which is ridiculous because 1. Why are you people taking your kids to waterparks off highways? Doesn’t that seem a little dangerous? and 2. It’s colder in Wisconsin than Michigan, and our waterparks are either indoors or closed down for 9 months out of the year. So why exactly do you have so many waterparks that are outdoors? In this economy, does Waterpark scream good business investment to you?
Anyways, another point: the only fast food my mother and I both like…and really, the only “fast food” that doesn’t make me break out/need a nap/have a food baby/feel horrible, is Subway. So after a ferry ride across the Great Lake, a drive through the splendid town of Milwaukee, I was a little hungry. Subway was the answer. Finding a Subway in Wisconsin? No easy task. Forty five minutes into the search and Ann and I were still sandwichless. Our iphones didn’t have a signal. We were becoming sad. There was talk of resorting to McDonald’s, which would have been my first trip there (where I got something besides coffee or a smoothie) since 2006 (true, true story). Then, we spotted a highway sign directing us off the exit to a God-given gift, Subway!
Except in Wisconsin, those exits don’t tell it like it is. Sure, it was off the exit, but it was off the exit, two miles down the road, after a right turn, a left turn, a right turn, a U turn, a swear word, and a curse to Wisconsin directions. I was finally satisfied with my whole wheat and turkey meal, but I was not pleased with Wisconsin.
I tried to do some research on Wisconsin to find what else it offerred. I wanted, deep in my dark, intern heart, to give Wisconsin another shot. But all Wikipedia told me was that Wisconsin is 50.6% female (I really do not need competition to get boys, thank you very much. I also strongly believe in always keeping a 5 men to Maggie ratio in my life) and besides excelling as “America’s Dairyland,” Wisconsin is also known for it’s Oat Production. Oats and Cheese. What a state.
My proposal, therefore, is that Minnesota and Wisconsin trade spots. If God can create the land in one day, he should be able to shift states in a couple hours. Putting Minneapolis on the border of Minnesota and the previously discussed Great Lake would allow me to get home in 4 hours. It would allow me to get to Chicago in three hours. It would allow me to not have my face rubbed in the fact that my body is missing the enzyme necessary to naturally breakdown lactose.
And most importantly, it would allow me to not have to mix my gas purchase with my cheese wheel purchase.
