Wow. This gmail superduperuberbar thing is really very entertaining. I can't believe I've had it so long and just completely disregarded it. *iz ashamed*

"Repair Your Relationship. Relationshipsaver.com - Even if your partner is unwilling. Learn how in 20 minutes guaranteed."

There are so many things wrong with that ad I can't even start.

Though it is slightly disturbing that google scans my emails and uses the text to infer what kind of advertising I'd be susceptible to, I do find some amusement in trying to locate the key word that spawned the ad. For example, I got an email from Lauren with the word "friendship" in it, and I'm guessing that's what made the internet elves think I might need a love doctor.

I'm tempted to write a long-winded and completely random email filled with words like mortgage, enlargement, single... just to throw them for a loop and make the little fellas dance.

"Omg! Do we use the porn one? E-dating? Is my head EXPLODING?!"

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I'm sitting in bed with my laptop on my lap and damn, it's cold in here. The overhead fan is spinning and creating these repeating waves of cool air. One of my arms is tucked under the blanket, but the other one has to be exposed to the elements in order to operate the computer.

Do I get up and switch off the fan? No. Instead, I spend a good deal of time contemplating how nice it would be if my computer would respond to instruction by thought so that I could tuck my other arm under as well and simply will the darn thing to do my bidding.

Either I have spent too much time watching Stargate: Atlantis and wishing I was John Sheppard, or I really have reached the pinnacle of laziness.

Perhaps both.

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So, I'm doing some research for the wedding ceremony, trying desperately to find something for us to do (as tempted as I am to have us read scripture or, I don't know -- juggle). While browsing the web for options, I came across several references to a 'Wine Ceremony'. I'd never heard of it before, but apparently it's not uncommon. It's pretty much the equivalent of a Unity Candle in that it's the combining of two separate entities. But, ya know, with red and white wine.

I can just hear Dad's disgusted cry: "In the same glass!?!?!"

He won't even let me pour fresh wine into a glass that previously had a different wine in it. Not even if it's the same vineyard, same type and the only difference is the year.

Ps. Today Ryan fell in an open manhole. His pride will take longer to heal than his busted knee.

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I'm easily impressed with myself. Today, I have deemed myself of rare and superior intelligence because I already knew the Word of the Day from Dictionary.com. Sure, it was 'denizen' and I only learned it because I was in Guys and Dolls twice *shudders at the memories*, but hey, I'll see myself in whatever light I want, damnit.

Hmm. I refreshed my Gmail inbox and there's another word as the Word of the Day -- and I swear I've never seen it before in my life.

/refresh

Nope, not that one either.

/refresh

Dangit.

/refresh

That one seems vaguely familiar...

/refresh

That's a word?

Well, crap. I am the uneducated lummox I once believed myself to be.

Now I'm gonna have to start reading that top line of my inbox even if it isn't the funny quote version. Perhaps good will come of this. Yesterday it was a recipe for Spamloaf. I'm sure Ryan will be pleased.

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Or “Four Ways Allie and the World Disagree”

1. Squirrels are so cute!. Um, NO. They’re not cute. They’re not cuddly. They’re not precious. They’re rats in fur coats and they’re out to gnaw at your insides. The fluffy tail is just their way of fooling you into thinking they’re lovable. I am not fooled.

2. Coffee rocks like whoa. Lies! Coffee is foul. It’s what I imagine you would get if you mixed mud and battery acid. I can only assume that the rest of the world has something going on in the taste bud department that enables them to let that sludge pass over their tongues without it immediately going back the way it came. (This taste bud discrepancy also accounts for the world’s fascination with mint and other things that burn.)

3. Friday nights are for partying! I think not. Friday nights are for curling up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate and grinning unabashedly while watching Stargate: Atlantis. Wow. I get a silly smile on my face just thinking about it. Why on earth (or, you know, not earth) would you rather be at some smoky bar paying seven bucks for a margarita and the company of strangers when you could be in the comfort of your own home watching thebestestshoweveromg!

4. Cell phones r uber. Now that’s just crazy talk. Cell phones are where privacy, solitude and peace go to die. They take away your freedom! Because of these technological “advancements” there is no such thing as “unavailable.” Which is ridiculous! People expect to call you at any time and for you to answer. They expect *gulp* smalltalk! WTH! If I knew how to shoot the shit with people I’d go out more, dangit. I love my friends and family dearly, I really do. But there is something about that damned device that makes me nervous and uncomfortable and I swear it is out to get me with its… ringing and crap. Ugh. If people want instant gratification they can email me for heaven’s sake.

So... is this grounds for divorce?

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I have several issues with the gym. Most of them revolving around the fact that when I’m there I am forced to exercise, but whatever.

First of all, I find the free weight coloring system appalling. Seriously. As if it weren’t humiliating enough to be using 2lb dumbbells (not that I do…) but they have to be pink? Pink! Because when the guy next to you is benching two hundred and you’re sweating under the burden of your pair of deuces, you want his attention drawn to the fact that they match your tank top. Luckily, I skipped the apple cores and went straight to the big guns – the fives. The five pounders are blue, the eights are green and the tens are black. All of them are some sort of foam. I’m on to the tens now, so my embarrassment isn’t as painful as it once was, but I still think the weight companies ought to do something about this. I propose making anything above 15lbs mandatory pastel. After all, a real man not only has muscle but can maintain his masculinity while holding girly colored paraphernalia.

One of the more frustrating parts of the gym excursion for me is the cardio. Nothing is more boring than sitting in one place for 30 minutes, spinning your wheels and staring at the Food Network. What is up with people’s tastes? Why is it that there are six television screens and none of them ever show anything I want to watch? (And don’t give me some BS about me going up there and changing the channel. Even if I wasn’t going to turn it to Sci Fi or something equally shameful, I still wouldn’t have the nerve to turn to the masses and ask if anyone was watching tv number 4. Please.) Inevitably two are on a cooking show (the same one on either end of the media bank), one is on sports, two are on the news and one is on Seventh Heaven (shouldn't the Camdens have died of old age by now?). So, I am relegated to listening to my iPod – which, no matter how many times I upload new songs, always seems to be playing crap I’m tired of. But what really gets me… is that I am forced to listen to music and NOT sing along. It’s like putting me next to Joe Flanigan but not letting me touch him. Cruel.

The biggest downside to gymming? (See that there? I made it a verb. I’m a good fangirl.) There are people there! You are constantly surrounded by strangers! Knee pushups are awkward enough in the comfort of my own living room. Doing them smack dab in the center of the whole of West Salem is positively mortifying. There should most certainly be small dark rooms where you can do your physical laboring in private. And they should be soundproof so that I may sing freely. And they should have those mirrors that make you look skinny. And every once in a while a hot man should knock on the door and offer you ice water and a "Pardon me for saying this, but you have an impressive set of muscles on that delicate frame."

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Just when you thought I couldn't get any dorkier.

English? Not my only language. And because this post was such a hit (totally need a sarcasm font) I thought I'd write another installment. Because there's more than one way to speak geek.

Languages to Master:
English
Spanish
Smalltalk
Pig Latin
Video Nerd
Fangirl

Special note: Fangirl is a language that is not intended to be spoken. Attempts at speaking will reflect poorly on the mental state of the guilty party. This is a text language, yo.

Let us begin with highlighting the differences between Fangirl and Video Nerd. First off -- and perhaps most important -- is the emote. Due to the nature of online conversing, emotion/actions must be expressed through text rather than inflection or physical representation. Thus, the 'emote' was born. As I have mentioned before, in the online gaming industry the emote is denoted with a backslash: /hides. In the wonderful world of Unhealthy Obsession with Fiction, the emote is indicated by the presence of asterisks: *hides*. The most common emotes: *head desk* and *face palm*.

Also, though Fangirl does frequently make use of intentional misspelling, I have found that grammar isn't something so blatantly ignored. "i r teh suck" wouldn't really fly with the gals. We're an "I am" kind of people.

Perhaps because screaming fangirls rarely stop to take a breath, it is also very common in this form of conversing to smash words together. Really, any old words will do. However, there are some commonly reused smooshes and you can never go wrong if you start it with 'omgwtf.' Omgwtfstopitnow.

Along the same lines as the smooshing is the exclamation point. This is used to tie words together and create a new subject in and of itself. For example, the image conjured when Lauren thinks of Joe Flanigan in a wetsuit needs its own name. Thus: Scuba!Joe is born.

Fangirls have been known to make verbs out of words that aren't (and sometimes out of names). For example, if Fred stated the obvious it would be referred to as 'obviousing'... and if he did it allthetimeomg it would begin to be referred to as Freding. Or, if Tiffany yelled "faster, Allie, come on!" during our workout sessions I would say that she had Laurened me.

Anyway, blah blah. Lets get some vocab.

wibble
v.
Frequently used in the emote form, *wibble* is the state of being overcome with emotion. Balancing on the brink of tears.

like whoa
adj.
To the extreme.

example: Joe Flanigan is sexy like whoa.

oh noes
excl.
Pretty much the same as "Oh no!" Used to express dismay.

squee
excl.
The cornerstone of Fangirldom, squee is the word put to the sound of the gleeful girlie squeak. Imagine the noise I'd make if Michael Vartan stopped and asked me for directions. That is a squee.

Now, make sure you're alone. This isn't something you're going to want to do in public. As I have previously stated, should someone catch you verbalizing Fangirl you will be humiliated. You think it sounds ridiculous in print just wait until you walk in on someone squeeing.

Okay, once the coast is clear, get out of your chair and jump up and down several times. Throw in a girlie clap or two. Think of something very exciting. Now, squeal "zomg[whatever you're thinking]" without taking a break between words. Try thinking of something that would surprise/disturb you. Throw a "wtfbbq" before it. Something that makes you sad: "ohnoes" is the preface you're looking for.

Now, slap your palm on your forehead.

Congratulations. You are now an honorary fangirl. Go ahead, make your name a verb.

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Oh. My. Lord.

You know how people refer to high school students as little shits? Yeah, well, I'm there. And I feel really guilty about it -- I do. I know they're not at fault. But, damnit, I need someone to blame.

Curses, Band Camp, you hateful, hateful coterie. You with your side lawn practices and unfathomable volume. You with your pulsing beats that shake the walls of my previously peaceful home.

Does the metronome have to be so hellishly loud and blindlingly persistent?

The irony being that even with the *twang twang twang* of said time-keeper throbbing in my brain the precussion section is still offbeat.

Can we just cut our losses and unplug it? For my sanity?

Pretty please with a tuba on top?

(ETA: Um, except Thaddeus. You are exempt. Sadly, your friends are not.)

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So - I've been working out.

/sigh

Please stop laughing.

I'm serious.

It's true.

Anyway. BootCampBitch -- uh, I mean, my dear dear sister Lauren has put me on a vigorous routine. It started about two months ago, but I'll admit, I wasn't a very good little soldier to start with. I've been known to... uh... er... hide under the bed when BCB was looking for a workout partner. To solve this little problem, master drill sergeant has instituted a new regime -- this one comes complete with punishment.

That's right. If I don't workout six days a week [doom] I have to add an extra 15 minutes onto my next cardio session [/doom].

This may not seem like much, but let me tell you - when the digital display on that stationary bicycle hits 4:59 I'm already internally weeping. You can imagine the horror if I knew I couldn't stop the insanity until it said 45:00. I'd probably cycle myself right off a cliff. (No small feat when the wheels don't touch ground.)

Needless to say, this punishment thing is working. I have yet to skip a day. /beams

So three days a week I'm at the Courthouse Athletic Club humiliating myself by performing girl pushups in front of all the local boys and fifty year old women who do a damn good Jack Palance.

The remaining three days find me in BCB's garage listening to the wit of Tony the VHS workout man. Oh, and let me not forget "the kids" - Paul and Lisa. Lisa, btw looks like Alanis Morisette and punches so lamely that should she wind up toe-to-toe with a four year old, I'd advise her to run for the hills. Paul is simply eye-candy for Lauren. Tony is, well, maybe funny the first time. But let me tell you, the jokes get old after the tenth viewing. You can imagine them now. And every single time he tells me to "suck it up" I lose a little bit of my will to live.

Anyway, I'm doing my 90 days and I actually am seeing results. I'm buff like woah and not afraid to flex for you. Maybe one day I'll do pushups that don't bruise my knees. (Maybe not.) But here's the deal with exercising: It never stops! 90 days. Then what? Then 90 more days! And 90 more! For the rest of my life!?!?! I object. I veto this crap. I will not stand for an existence as excruciating as this. It has to end. You should be able to workout until you get your desired look and then stop, leaving your body exactly how it is. You reach your goal and then you quit, damnit. What's up with this constant maintenance crap? Who invented that?

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