Maybe it's not a good idea to write a post while running a high fever because I seem to have lost my censoring skills.

I'm not really here right now because I'm still on a brain mending vacation but I needed to enlighten all the womens out there, and some men too I guess, on the benefits of house work.

I have an App on my iPhone called "Lose It!". It asks for your body weight, what your goal weight is and how long you give yourself to reach your goal, then it tells you how many calories you should consume per day in order to meet your goal.

You enter the things you've eaten and it calculates calories, fat, protein etc.

You may also enter the amount of exercise you've had for the day and it guesstimates how many calories you've burned. Since I just started the App on Monday, and haven't joined a gym yet, I counted going to my side job last night for 3 hours (because I was doing some cleaning and heavy lifting) and scrubbing the tub when I got home as part of my exercise. To play it safe, I typed in ONE hour of "housework" instead of 3 and the App told me I had burned about 219 calories.

niiice!

As I was scrolling down to look at their other options for exercise, I saw Darts, Frisbee, Home Repair and a bunch of others but the one that caught my attention was "Sexual Activity".

Strictly out of curiosity, I clicked on it to see what it said.

First it asks you for the intensity "passive, light, kissing" "general, moderate" & "Active, vigorous".

So I tested "passive" and entered an hour-

ERH! ZERO calories burned!

I tried "general" and that gave us-

33 calories burned. Close but no cigar!

I tried "vigorous" and that gave us-

55 calories burned for one hour. Kinda whimpered out there at the end huh?

I'm wondering how they test these things. Do they account for solo acts?

Anyway! Burning 55 calories after some vigorous schtooping versus 219 from house work?

Listen, I'm not one to dismiss scientific data without some careful consideration. And also, we all know an hour of some slap and tickle is only possible in that island we'll call "Yeahrightland"! Perhaps I've said too much?

So the lesson of the day, ladies and gents, is: Stop wasting your time with the kooky nooky and do something productive like scrubbing a tub!

If you run out of things to clean in your home, shoot me an email and I'll let you come over and help me clean my house for free. You read that right, FOR FREE!

And now? The Nyquil awaits me!

Dear Polar Bears, I regret to inform you. . .

I can no longer be responsible for saving your species.

It is with a heavy heart I have made this decision but I need, no, I MUST go back to using my bottled body wash. I know that now my empty bottles will fill the landfills that somehow contribute to your demise but this dry skin of mine is making me miserable. And when I'm miserable, those around me suffer so really it's for the greater good.

I know my pain and discomfort doesn't equal the obstacles you go through on a daily basis just to find one of those nefarious penguins I'm always hearing about so you can have it for din-din but I can't take responsibility for all things on Earth. Maybe I'll concentrate all my efforts on saving the butterflies.

Some people will say it's selfish of me to put my own comfort before that of a whole species but I would have to disagree and call those naysayers pushy-pansy-pants because, who else would be willing to take on the hate mail from people like PETA, Al Gore and Ed Begley Jr? That makes me brave. Brave and beautiful with soft skin. But wait. That doesn't mean you should try to eat me because, even though I may look appetizing, all the chemicals I use make me taste like a burnt out tire.

Since I couldn't bear (get it? BEAR? I crack myself up!) to look you in the eye, or knee caps since I'm so short, I am leaving this letter outside of your tank/cage at Lincoln Park Zoo. Although, now that I think about it, I haven't seen you in months! I'm hoping your extinction didn't come before my letter because that would mean I spent all this time typing out an apology when I could have been doing something more productive like watching my recorded Dick Van Dyke shows or maybe working.

Anyway, good luck to you! I hope you find somebody more worthy to take on your cause! But don't trust anybody with a shotgun and a fork. That's always been my motto.

Sincerely,

Bee

I am going to start charging a separate fee when I translate sign language.

A long long time ago, when I was just a *little Bee*, my Spanish was horrible.

  (Isabella)(she's always mad at me)(like I bother her)

I was like a toddler learning to speak with half words/half grunts and finger pointing which was cute when I was 2 but not so much when I was older. My mom, with her maternal instinct set on high, would understand every single one of my *Spanish words* and so I got by.

This went on until the year we moved to Mexico and I was about 13. I learned the hard way that "negro gato" made no sense but "gato negro" meant *black cat*. (I know what you're thinking, those are the same words only in a different order. Very observant of you, Captain Obvious-Stater! I can use a lot of words but if they are out of order, they mean nothing! As evidence by this blog. Uh,  moving on.)

I say I learned the hard way because my aunts, uncles, and cousins had no mercy on this beautiful defenseless little girl and picked at every word, phrase, incorrect use of *este* my mouth uttered.

 

1. ¹este (adjective)
2. ²este (adjective)
3. ³este (masculine noun)
4. éste (pronoun)

 

Sure, I got back at them by calling them "ass-faces" or "jerk off bitches" in English because they only knew the one language so they'd be clueless but victories were always short lived.

I honed my Spanish skills the same way a ninja masters his fear of heights, the dark and large pointy objects being thrown at his head. As my vocabulary expanded, so did my confidence in slaying those taunting jackasses I called my family. (KIDDING! I love them all- except for 2)

I made a great pupil and assembled an army of Spanish words the likes not even the Spaniards themselves had known existed! I learned to side step their word darts and lob off a few of my own verbal grenades. People learned to be wary of my poisonous tongue.

And those victories were chiseled in the family hall of fame with the sharp needles of a drunk  porcupine!

Anyway, flash-forward to the present. Spanish has been a useful tool that has gotten me far in life. (Well, not so much *far in life* as *living in the suburbs*.) I have helped many hard working individuals needing a translator who wouldn't just make up words by adding an *o* or *a* to the end of an English word. The word "cast" does not become "cast-o" the word "fracture" does not become "fractur-a" okay it does because that's how you say fracture in Spanish.

My point is, I'm great at my translating duties.

There have been times when I've been embarrassed (like the time that dude hurt his shoulder from wiping himself) but, with the diligence of a nun kneeling during prayers, I have worked through the pain and discomfort.

This all changed on Monday. I was pranked again by that evil bitch, Karma.

I was called to the cast-room for translation. Nothing surprising about this patient. He had an ankle fracture, they were casting him, I was just going in to explain the x-rays, care of cast and to see if he had any questions.

Things were going okay but you could tell he had a question he seemed too embarrassed to ask.

Finally, OZ asks: Is there anything else before I leave.

Man: I was just wondering if me and my woman [I kid you not he said *my woman* !! Okay, I may be a tad judgmental especially because I call Andy *my man* but it's cute when I do it] will be able to [pumps hips] you know.

Ladies and gentleman, I've had a lot of awful experiences in my life, a bunch of embarrassing ones and a ton of nice ones but none of them ever prepared me for that! None!

Like there wasn't one time I thought, "Okay, I only have enough to pay for Nancy and Rick's bus ride home so I'll have to walk from here. Sure it's 10 degrees but that's okay because if I'm ever translating for a guy and he wants me to ask the doctor if he can have sex with his woman, this experience will come in handy!"

I bowed my head, and I tried to come up with a proper phrasing because I could not bring myself to utter the word *sex* in front of OZ.

Me: He wants to know if he can have relations with his girlfriend.

OZ [blushes, stands up straight, sprints for the door]: yeah sure! That's great! [leaves]

I know what you're thinking, '*relations*, Bee? What are you, living in an 18th century novel?' And to that I answer. Screw you! ::sobs:: Screw you.

The sad part? I don't think I needed to say one freaking word because his uh DEMONSTRATION? was universal in all languages! And besides! Do you need a flip book showing you what body parts you use for sex?

 

Do you really need your ankle?

Dumbshit.

I don't get paid enough.

Dream Sequence

Bee is sitting at her desk watching one bat after another crap on the copy machine. Their piercing screeches can be heard on the 118th floor of the 7 floor building. (What? It's a dream! It's not supposed to make sense!) The bats are angry because the machine isn't working again but Bee knows it's an operator error and not the fault of the high-tech copier. She moves slowly toward the machine making sure her flippers are ready for any attack.

The scene shifts and she is now back home. She stands in her hallway confused, is she awake or still dreaming?

Suddenly she hears a man's FEROCIOUS voice, some BEEPs and pounding. He seems to be upset "Ooga booga dooga!!" she approaches him quietly hoping not to disturb his ritual of scratching his head and jumping from foot to foot while hitting a black object- TOO LATE! He sees her! So she reasonably asks "WTF is going on here?? Why are you yelling??"

The guy responds: Me can't make copy! Me try long time! Say paper jam so me bang bang on top! Still not work!

Bee: Move over you orangutan!

She fixes the copy machine by clearing paper jam from the very secret compartment not visible unless your eyes are open.

Man makes copy and grunts.

After saving the day AGAIN, she puts on her sombrero and walks off into the sunrise! (*Sunrise* because she now has to take a shower, go to work and face another day of Xerox Machine vs Unqualified Purple People Eaters)(Yes, you do need to be qualified to eat people, just ask the Council of Cannibal Americans)(But you better ask them quickly because they are slowly disappearing- some think due to extinction but I think it's due to BBQ sauce)(Also, the people eaters are purple, not the people)(Have I lost you yet?)(You know what? Just disregard everything I said after "sunrise!")

╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞╞

Regarding the shoes from yesterday.

Sornie was wondering about women's obsession with shoes. He says he only has 4 pair and one pair is to mow the lawn. That made me giggle.

For us, shoes are another accessory we can wear with an outfit. They make statements. Sometimes they give us an extra ego boost when we know we're going to have a tough day at work. For example, say you have an overbearing boss who continually berates all his employees and thinks he is the only person on earth who knows what "reciprocity" means because we are all obviously dumber than a butt nugget. It gives one great satisfaction to see an arrogant oaf do a double take and then make a comment on your shoes.

Other times, a pair of shoes can emphasize ones legs. Mine, for example, are tree trunks in flats but put on a pair of these:

and I'm transformed into a poor man's Heidi Klum. Okay, that may be only in my head but that goes back to the ego boost.

I'm not really sure what the equivalent would be for men. Really. I've been sitting here trying to come up with something and I haven't been able to. The conclusion I'm drawing is that you're flawed. I think it goes back to the Legend of the Peacock.

Also, to David who asked why I had worn other shoes if I had said the green ones were meant for the reunion. I haven't gone to the reunion yet. That's this coming Saturday. The black shoes I mentioned in the post I wore to work. The green ones are still resting majestically in their box.

Well, I think that's all I have to say about shoes. FOR NOW!

This post is brought to you by...*

I love watching commercials. I know that may not be a popular thing to say in this day of TiVos and DVRs but I enjoy a well crafted attempt to hypnotize me into obesity/alcoholism/gambling/promiscuity.

One of my favorite commercials right now is the one for Schick Quattro. I hope the creative minds behind this idea are, at this very moment, on a boat sipping champagne in St. Tropez.

It is seriously one of the best commercials I have ever seen. Take a look:

The first time I saw it, I laughed my ass off while Andy looked at me in confusion.

Bee: Don't you get it?

Andy: It's a commercial about a razor, so?

Bee: Do you see what's happening to the bushes as the women walk by them?

I rewind it so he can see the bushes.

Andy: I don't get it.

Bee: Good lord man! The woman walks by the bush and then it morphs into a more manicured shape!

Andy: ...?

Bee: Bush bush BUSH!! [gestures wildly]

Andy: Oh BUSH!! [nods and points]

::sigh:: I married an innocent!

Anyway, the reason I think this commercial is genius is because they don't give you specifics and yet they leave nothing to the imagination... without being tacky. And I know tacky!

In the name of blogscience, I will test out what the commercial advertises and walk in front of a bush.

Before:

After:

Ummmm, uh-oh?

*Alternate title "One in the hand is worth 2 in the bush"

Glass half full?

So I know I'm supposed to do reruns but then I read back on my shi-stuff and I'm too embarrassed to repost such lameness soooooooo...

We went to the zoo on Sunday whereupon we saw this sign.

The way I see it, there are 2 kinds of people. Those that think.

"Holy crap! I guess my sex life could be worse!"

or

"Dammit! Even hippos are having more fun than I am!"

 

Which are you?