Women: A Real Drag on the Sharp End

Since this appeared on , I'm assuming most readers of this blog will have seen this already. (Originally credited to Dethroner.)

As someone whose first climb EVER was a five-pitch 5.8 in Yosemite, however, this made me laugh/offended me all the more. Nice pants, dudes.

(Text reads: "Men are better than women! Indoors, women are useful -- even pleasant. On a mountain they are something of a drag. So don't go hauling them up a cliff just to show off your Drummond climbing sweaters. No need to. These pullovers look great anywhere!"

Too Busy to Blog

But I promise things will ease up in the New Year. Because if they don't, I'm going to have to check myself in somewhere for "exhaustion." Me and LiLo will have a gay old time.

In the meantime, make your way over to my friend Guy's site for his account of a recent Friday debacle. I know it's hard to believe that he's not totally full of crap because really, who could possibly masturbate more than four times a day? But I assure you -- at least some parts of this story are true. You have your witness (although luckily, not to the olfactory-danglings of pork products).

Caught With My (Yoga) Pants Down

Dear Sports Center at Chelsea Piers,

It's time for us to have a little talk. We've been together now since 1999, and you know me pretty well. You've been suspicious for awhile now -- I've lost weight, I have a new spring in my step, and we're smack in the middle of a seven-year itch. So I just want to get it out in the open: Yes, Chelsea Piers, I'm cheating.

CP, I'll always love you the best, you know that. My affair with Equinox is just a locationship -- not a relationship. They don't have a sushi bar, or a climbing wall, or a full-size track and a sundeck. Obviously, you're superior in every way.

And yet, I think it's time for us to reevaluate our commitment. Because despite all your great qualities, you're just TOO HIGH MAINTENANCE. I'd say "It's not you, it's me," but let's face it, that's not true. I've dumped more than five figures into you over the past seven years, I've endured grueling daily commutes to Manhattan's absolute farthest western reaches, ALL FOR YOU. And yet you still refuse to give an inch: You're not getting any closer to the F train, and I finally realize, you never will. I've opened my wallet and heart to you, and what have I gotten in return? Nothing but a world of grief from the M14 bus.

Baby, don't be mad! Don't be that way! We can still be friends. I'm not going to cut off your alimony just yet, and I'll come see you on the weekends when I have hours to spare on unreliable public transportation to the West Side Highway and need a climbing fix. Really, I'm gonna miss you more than you know, and Equinox will never inspire me that you have.

But I need a little somethin' on the side. Somewhere that doesn't make me WORK so hard. Somewhere that accepts me just as I am -- that is, in close proximity to the F train.

Ten Things Tuesdays: I Smell a Tourist

Ah, the holidays in Rockefeller Center. Since I work in the area, I am intimately familiar with the caverns beneath Rock Center, so I can avoid the scrum of slow-moving lookie-loos each year, all oohing and ahhing at the tree and the ice rink as they bump into poles and trip over pigeons on their way to bring their red-velvet-clad snotnosed toddlers to see the 200 dancing santas at Radio City. I mean, I try to be nice, provide directions, avoid stepping on their hammertoes -- but just how much can one girl handle?

Sometimes, they're just unavoidable. The other day, pushing through a bunch of people trying to figure out how one of them thar Metrocards work (and feeling woefully lacking in holiday spirit), I felt my nose crinkle up as I looked at them all, like I smelled something bad. That wasn't very nice now, was it?

But when I started to think about it, I realized -- you really *can* smell tourists.

And so, Grinchlike, I present to you this Holiday Season an olfactory map of the smells wafting from the ample acres of mottled skin and puffy coats that swaddle the burgeoning throngs of New York's holiday tourists.

1) Stale doughnut.
"Now, why would we want to try the bread basket at Balthazaar when we have a perfectly good continental breakfast FOR FREE right here at the Comfort Inn?"

2) Horse poop.
"Stan, wouldn't it be SO ROMANTIC if we took a carriage ride? Around Central Park? It's like we're IN A MOVIE!"

3) Knish.
"Is that a square doughnut? I don't get it. And why do they put MUSTARD on it of all things? New Yorkers are so weird. Oh well...WHEN IN ROME!"

4) Bulgari Voile de Jasmine Fragrance.
"Oh my gosh, LOOK! It's SAKS. Let's go BUY SOMETHING. Wow, everything is so expensive. No, no, I WOULDN'T like to try Bulgari Voile de Jasmine, stop! Stop spraying! [Cough.]"

5) Sweat.
"I KNEW we should have driven the Econoline. But where do these people park? Wait, how many blocks is it to the Empire State Building? I'm not paying for no damn taxi! We'll walk it. Come on, Helen. Keep up! My left arm feels funny all of a sudden. Tingly...so tingly..."

6) Gas.
"There has to be a public bathroom around here somewhere. Right? Um. I need to find one. Now."

7) Oregano.
"I can't believe they sell drugs IN THE PARK. What about the children? Should we buy some? I mean, that would be so EDGY, we'd have quite a STORY to tell when we got home; it'd be just like my days back at the University of North Dakota when we got a hot shipment in from Minneapolis. Smoking 'doobies' right in the park. Fifty bucks? Well, I guess it's worth it if we want to get the real, gritty experience. We'll take a bag. Thanks."

8) Vinyl.
"Gucci purses, right here on Sixth Avenue. Well, why not -- it IS fashion avenue after all. A girl can splurge. I deserve it. I'm on vacation."

9) Hair spray.
"This wind isn't doing anything for my perm."

10) Fear.
"Oh my gosh. There's a, a...BROWN person over there.."