Before the existence of 24 Hour Fitness, Gold’s Gym, or Curves, there was this little place called “outside” that people frequented. Membership to this exclusive studio featured oxygen, scenery, and convenient access no matter where on Earth you were. You could get it all for zero dollars a month, and zero dollars in sign-up fees. If you brought a friend, you could both work out for the price of one!
I refuse to join a gym. I think it’s a racket to overcharge people to do what they could do for free, and I don’t enjoy letting strangers see my body jiggling well after I’ve stopped moving. Other reasons I hate fitness factories:
- Having to wipe off someone else’s swamp ass from the equipment
- Possibility of catching a foot fungus in the shower, forcing me to remove one of my toes, and become off-balance for the rest of my life
- Witnessing guys staring at themselves in the mirror while lifting weights
- Looking like Gollum on the treadmill while the girl with the full face of makeup next to me barely breaks a sweat
- Watching people Facebook “gettin’ my workout on!” while bicycling slower than a sleepy toddler on a tricycle
- Hearing the kind of grunting that should only come from women in labor
- Feeling embarrassed for that one guy who thinks it’s okay for dudes to use elliptical machines
- Smelling “Hansel & Gretel” body odor, the trail of stinky destruction left by a member as he/she travels around the machines
This should come as no surprise, but there are people who are worried about me. It’s not because the last time I brushed my hair Monica Lewinsky was smoking a cigar from her beef curtains. It’s not even because my I’ve begun talking about reality show characters as though they were my real friends. It’s because I’m single.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I wish my friends would stop telling me about a “great guy” they know. I appreciate the concern, I do. Everyone should be so lucky to have friends who care so much that they go out of their way to try and make you happy. My issue isn’t with their attempts at helping me find true love. My issue is that they suck at it.
I tweeted this the other day:
It’s not fair to be critical of something if you’re not willing to help remedy it. Let’s take this time to talk about what Jen and Tonic looks for in a man. Continue reading
There is a woman here on WordPress, you may have heard of her, The Ringmistress. She is married to a guy you may also have heard of, Le Clown. Together they form an incredibly sexy and disgustingly romantic couple. They make me puke in a way only Canadians in love can.
Today is Le Clown’s birthday, and The Ringmistress thought it would be fun if she sent him on a blog scavenger hunt. You know, because nothing says love like making someone work for their birthday gift. She asked his best bloggy friends to put up posts providing clues which would help him navigate the hunt. She gave me my assignment, cracked her whip, and I started brainstorming.
My first thought was to dress up like a clown. He’s a clown, I like makeup, and my nose is already red from all of this drinking. It just makes sense to commemorate his birthday in this way.
Dressing up like a clown is a totally normal way to spend a Friday night
I look good, don’t I? A little too good. My eye diamonds, my blushing cheeks, my jazz hands. You can’t upstage someone on their birthday! Back to the drawing board. Continue reading
Hooked on Tonics, I’ve been away for awhile. I received notes from a few of you expressing your concern:
“Are you going to come back? You’re the most brilliant (and beautiful) writer on the planet. You’ve spoiled me so much I can’t read anything else.”
“Come back or I’ll gut you like a pig.”
“What I really need is more cowbell, but since I can’t have that, you’ll do.”
You guys flatter me.
I’ve been very busy over the last couple of weeks. I went to California to spend time with my family for Christmas, and it was equal parts fun, terrifying and exhausting. Once I got home, I came down with the horrible flu/cold thing that has been going around. Additionally, a new role I’ve taken on at my job kept me a bit busier than I anticipated. In short, shit was cray.
I missed all of you, especially those who send me nudes on the regular.
SoJaT fact: Burt was the first person to follow this blog
I honestly cannot believe I only have this post and the one for tomorrow, and then the 12 Days of Christmas series is over. I should be flying high! My creative juices should be spilling over! I should be spinning plates on my fingers, toes and nose simultaneously. The closest I’ve gotten to that tonight is when I burped and hiccuped at the same time.
Instead, I’m left with nothing.
Our male pattern baldness is eerily similar
This is how tonight has gone: Continue reading
I’ve come to accept that there are things in life I can’t control:
- People actin’ a fool towards me
- MTV playing reruns of the MTV Movie Awards for 6 straight months after it airs
- My bladder
While driving today, I came up with a great concept for today’s blog. I was going to talk about my family, love, friendship and all that other crap you’re supposed to be thankful for around the holidays. I was going to win awards with this post. The Nobel Prize committee might as well have been polishing my medal (they give medals, right?) Continue reading
My name is Jen, and I’m an addict. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment my habit made the leap from recreational use to full-blown addiction. Maybe it was the time I sat in my car during my lunch hour, participating in my new hobby. It could have been the time I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning partaking in it even though I knew I had to get up early the next day. How does one define these kinds of moments?
My name is Jen, and I’m addicted to internet memes.
I am ashamed, dear readers, because I should have been writing a post for you tonight. I come up with the concept to deliver twelve posts in a row to show my holiday spirit, and now I can’t deliver. Instead of typing feverishly, I’ve been pissing away my night looking at things like this:
Every year when Christmas approaches, I get really excited. Because of Baby Jesus? No. Because of all the presents I’m going to receive? No. Because of the paid day off from work? Nope. My panties get electrified because of the salmonella-laden drink we call Eggnog.
I have a love-hate relationship with The ‘Nog. When I first see this holiday treat decorating the dairy section, I do a little happy dance right in the middle of the aisle. It looks like a cross between the Harlem Shake and the Cabbage Patch. Basically, shit gets crazy at Safeway.
You too can do “The Eggnog” in your local grocery store (credit: Polyvore)
Unfortunately, my enthusiasm causes me to lose my ability to judge how much eggnog I can drink before I want to die. I always go for the big carton, have a couple of glasses, and then regret my decision to purchase so much
buttermilk liquid butter of the raw egg concoction. Continue reading
I’m a sucker for Christmas traditions. Some people string popcorn and hang it on their tree. Some people sing Christmas carols. Some people attend midnight mass. I have fond memories of these lovely Tonic Family traditions:
- Cussing up a storm as we try to figure out which bulb is causing the whole strand to blackout
- Having tree sap stuck to my skin and hair for days after helping get the tree in the base
- Waking up at ungodly hours because a tiny person in the house wants to get up before the sun does to open presents
- My parents arguing because my dad forgot to charge the camcorder battery for the 900th year in a row
- Feeling bloated and praying for a swift death after consuming too many sweets
Christmas 2009. This is me right before I “gave birth” to the cheesecake, rum balls and fudge I ate earlier in the day.