Hawaii Recap

Hi friends! We have been back from Hawaii for nearly a week now, and Jack still hasn't broken up with me, despite having spent 5 days with my family (they are crazy - like me - but delightful - also like me), and having claimed he was just waiting for the trip to call it quits on us. What a jerkball!*

A couple stories about Hawaii before we continue with our regularly scheduled program (i.e., more nonsense):

• We learned that you should never rent a Dodge Charger. Did you know that all you need to break into one of those is a screw driver? Apparently there is a youtube video that shows you how. Anyway, Jack got a new pair of sneakers at Niketown in Honolulu and left them in the back seat of the car while we did some shopping in the Waikiki area. We also both had our digital SLR cameras in the trunk. Some d-bag broke into the car and grabbed the shoes, then opened the trunk to make sure he didn't miss anything. Upon seeing the much more valuable cameras, he left the shoes in the trunk and jacked our cameras! While you'd think Jack would be highly upset about this loss, he was actually more upset that the burglar didn't appreciate his good fashion sense enough to steal his very cool sneakers. He is thinking about wearing a shirt that says "Reject" whenever he wears the shoes now, and pouts a little when you mention that they aren't worthy of being stolen. (I mention that frequently, incidentally, because I'm sweet like that.)
• Our last night there we were lucky enough to witness a beat down. We were sitting on the porch of a restaurant and across the street some punks just started beating the crap out of another punk. Police were there within 2 minutes. Apparently they are great at catching violent teenagers, but not so great at finding our stolen cameras.
• I convinced a very hesitant Jack that we should do some snorkeling. He finally agreed, then promptly dropped part of the mask into the ocean. "Are you going to get that back, honey?", I asked, to which he replied, "You do it. I don't dive." We were in 4 feet of water - not exactly "diving", really. Anyway, after a little while with the snorkel, I had a Snorkeling Monster on my hands. It was all he wanted to do. It was fun, though, and we got to see a turtle! I named him Frank, and we followed him around for quite some time.
• Jack and I were together for 9 days straight, with almost no time apart. I bet we spent a total of 3 hours apart. In that short amount of time, Jack was hit on by a gay guy who did not believe him when he said he was there with his girlfriend (i.e. yours truly). He was also hit on by the girl who had been sitting next to ME at the pool for hours. I got up to go get a massage (mmmm, lomi-lomi) and she starts up a conversation with him, asking if he's married, and blahblahblah. The NERVE! I was hit on zero times....although being hit on by my massage therapist would have been pretty awkward, so I'm not complaining. Anyway, I can't let him out of my sight at all or the competition - female and male - swarms like a bunch of little sharkies! Hmph!

So, those were some of the highlights of the trip. We had an amazing time and would go back in a heartbeat. In fact, we wish we were still there...sigh.
__________________
*This is our new insult to each other. Jack made it up. He doesn't have the vocabulary of a sailor like yours truly, so his insults are always adorably child-like.

Jack Goes to Diva Dance Class

Word up. It's me, Jack. A few weeks ago I got a Community Education course guide in the mail. I casually paged through the various class offerings and stopped when I spotted the following title: Dance Funk Diva Routines. The description of the class read something like this: "Have fun and burn some calories while learning the dance routines from today's hottest songs."

So naturally I signed up.

Looking back, I have no idea what I was thinking. Probably something like, "this will be a funny story to write about" or "I hate my treadmill" or "ever since I saw Save the Last Dance, I've secretly wanted to be one of Janet Jackson's back-up dancers."

Well last night was my first class, and...Houston, we have a problem!

7:03 pm - As I listen to my 24 classmates introduce themselves (e.g., "My name is Jasmine. I'm 22 and a senior at the U. I've been taking dance classes for 8 years. My favorite type of dance is ballet.), I realize a few things: (a) I'm one of only two dudes in the entire class; (b) spandex tights are apparently back in style; and (c) I picked the wrong night to rock sweat pants and an ironic mustache (i.e., I looked like a pervert).

7:05 pm - "Hello. My name's Jack. I'm....umm...29ish. I work in an office. I've never really taken a dance class. Wait, I take that back: I had two weeks of square dance lessons in elementary school. Oh, and also my friend Trevor taught me how to sorta moonwalk in 8th grade. My favorite type of dance is...umm...break."

7:08 pm - Our instructor explains to us that we're going to begin with some "basic moves to get stretched out." She puts on an R&B song (Ray J, I think) and most of the class - including yours truly - follows along.

7:15 pm - Once I was "stretched out" (i.e., tired), I was made aware that it was now time for us to learn our first routine: "Tonight we're going to learn the dance to Fergalicious by Fergie."

In an effort to repress as many memories as possible - and to keep this brief - I'm not going to subject you to a minute-by-minute blow of what happened next. Let's just say that at approximately 7:30 I found myself on all fours doing double-time booty pops while "t-t-t-t-t-tasty, tasty" blasted from a beat-up boom box.

At around 7:45 I was being taught how to "shimmy" my chest while hearing my way-too-chipper instructor sing out loud, "And he be lining down the block just to watch what I got." Right before class ended, our instructor left us with this news: "Now be sure you go home and practice. Next week you'll all be asked to perform this routine in front of the rest of the class."

Worst. Decision. Ever.

Moral of the story: don't take Community Ed classes. Especially ones titled Dance Funk Diva Routines.

Jack Takes a Stand Against Mantyhose

Hi. Jack here. Remember that post I wrote about how comfortable I was with my masculinity? And how nothing I could wear or do would make me feel like less of a man?

Well, maybe I spoke to soon? Perhaps I’m not as progressive as I thought…because I just can't seem to get on board with mantyhose.

Fellas, am I being conservative or do mantyhose cross the line?

Ladies, what would your reaction be if your man started rockin’ some hosiery?

Best. Weirdest. Gift. Ever.

I’m a big fan of giving gifts for no reason. And an even bigger fan of receiving gifts for no reason. And I’m an even bigger fan when the gift is a bit unusual.

Over the past few months, Jill has given me some very sweet gifts for no reason. A CD. A box of organic cereal. Even a new yoga mat.

But yesterday she gave me quite possibly the best-slash-weirdest gift I’ve ever received.

She gave me a tub of Playtex Femcare Personal Cleansing Cloths.

At first I was really confused. (Especially after I read the following description on the box: “Playtex Personal Cleansing Cloths help keep you feeling fresh and clean, even during your period. These super soft disposable wipes are incredibly gentle on your delicate skin.”) But then I remembered the entry I wrote a while back about wanting a bidet and the gift made a lot more sense.

I’m still not sure how comfortable I am having a Playtex Femcare box sitting on top of my toilet, but I can assure you that I’m going to find a way to test these “wet wipes” out for a while. Regular toilet paper just seems so uncivilized now.

Best. Weirdest. Gift. Ever.

Jill's Two Cents: Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking in encouraging this kind of neuroses. I am starting to get a little concerned about Jack. I think he has a problem, and now I've gone and made myself an enabler! Is it time for an intervention? Then again, do I really want to discourage personal hygiene? Seems like that could be slippery slope... Plus, you really should have seen how his little face lit up once he realized what the purpose of the gift was--like a kid on Christmas morning. Priceless.

Got Bidet?

I’ve always considered myself to be a rather clean dude. I keep my fingernails dirt-free. I floss every day. I even change the sheets on my bed once a week. And yet after recently visiting my friend Kiro’s house, I now feel like I belong in a pigpen.

This “cleanliness inferiority” complex sprouted right after I used his bathroom. And saw this thingy:

Naturally I had no idea what it was or how it worked. So I just got on my knees, washed my hands and left.Upon exiting the bathroom, Kiro noticed the look on my face and said the following: “I should have given you a heads-up, man. You’ve probably never used a bidet, huh?”

“Umm…you mean that low sink with the really deep bowl?”

Kiro then channeled his inner Tim Allen and gave me a Tool Time presentation on bidets. I don’t want to get too technical, so I’ll just leave it at this: a bidet allows you to wash your pooper with water. Kiro – who is from Japan – went on to explain that nearly everyone in Japan uses a bidet after they go number two. He told me that it was “unsanitary” to just use toilet paper. “You need some water, man,” he said. “How are you going to clean down there without water?”

And you know what? I think he’s right.

The more I thought about it, the more I agreed: how are you going to clean down there without water?

I thought about other cleaning activities and – surprise, surprise – they all involved some good ol’ fashioned H20. Imagine that you’ve just gone for a ten mile run and now you’re really sweaty. Would you ever just consider wiping yourself clean with a towel? Of course not. And yet that’s essentially what we’re doing each time we wipe ourselves clean with some Charmin.

Perhaps a more vivid analogy involves a white dinner plate. Now spread some beef stroganoff across that plate. For artistic purposes, let’s even go ahead and sprinkle some corn on the plate as well.

Now when it comes time to clean said plate, are you going to simply wipe it clean with a paper towel? No way, Jose. You’re going to rinse that bad boy with about two gallons of water. Anything less would be flat out disgusting. Which is why I’m heading to The Home Depot tonight. I think it’s high time for this dirtball to clean up his act.

Editor’s note: After doing some additional research, I found two more nuggets (no pun intended). Toto is a Japanese company known for its upper-end bidets. On Toto’s website, consumers are encouraged to “experience unequaled cleanliness, comfort, and refreshment…the ultimate in modern hygiene.” Even better, Toto also sells handheld bidets (i.e., portable butt sprayers). Apparently when Japanese tourists travel overseas, they want to still be able to feel so fresh and so clean when they utilize less equipped toilets. Inspirational.

Jack Tries Hot Yoga

2:30 pm – I receive a message from Jill: “Any interest in some hot yoga tonight?”

2:32 pm – I Google “hot yoga” and browse through the search results. I conclude that Jill is either (a) inviting me to a Bikram yoga class where the room is heated to 105 degrees with 40% humidity or (b) really kinky.

2:33 pm – I reply back – “sure, sounds relaxing” – without really knowing what I’m agreeing to. By noting that I associate “yoga” with “relaxation,” I hope to come across as an Alpha Male who thinks that anything other that bench-pressing slabs of cement is a relaxation session, as opposed to a work out.

2:34 pm – Regret sets in.

6:14 pm – I show up at the studio and am greeted by a friendly receptionist. Actually, I’m greeted by a receptionist who looks friendly. While entering my registration information, any perceived friendliness melts away. The following dialogue takes place:

Receptionist: What level are you: beginner, intermediate, or advanced?
Me: Is there a category below beginner?
Receptionist: Do you at least know how to do downward dog?
Me: I’m sorry, what’d you call me?

6:18 pm – Jill and I find a “premium” space on the floor to lay our mats down: second row from the front, dead center. Jill justifies the “premium” adjective by telling me, “Now you’ll be able to look around the class and easily observe what you’re supposed to be doing.”

6:20 pm – I begin to sweat. Profusely. Further regret sets in.

6:22 pm – Our instructor enters the studio and says the following: “Tonight’s class is going to be full, so we need everyone to move their mats up and in. There only needs to be three inches between you and your neighbor.”

6:24 pm – I glance around the room and size up my competition. There’s about a four-to-one girl to guy ratio. I can do this, I think to myself, I am a MAN. I then notice the girl directly in front of me bend at the waist and rest her head on the back of her knees. Umm…all right, then. It’s settled. I’m officially about to get worked.

6:26 pm – My claustrophobic tendencies activate. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that when I lay down there will be eight people within a half-a-foot of me.

6:28 pm – I massage the back of my neck and am aware that it’s already covered with a sheen of sweat. I’m also aware that class hasn’t started yet.

6:30 pm – Our instructor re-enters the room and introduces herself as “Kitty.” Naturally I wonder if she’s also a stripper.

6:31 pm – Kitty informs us that our goal for today’s class is “to move oxygenated blood to every part of our body.” Internally I commit to a more modest goal: survival.

6:34 pm – I finish off my bottle of Ice Mountain water. I had hoped that my water supply would last me an hour. Turns out I came up short by fifty-six minutes. Oops.

6:35 pm – I’m pleasantly surprised by my ability to keep up with all of the intricate stretches and poses.

6:36 pm – Kitty – aka Queen Dream Crusher – slaps me back into reality. “Now that we’re loosened up, let’s begin class.”

6:38 pm – While performing my first downward dog, I glance up and notice that the girl in front of me’s badonkadonk is approximately eight inches from my face. Given the fact that I haven’t yet even offered to buy her a drink, this seems like a serious breach of her privacy. I quickly close my eyes.

6:39 pm – As soon as I open my eyes back up, I’m blinded by the salty sweat that had trickled down my eyelids while I was trying to be respectful. I vow not to close my eyes again – even if it means feeling like a Peeping Tom.

6:42 pm – I squint at myself in the mirror and notice that my cotton light-gray tank top has turned the color of wet charcoal. Upon further inspection, I also notice that my tank top has somehow also turned into a youth size medium sports bra.

6:46 pm – Kitty directs us into a pose that requires you to balance on your right foot while simultaneously extending your left foot towards the ceiling. I’m about halfway through the move when my right foot slips on the standing pool of sweat that has formed on my mat and sends me stumbling toward Ms. Badonkadonk’s crotch, which now looks like an open scissors standing on one of its blades. By the grace of Bikram Choudhury himself, I somehow manage to regain my balance before initiating a “reverse baby delivery.”

6:51 pm – I’m cognizant of the fact that I’m sweating more than I’ve ever sweat in my entire life. Imagine sitting in a sauna wearing thermal socks, snowpants, and a North Face parka. Under a spotlight. With a blow dryer in your face. Now times that by infinity.

6:59 pm – As we near the halfway point, Kitty blesses us with this pearl: “Relax your knees; let them drop through the floor.” It takes all of my willpower not to mutter back: “Hey Kit Kat, what should we do if we CAN’T FEEL OUR F’ING LEGS?”

7:02 pm – We’re in the middle of about eight consecutive “rotations” that all end in a downward dog, so every thirty seconds or so I find myself in a close enough proximity to compare notes with Ms. Badonkadonk’s gynecologist. It doesn’t help that she’s wearing what appears to be the lower half of a wet suit. At one point I think I actually catch a glimpse of one of her ovaries. Hmmm…is this why Jill described this as a “premium” spot?

7:04 pm – Kitty is relentless. She next instructs us to: “Place your palms and forearms flat on the mat, bend your elbows, and lift your torso and legs up into the air into a tripod position.” Why stop there? Why not also direct us to do a handstand using only our left pinky?

7:08 pm – If only I had enough energy left to speak, I would be able to offer the guy directly behind me $20 for the rest of his bottle of Evian.

7:11 pm – “All right, class, now it’s time for some ab work. Let’s begin with our extended bicycle kicks.” Trust me, Kitty Kitty Bang Bang, that if I could extend and kick anything right now, it’d be you.

7:13 pm – Lying on my back, I’ve just been encouraged to put my hands under my hips and extend my feet into the air. Miraculously, my body responds and my legs shoot up like a stalk of bamboo. My initial joy lasts for three or four seconds, which is when the sweat starts pouring down from my kneecaps and landing on my face. It takes me a while to decide if being showered by my own patella sweat is gross or refreshing. I ultimately settle on gross.

7:18 pm – In the history of poor casting decisions, the decision to name our instructor “Kitty” has to go down as the greatest misnomer of all time. Kitty!?!?! No, I don’t think so. Try Wolverine. Or Saddam.

7:25 pm – Oh, to have the strength to speak! I could then proclaim my willingness to give one of my neighbors $50 for a sip of water. For a bottle of Gatorade, you could take your pick of my internal organs.

7:26 pm – Darkness. Literally and figuratively. Kitty lowers the lights to “help with the unwinding process” and I pass out to help with my dehydration.

7:31 pm – I awake to the voice of Jill asking me what I thought of hot yoga. “Not bad,” I lie. “Not much of a work out, but it’s always good to get in some light stretching.”