Tuesday, March 30, 2010

I don't have enough adults to talk to....

I moved to Florida (from Northern Delaware) in August, and I haven't made many friends.  It takes time, and I know I'll make many quality connections.  The bummer of it --- I don't get a lot of opportunities to hang out and have laughs with folks who share my experiences.  So, maybe a blog would be fun?  Maybe not.  We'll see. 

Today, I once again witnessed the kryptonite-like power of my QVC diamonique ring http://www.qvc.com/qic/qvcapp.aspx/view.2/app.detail/params.item.J138985.desc.Verragio-Diamonique-Sterling-Signature-Lumino-Set-Ring

Despite the tornado watch today (and my undying love of laziness), I went to the gym.  Unfortunately, my gym is frequented by men with staring problems, older pervs who (thanks to society and the "Notables" high society photos section of the Palm Beach Post) believe that much-younger women are hot for them, and other weirdos with inappropriate behavior.  Oh, and scary-looking 'mijos' with gang tattoos from the neck down.  With the exception of the mijos, my Special Ed Teacher tendencies kick into action, as I observe them at short intervals and look for arm-flapping, unusual visual interest in ceiling fans, and self-stim actions.  I want to find an acceptable reason for these socially inept weirdos.  Maybe they have an intellectual/social disability.  Maybe these folks are the type that are deserving of the somewhat compassionate saying of my Gammy, "Poor souls - God help them."  Ummmm, no.  They just seem to be jackasses.  Jackasses who want to invade my personal space with lame-ass attempts at unique intro statements. 

"You from Jersey?" heckles the close-to-50 guy who, at odd hours, tries to sculpt his pudge.  He has large, pudge-sculpted arms and a solid belly that reveals that his liver doesn't appreciate all the brewskies.  "No, I'm not," I said, as he quickened his step to catch up with me.  I just want to get in my car and go home!  I don't want to talk to this perv who has been staring at me for an hour in the gym.  His prepared statements start to roll out.  "You must be from around there."  God, give me strength.  No, he's not the amazing Kreskin.  He's just a jackass who arrived at the gym at the same time that I did, and saw me emerge from my Delaware license-plated car.  I tell him that I'm from the Philadelphia area, and he claims that he just knew it because I look like the teen daughter of a woman he dated in New Jersey.  He says that he lived in Cherry Hill a long time ago (which tells me that I'm probably correct in thinking that he is not a Gentile).  I wonder: am I showing my expression of disgust?  To gross me out further, he tells me that he'll probably call me "Jen" because that's what the girl's name was.  Ew.  He powers on with his social retardation: "How old are you anyway?"  Is this ass serious??  I just stared at him.  He pushed, "You must be over 18, right?"  Oh, barf.  First of all, the days of me being mistaken for 18 are long gone.  I'll allow 26...but 18?  Shove off.  Secondly, that comment is ripped from a Chris Hanson Dateline takedown.  Take your pudgy pedophile self back to your sad apartment in Greenacres (yuck) and troll your 'barely 18' websites.  "Excuse me?!" I say to this guy who obviously has no home training (as Gammy would say about someone who was never taught manners and probably came from a lowlife family).  Consistent with Social Retardation, he does not pick up on the cues that say GTF Away from me!!!  I tell him that I have somewhere to be, I get in my car, and promptly lock the doors and drive away.

Two days later, after sneaking out of work when the dismissal bell rang, I return to the gym (before the last ounce of my energy escapes me).  I climb on the elliptical, and pump up "Don't Stop Believin'" by the cast of Glee.  Corny but motivating.  EWw - who just touched me??!  Hard taps on my back, while I am on the elliptical.  Are there mechanical problems that a staff member has come to warn me about?  Is there a fire?  No, I'm not that lucky.  That jackass is standing behind me, popping a peace sign, and mouthing "hey, homie."  What in the hell?  I'm not a stiff, pursed-lip, Angela-from-The-Office type.  However, I'm a girly-girl, and I try to be ladylike and mannerly in public.  I'm not a butchy gym hardbody that wants to be one of the guys...errr, one of the homies.  I sneer at him, show him the palm of my hand (not quite a wave), and turned around quickly.  Insert eye-roll.  After an hour of working out and being stared at, I decide that I'm starving and want to go home and have some popcorn (Jolly Time, I love you).  As I'm walking to the car, I hear a whistle...the kind of whistle you make at a dog.  I don't know how else to describe it....see, I wasn't encouraged to learn how to whistle as a child.  "A whistling woman is a cackling hen," my granddad (Boppy) would say.  You know what - that's true.  I hate whistling.  It actually bothers my ears.  You think I respond to someone whistling at me?  What are you, kidding?  Oh, ok, there goes the second dog-call whistle.  I am disgusted.  I continue walking to my car.  "Ya goin ta lunch?" he hollers.  I continue walking to my car.  It's 3:00 pm.  Was he seriously thinking of asking me to share a meal with his stupid, old, fat ass??  What - to discuss my age and his persistence in shaping his pudge?  He needs to moveon.org. 

So, today, my beloved Diamonique masterpiece adorned my left ring finger.  Oh, how it sparkled in the gym lighting.  Some mijo who was past his prime started to approach me, I flashed the kryptonique ring, and he vamos'd away.   That's right, go sientate on the biceps machine.  The jackass wasn't there today, but the Kryptonique Pilot Program had favorable results.  I look forward to finding out the severity of the jackass' Social Retardation.  Will the Kryptonique deter him?  Will I put him on blast for his rudeness?  To be continued...