Someone may have told me there'd be days like these.
Tuesday, Apr. 04, 2006 @ 4:24 p.m.

I have to say, you guys are really disappointing me with the lack of commentary lately. Seriously, if you guys won't tell me your most embarrassing moments, who will?

Ahem, as the Original Crazy Magnet (thanks to Noah for my new rap name "The OCM." It's down there in the COMMENTS section where nobody ever posts) I feel I have to tell you about the crazy I encountered on Saturday.

In general, this show seemed to be lacking in crazy. Also lacking - people with money earmarked for Keen, but that's another issue altogether. There was a little bit of crazy in attendance, though, and it found me like you knew it would.

I'd warned the other girls (we were sharing a booth with the Craft Mafia) about my gift for attracting weird people, but I don't think they really believed me until it happened. There were two that stand out in particular.

#1: A weird dumpy teenage girl came by the booth and was momentarily struck dumb by the name "Craft Mafia" because, as she explained, she's from New York and is related to Don Corleone (wasn�t he a book character and not a real person? I�m too lazy to find out). Thus began the incredible string of lies coming out of her mouth. She began to browse our display and said, all in one breath:


"I love this stuff. I love shopping and I have NO problem spending money. I just came into my trust fund and I'm a billionaire now so I have no problem spending money. Do you have a website? I usually use a credit card but I gave it to my fianc� to hold for me. I just came into my trust fund when I turned 25. Oh, I know, I look 15 but I'm actually 25. I get that all the time. You do have a website? That's great - I really prefer to do all my shopping at the same time online because I don't have to do the math myself."


Then she left without buying a thing and Kate and I looked at each other with mute misery.


#2: A dude with a bad 70's mustache and oddly large aviator sunglasses who was wearing, strapped around his be-shorted waist, the biggest camera bag/fanny pack contraption I've ever. He was very interested in our craft group and talked on and on and on about how he was in marketing and wanted to start some kind of artist consortium and look! We've already done it and he wants to work with us. (I'll bet you do, creepy.) Then, to prove he knew what a consortium is, he told us all about his brother the dairy farmer who was in a dairy consortium because, "He just wants to grow milk!" Ooohkay. The girls all gave me dirty looks when he finally left like it's my fault the crazy comes to our booth. I guess it kind of is, but you can't blame the cursed for being cursed. I mean, it's a curse! Not a gift. Sheesh.


Thus concludes my Kraft Fair Krazy report.


*****

Oh my damn and hell fuck GoddAMN. Last night was my first experience with Jazzercise Gym. Thank God I only have two more weeks at that place. The gym as I know it is dead.


I walked in and the place was crawling with badly permed Jazzercisers in stretch pants and scrunchy socks. I know I'm being mean as all hell but I could barely find a square foot of space in the locker room to change and that makes me CRANKY. Then I went to spinning (since my weights class is no more) and damn if the instructor forgot to show up. I'm surprised I didn't spontaneously combust at this point, so great was my Jazzercise-fueled rage. When I went to complain, the dweeb at the front desk was all, "I'm just a spoke, not the wheel!" Oh yeah? WELL HOW DO YOU DO. I'M THE STICK THAT'S ABOUT TO GET STUCK IN YOU.


Okay, I didn't say that. Instead stomped down to the weights room and did leg work until I felt wobbly and my rage had subsided. I'm letting go of this place with each and every day that passes and now as I walk around the gym my inner monologue sounds like this: "I won't miss you...or you...and definitely not you..."


Most Definitely Not Going To Miss:


The Grunter.


This guy lifts too much weight and also likes to drop weights, which never fails to startle the crap out of me. A lovely side effect of his heavy lifting is the grunting. I know exactly what this guy sounds like during sex and that is not ever the kind of thing I want to know about anyone, really. He grunts and moan and groans and basically spends an hour sounding like he's either in immense pain or um, pleasure, and damn, is that disgusting for the rest of us. If you sound like you're dying in the weight room, lift less weight, dude. For all of us. An interesting side note: he never wipes down the machines, but that's no surprise.


The Creepy Starer.


I won't miss this guy at all. AH-TALL. I can feel him watching me the minute I walk in - tracking me as I walk down the stairs and trying to make eye contact. If I accidentally let this happen he's all smiles and hellos, but dude, I don't KNOW YOU. I've never spoken to this guy, ever, so why does he act like we're all buddy-buddy gym friends? I might be more friendly if he'd lay off with the stalker staring.


Annoying Saturday Lady.


She likes to use the elliptical trainer (usually whichever one is next to the one I'm on) on Saturday mornings and her preference is to walk (pedal? Ellip?) on it as slowly as humanly possible, with a brimming-full cup of hot coffee balance on the little magazine shelf next to her book, which she reads with her face about two inches from the page. It's quite the picture and it beyond worries me. I get MENTAL about such accidents-waiting-to-happen. She's a pain in the ass in another way as well: she loves to have loud, chatty little conversations, usually with the person on the other side of me. I hate being talked through and I usually up and leave in disgust at this point.


Sort of like I�m doing right now. Good night!

8 chatty monkeys

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