My Matinee Idol

It is now time to unveil the big surprise that I have been taunting Caroline with for the past two weeks. No, Kam is not going to reveal his naked junk on the internet... at least not until someone coughs up significantly more money than the guy who offered him a job with an escort service, er, "modeling agency". He will, instead, be revealing his naked head on the internet. (Get your mind out of the gutter Caroline, you dirty whore.)

Recently Kam surprised me by shaving all of his hair off, just the way I love it. When I say "surprised" I mean REALLY SURPRISED, because I had no idea he was going to do it. I came over to his place after work one Sunday morning to find him snuggled in bed, the covers pulled completely over his head. I lifted the covers to attempt to wake him for breakfast and saw the back of a bald scalp. I almost jumped out of my skin. I started to run downstairs and look for Kam to ask WHO IS THAT STRANGE MAN SLEEPING IN YOUR BED, when I realized that the strange man WAS Kam, and he had just shaved his head... again.

(This picture taken right after I told him about my sex change operation)

A few years ago, some of Kam's friends got wasted one night and decided that shaving one another's heads would be a brilliant idea. I don't know about yall, but I make ALL of my major image-altering decisions, especially if they involve scissors, when I am intoxicated. Makes life more interesting. So suddenly, it seemed, nearly everyone in Kam's circle of idiots- I mean, friends- was bald. It just so happened that the night of the incident, Kam and a few other guys were not present and thus missed out on Baldapalooza. I was relieved, to say the least. But not for long. The very next weekend, more drunkenness ensued and this time, Kam was in attendance. His highly inebriated friends peer pressured Kam and the last of the remaining hirsutes to go all the way. Unfortunately, none of these individuals were skilled in the art of clipper use, and Kam allowed the drunkest of the crew to "clean up" the neck area. This resulted in a hairline in the back that was at about ear level. Can you picture what I'm saying to you? IT LOOKED LIKE HIS HAIRLINE STOPPED AT THE CROWN OF HIS HEAD. Oh, and did I mention? This all happened the night before Christmas Eve.

Needless to say, I was pissed, but also slightly amused. We had to spend Christmas with my family and his family, and he looked like a four-year-old who had gotten a hold of mommy's scissors. Both families teased and tormented him as well as offered to be his AA sponsor. His grandmother told him that he looked like a Matinee Idol (my guess is that she meant movie star?) I was pleasantly surprised, however, when I saw the new look and actually LIKED it. It looked good on him! No hair! Who woulda thunk? He never would have tried such a stunt if he hadn’t been completely wasted because let me tell you guys, Kam has some kind of weird obsession with his hair. No matter what I tell him, he likes to grow his hair long and let it be all curly and frizzy because he thinks it's "cute". It is the most frustrating thing in the WORLD. Just recently has he learned about hair care products (thank God) but that has just given him one, two, three, no FOUR new things to obsess about. He has this whole OCD routine with his hair that involves multiple high-priced products and some erratic head shaking movements since he will spend $40 on a stick of wax but refuses to splurge $14 on a freaking blow dryer. I told him constantly how much I liked the bald look, but he was adamant that he wanted his hair back and it grew in quite quickly. Life reverted back to it usual frizzy, curly ways and I was sad.

Until about a year later on my 23rd birthday, when Kam surprised me at my door at midnight with a dozen tulips and a bald head. I was thrilled. Do you hear that, America? My boyfriend shaved off his prized locks just because he knew I liked it that way! Am I lucky or what?

He's telling me to put down the goddamn camera before he shoves it up my bung hole.

Of course, it grew back again that time as well, although he kept it short for awhile. That was over a year ago. This time, there was not much rhyme or reason to his decision, other than the fact that it's summertime, it's hot, and he knows that I love the bald noggin. It's already growing out, as you can tell in some of the pics (I like it with just the slightest amount of peach fuzz). I hope he'll keep it this way, at least for a while, because he knows that I adore it and, as Nessa would say, THIS IS GOING TO BENEFIT YOU IN THE LONG RUN, BUDDY.


Yeti Or Not, Here I Come.

I recently decided that I need to do something to get my fat ass into motion that does not involve traversing the oft-tread path from my bed to my fridge. Since I figured that exercise in pretty much any form is nothing more than high-priced torture, I decided to just go all the way and the find the most unbearable, insufferable, incredibly horrific, kill-me-now-because-Hell-can't-be-THIS-bad form of exercise known to man. Compared to this, the carnage in Full Metal Jacket is like an episode of the Smurfs. Lasik surgery performed by a chainsaw-wielding Stevie Wonder is less painful. Watching Britney Spears' career-ending reality series is less unnerving. Walking in on your parents having wild, viagra-assisted butt sex in your bed is less traumatizing. The end of The Notebook is less tear-inducing. Performing the Nutcracker in a tiny, tiny room would be less uncomfortable (that one's for you, Amanda B. and Caroline). Yes my friends, I speak of Bikram Yoga.

I had heard about this form of Yoga through a few individuals who practice on a regular basis and have found it to be very effective as their only means of exercise. To which I said, SA-WEET because I suck at lifting weights and just don't have the lung capacity for any heavy duty cardio (aka climbing the 5 steps up to my apartment). Ultimately, a structured, instructor-lead class is really the best thing for lazy asses like me who will set the treadmill on the easiest level and then stumble off after five minutes at minimal speed, sweating and panting and feigning an asthma attack to avoid being mocked by the other gym attendees who treat their exercise routine as a legitimate means to reach their fitness goals instead of a pit stop on their way to and from Burger King. And before you assholes start judging me, stop for a minute and think about the fact that I was one of those kids who used to have to fake asthma attacks or menstrual cramps to get out of P.E. in my youth. That's right, I deserve your pity. Granted, I wasn't a TOTAL lost cause; I only used the asthma and/or menstrual cramp excuse on softball, basketball, track, shotput, diskus and (of course) dodgeball days. On jumproap and hopscotch days, my shit was on FIRE.

So basically, I need someone to FORCE me into exercising, and I'm not just talking about those 15 minute ab toning classes that they offer at the Y. I've tried that shit, and I cheat. Yeah, I have to cheat to make it through 15 minutes of crunches and sidebends, what does that tell you about me? And aerobics? FAHGETABOUTIT. My mom was an aerobics instructor during my high school years (read: utter and absolute humiliation), and she dragged me along to some of her classes. She taught at many different establishments, including but not limited to BFI (Texas' waste-management corporation, a hotbed of aerobic activity if there ever was one), 24 Hour Fitness (a year's supply of steroids FREE when you commit to any 12-month contract), and a little privately owned studio so cleverly named The Waist Basket. Now, the ladies that frequented The Waist Basket were a bunch of blue-haired fatties who actually BROUGHT KRISPY KREME DONUTS TO CLASS so that they could stand around gossipping about one another's cheating husbands, delinquent grandchildren and choice of urinary incontinence pads. My mom had to resort to blaring her Celine Dion aerobic mix tapes at top volume and the occasional Full Nelson maneuver to get these ladies to quit talking and participate in the class they had paid good money for. When she'd forcibly drag me along to these Menopause Fests, she'd actually make it her goal to embarrass me as much as possible during the class. She'd call me out when I tried to cheat and would yell at me to "lift those bony knees" every chance she got. She'd also try to be cute and funny by informing all of her geezer lackeys how unfortunately clumsy her easily embarrassed teen daughter was. As if that wasn't COMPLETELY OBVIOUS when my flailing limbs gouged out several of the ladies' eye sockets, knocked off a few wigs and irreparably damaged what I at first presumed to be a pair of shoddy dollar store dentures but turned out to be real teeth. (Use your fluoride, ladies.)

It is important for everyone to understand that there are three types of people in this world: people whose limbs are so short that their fingers and toes resemble tiny vienna sausages which are so God damned cute that it makes me want to hurl; people whose limbs are in perfect proportion to their bodies and who possess such ultimate grace and poise that they have no evidence of pus-filled scabs on their shins and knees as a result of tripping over themselves in their youth; and people whose limbs are so grotesquely elongated that when standing fully upright they can easily be mistaken for Big Foot because their arms dangle far below knee level and swing about wildly when engaged in a forward walking motion.

I fall into the latter category, and let me tell you that if you've never seen Big Foot doing a double grapevine pivot squat then you can count yourself a lucky person. Why do you think a Big Foot sighting is such a rare occurrance? Anyone close enough to him to get a good visual gets dismembered by the backswing of his arms while he tries to "march it out". People like me should never, ever engage in activities that require fast paced, vertical movement in syncopation with mediocre 80's pop music which has been sped up to the point that Madonna's pitch eerily resembles Alvin, Simon, Theodore or my ex-roommate after a six pack of Smirnoff Ice. Someone should seriously consider proposing some legislation to that effect.

So since all of my past exercise attempts have failed miserably (I haven't even mentioned that time in college when I thought that practicing with the Water Polo club was a good idea), I decided to just go for it and try to struggle through a Bikram Yoga class. In case you're too lazy to click on the link, let me just give you a little premise about this type of yoga. It is a 90 minute class where the instructor leads you through 26 different yoga poses to enhance flexibility, strength, endurance, oxygenation and overall health. That all sounds fine and dandy, but the Fear Factor kicker is that all of this is performed in a room heated to 105 degrees with 60% humidity.

My first impression as I walked into the yoga studio for my initial class was that the foyer smelled of incense and hippies. The incense was probably an attempt to cover up the hippie smell because let's face it, no one wants to work out in a hot room next to an already smelly, unshowered, undeoderized, hairy hippie. When I approached the receptionist's desk and inquired about taking a one-time class, he glanced down his nose at me and asked if I had brought a yoga mat, bath towel, hand towl and water. I informed him that yes, I had everything except a yoga mat, to which he snorted and declared that I would be needing to rent one of the facility's mats for the evening. Apparently, showing up to yoga class without bringing a mat is like showing up to party with Paris Hilton without bringing a video camera: anyone with an ounce of common sense should simply know better. I was stupid enough to arrive 15 minutes early (per the website's recommendation for new students, obviously a precaution for those numskulls who dare not bring their own hand towel) and as a result was forced to enter the Sauna of Death a good 10 minutes before class officially started. As soon as I opened the door, a waft of stifling heat enveloped me and in that moment my soul was stripped of its very will to live and in its place remains a dark, vacuous hole of nothingness. Every pore in my body screamed for mercy and there was an audible sound of bacon sizzling as smoke started pouring from my ears. The air was sucked from my lungs with such force that I felt the alveoli collapsing in my chest. "My God, I can't do this", I thought, looking down at my water bottle as the plastic started to bubble and warp and the water inside boiled and evaporated into the rainforest atmosphere of the room. I was so preoccupied with planning my escape from that dungeon that it took several minutes for the odor of the place to hit me with full force. It smelled as if someone had encased their feet in two ziplock baggies full of fritos and pickles and let them bake in the Texas sun for the entire month of August. That aroma can best be likened to hobo armpit funk soaked in curdled urine. Thanks to that smell, I think I blacked out for a good ten minutes before the class started, thus preventing me from vomiting all over the facility's highly valued yoga mat. The instructor of this class was a four foot tall asian fellow (refer to TYPE 1 above) who seemed rather effeminate despite his royal blue speedo and freshly manicured toenails.

"Where is Deja?" he asked, and for a second I thought that he was about to invite me to COME ON DOWN and play the Price is Right. I raised my hand and instead of giving me a prize, he tersely informed the class that I was a first timer, thus granting them permission to stare at me in the mirrors and mock my inability to balance on the toes of one leg with the other leg wrapped around my waist and my arms raised above my head like an olympic diver.

Once the class started, I just tried to forget about the heat and the discomfort and the dizziness and nausea associated with your body totally overheating while you hold your breath and try to remain perfectly balanced in some unnatural bodily contortion for an obscene amount of time. Eventually, the sweat stopped pouring off of me so profusely and my heart stopped skipping beats in my chest and my lungs stopped burning. I tried hard to concentrate as Mogley spewed instructions at the speed of light, but many times I just couldn't grasp whatever concept he was trying to convey and just sat and watched the circus freak ballerina next to me wrap her ankle around her forehead. I did, however, manage to participate fully in all of the floor exercises which included massaging our descending colon with our right knee, massing our ascending colon with our left knee, and massaging our transverse colon with both thighs. Amazingly, I made it through those 90 minutes STILL ALIVE. I totally have a new appreciation for the terms sweavage and swassy, because unless you've tried Bikram yoga, you've never seen 20 swassy hippies crowded together in one hot little room. And I'll be damned, but when it was all said and done, I actually felt GOOD. So good, in fact, that I went home and ate some pizza.

So I'm happy to report that although there are some torturous elements to this form of yoga, I will not be giving up on it just yet. In fact, I returned to take another class the very next morning and it went much more smoothly than the first, although it left me sore from my toes to my lungs. I've gone 3-4 times a week since then, and am actually seeing some improvement in my flexibilty and balance. The heat and smell don't bother me as much anymore, although after leaving class I can wring the sweat from my shorts like a sponge. I'll keep yall updated on how things go!


Yes, Internet, You Have An Unhealthy Obsession With My Breasts.

I was tag teamed by two sexy blog sluts at once, and boy did I like it. They used their feminine wiles to convince me to divulge my deepest, darkest secrets on the 'net. Hide the women and children, because here comes Spoonleg In Living Color:

Fullofit's questions:
1. Do you want Kam to be your baby daddy?
Assuming that Heath Ledger, Jakob Dylan and Brad Pitt are all unavailable for Baby Daddyhood in the near future, the answer would have to be yes. However, there are several reasons why the prospect of Kam fathering my child(ren) alarms me. Let me share them with you now.
a) The only comestible items that ever grace the threshold of Kam's fridge are Papa John's pizza, a six pack of MGD, and the occasional Uncle Ben's Rice Bowl. I'm not certain, but I have the feeling that an infant might find it difficult to gum down a dried shriveled slice of barbecue chicken pizza that's been in the fridge longer than said infant has been alive.
b) Kam will surely teach our child(ren) to imitate Corky from Life Goes On in the most inappropriate of public situations (As if there are any public situations in which imitating Corky from Life Goes On IS appropriate? Okay, maybe when placing an order at the Starbuck's drive thru but that's about it.)
c) Our child(ren) will master the artful skill of playing Madden on X-Box before they learn to read, write or wipe their own asses.
d) Kam will insist that our child(ren) be decked out in Texans, Astros and Rockets gear 24/7, which I'm not sure I can handle considering how badly all of these teams suck. Call me a snob, but I just don't want my kids to be under the mistaken impression that it's okay to be a loser.
2. If you could change professions----would you? Or do you particularly love spelunking for poo?
Realistically speaking, no I would probably not want to change professions. If the alternative to spelunking for poo is having some lame ass boring 9-5 desk job, I'll take poo. However if we're speaking fantasy jobs, I'd give up spelunking in a heartbeat to be a writer for SNL or a professional Horse Whisperer.
3. Do you find it ironic that you drive a Mini, but your boobs are.....well....not so mini?
No. They make fantastic airbags and, in a pinch, can easily double as flotation devices.
4. Would you risk taking your own life or that of a fellow jogger if you went running sans sports bra?
First of all, let's get something straight. Spoonleg doesn't "go running". Ever. You couldn't coerce me to run across my own living room if you dangled a dozen chocolate covered Krispy Kreme donuts in front of my face. You couldn't get me to run from my car to the sidewalk if a flaming meteor the size of Kentucky was careening towards me at the speed of light. What's that you say? There's a small child and his puppy sinking into a deadly pit of quicksand at an alarmingly fast rate? Let me take my time WALKING over there to see about them. It's really for the safety of everyone involved that I DON'T run. If you witnessed the carnage that would ensue as a result of my running and somehow lived through the experience, you'd probably gouge your own eyes out just to erase the heinous image that had scorched itself onto your retinas. That being said, it's also a hazard to the American public for someone like me to do ANYTHING, let alone RUN, without a bra on. I learned that lesson the hard way; now the local pizza place won't deliver to my house anymore.
5. When your mom gets drunk, does she tell you repeatedly that she loves you?
No, my mom is a mean and violent drunk. Remind me one day to tell the story of how she gave my little brother, her only son, a fat bloody lip one Thanksgiving. When she's drunk, my mom likes to reminisce on what horrid, disrespectful, and ungrateful heathens she's raised. Then she likes to talk about herself and what a stellar mother she's been and dear Lord what has she done to deserve this? My dad is the one who gets sentimental and lovey-dovey when he's drunk. I have saved countless voice messages from my father left at 2 am after a night imbibing Wild Turkey and vodka martinis in which he tells me how much he loves me and how proud he is of me. Throw in a few shots of tequila and I can even get him to admit that I'm his favorite child. He's also good for at least $20 bucks when he's sloshed. It's times like these when my siblings and I milk our dad for all he's worth. "We love you too, dad. Can we go on a cruise next summer?"
6. What's the most embarrassing thing you own?
The complete Veggietales home video collection, not to mention countless other Veggietales memorabilia. I can't help it, I love my lips! USTA!

HDL's questions:
1. Have you ever gagged while spelunking for poo?
No. I've said it before and I'll say it again, the only sight/smell that sufficiently grossed me out to the point of dry heaving and left me sobbing in a corner, whimpering and sucking my thumb, was witnessing a vaginal birth. All you single and/or childless ladies out there had better get your noseplugs ready, because you have NO IDEA what you're in store for. This is Real Life, they don't show this stuff on fucking TLC. POO IS LIKE A FRAGRANT BUNCH OF LILIES COMPARED TO WHAT COMES OUT OF YOUR PREGNANT BODY AFTER ITS SPENT NINE LONG MONTHS ROTTING AND DECOMPOSING INSIDE OF YOU. It's a mystery to me how babies can smell so good after spending so much time cooped up with that rank ass shit.
2. What was the first CD or tape that you bought yourself?
The first tape I ever bought myself was Michael Jackson's Thriller. Dost thou doubt my devotion to MJ? I think my first CD was Rod Stewart, but I didn't buy it for myself, that one was courtesy of Grandpa Don. You can't mess with the Maggie May.
3. What is your least favorite household chore and why?
Okay, Megan, I thought we were friends. You should know by now that I DO NOT clean. I hate it. I would rather systematically slice off my own fingers and toes than clean. If you could see what my apartment looks like right now, you'd vomit all over yourself. But if I had to PICK a chore that I hate most, it would have to be dusting and vacuuming. As a kid I was forced to do these things and I HATED it. I'd rather scrub a scummy, shit-crusted toilet with my brother's toothbrush than dust a bunch of stupid knick knacks.
4. If you weren't a nurse, what would you be?
Your mama. (Seriously, she's pretty cool.)
5. Are you good at crafty things? What do you make that you're proud to show off? (And no, whoopie doesn't count.)
I'm good at some crafty things, but I get bored easily and give up on anything too challenging or time consuming. I once made an entire quilt with the assistance of an ex-boyfriend's mom, and I show that thing off like it's my first born child. I have recently taken up scrapbooking, but I wouldn't consider myself very good at it just yet. I love making homemade gifts, as lame and cheesy as they sometimes turn out. I am also a badass at coloring and can stay within the lines like a fucking pro. Like WOAH.

I don't feel like making up a bunch of questions with which to annoy my fellow bloggers, so I'm just going to tag my boyfriend. That's the way uh huh uh huh he likes it.

1. Do you want to be my baby daddy? Who else besides Natalie "I-went-to-the-same-acting-school-as-Jennifer-Love-Hewitt" Portman would you like to be your baby mama?
2. Why do you insist on making up your own annoying lyrics to that Sixpence None The Richer song from the Ortho Tricyclen commercials? Please share them with the Internet so that they might be equally as annoyed as I.
3. Did your college girlfriend really have DD-sized breasts? Do you have pictures to prove it?
4. How is it that some days you insist on taking 45 minute showers and on others you are perfectly content to take a "sink shower"? And what the hell IS a sink shower, anyway?
5. Your Uncle Peter is a creepy pervert. Can you please tell him to stop staring at my flotation devices?

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