So there's THAT...

WHAT THE?
SSMG and I have been married exactly a year. (And 2 days, I'm late posting this.) After agonizing about our anniversary for weeks, on Friday night he asked me, "Do you want your birthday present early?" I looked at him so confused. "Huh?" I said. "Okay, I guess so, but..." I was worried about him. He's kinda forgetful and I thought maybe he confused my birthday and our anniversary. "It's outside," he informed me.
He's been a mountain biking animal. 68 mile/11 hour race in Breck, among other things. All he's been doing the past 5 months is mountain bike. So now, of course, I have to mountain bike. But I won't until I have a new bike. So, you know how the brain works on crack, right? I went quickly through a plethora of options, and concluded without a shadow of a doubt, that there was a beautiful, shiny, mountain bike sitting in the driveway. I prepared myself to be really excited for my new mountain bike.
I was dead wrong. That silver thing I'm sitting on is a 2010 Miata convertible. Stick shift, I might add. My fucking husband bought me a convertible for my 50th birthday. Christ. I love that man. But it's not because he bought me a car. It's because for years he's struggled to surprise me with something on my birthday and, I know, felt insecure because he couldn't think of anything and felt bad about himself. This year, he outdid himself. And for that, I love him.
On to the rest of the weekend...
Saturday morning was the Bat Mitvah. If you've been reading my blog over the years when I used to post "other people's pets," one of my favorites was Sad, Sad, Ray. His mom made me take that out because she hated me referring to him as sad. He wasn't. He just had a sad face. He was a very happy dog. The Bat Mitvah on Saturday was Ray's sister, who, during her speech announced how sad she was about Ray's death.
That's how I learned.
So, I bawled through the rest of the three hour service. An occasion that, in our faith, is supposed to be a celebration. Raybadoo, I love you.

We left the Bat Mitzvah and I tried to compose myself for the anniversary celebration that was forth coming.
Dinner at the Gold Hill Inn, which, charming as it is, let's face it, is really just a catering hall, and a Sunday filled with a long mountain biking ride and drinks with our friends.
All in all, a pretty fucking great weekend. Almost on par with our wedding weekend a year ago. I really love the man I married. That's convenient, huh?
On another note...please continue reading my blog as I have some work stories that are not to be believed. Starting with a broken bone in my hand due to an overly zealous - or hateful - member shaking my hand.

Larry and Speedo in the same sentence???

Continue reading at your own risk. I have the photo to prove it, but this is the internet, after all, and I'm afraid he'll find it, get paranoid, come to the club with the gun we've talked about and spray bullets at the front desk.
We had a pool party at the club and Larry was doing his usual meandering about with his laptop staring down everyone. Next thing I knew, he emerged from the locker room in his Speedo! I literally threw up in my mouth. I have never seen such a disgusting, disturbing sight. My manager, who has now admitted to me that she's afraid of what he might do, was concerned that he was roaming around like this with children around.
My manager. Did anyone catch that?
God, I need to run my own business and show everyone how it's done. Starting with, if you're afraid one of your members is dangerous, fire them!
I ran away and got caught by a member who was extremely angry that the pool was closed for the party. So angry in fact that she screamed at me in front of a bunch of other members. I realized that in my skirt I looked professional and she thought I was in charge. So maybe being in charge isn't really that great. I sent her to my manager.
A new member came into the club the other day, and guess what? He's an old, Jewish man. He latched onto me recognizing my kinship and hasn't left me alone since. He's a member at the OTHER club, using ours, and immediately pointed out that our massages cost a few pennies more than theirs, implying that I should "get him a deal." Right. And contribute to that negative stereotype? I don't think so. "Excuse me General Manager, we have a member who, because he's old and Jewish thinks he should be getting a deal on massages. What do you think?" Great.
The craziness continues, I have just taken a break from writing about it with the hope that things will improve. Alas, they don't.

It's Nazi Germany!!!!!!

There seems to be a disturbing trend lately of comparing even the slightest annoyances to Nazi Germany, and now, the analogy has made its way to our little club in Boulder, Colorado.
This story is brought to you by SSMG, not me. I only work a couple of shifts a week now, and he is there working out so he is acting as my eyes and ears.
Apparently, a shirtless member was up in arms today about the fact that he is not allowed to work out barefoot in club. "It's like Nazi Germany here!" he declared.
(Silence, as I can't think of anything to say. I am speechless.)

BG Hits Rockbottom

I have to say, since the phones have gone away, I don't see too much of Larry. I would say I miss him, but I don't. Not one bit. Yesterday, I had a pair of latex gloves on as I was washing dishes and Larry came up to me and said, "You look like you're performing surgery."
I gave him the obligatory smile that a woman in customer service behind a desk gives to a client and said, "My hands get really dry."
Larry then proceeded to tell me about his dry feet. Larry's dry feet. I really want that image in my head all day. Then he advised me on the best lotion to use on dry feet, as he used to use regular moisturizer and that didn't do the trick.
Gold Bond, if anyone is interested in healing their dry, cracked feet.

Apparently, I'm Pregnant

This is the view from the front desk, but I'll get to that in a moment.
Today, one of our old man members came into the club, looked at me and said, "You're pregnant."
Apparently the guy believes he has supernatural powers that allow him to predict pregnancy in women, and, in addition, the gender of their children. He is now, without a doubt, convinced that I am 17 weeks pregnant. I, on the other hand, am starving myself and working out like a maniac to lose the obvious baby bump that he observed.
So back to the weird photo that accompanies this blog post. Normally, where Jose is sitting (his name really is Jose, I'm not being racist) there are phones attached to the wall. These antiquated phones can be seen on the desk in the bottom left hand corner of the photo. These mammoth, antique, collectors' items that we used to call telephones are what we use to conduct business. There's so much static and noise on the line, none of us can hear a thing, especially now that construction is in progress. If you're lucky enough to be around when a call comes in, you can can hear, "Excuse me?" emanating from any one of us at the front desk at any given time. If it's BG at the front desk, you might here, "What was that? I can't hear you." because as we know, I'm a little less friendly than the exceptional staff we have a the front desk. I do stop at "What the fuck did you say?" because I am, if nothing else, a professional.
The phones that you see sitting on the desk were on the wall, available to members. These, my friends, were Larry's lifeline.
And now they're gone.
Larry (see previous blog post) used these phones 24/7 to conduct his business. He spent his day in the club pacing back and forth and conducting his business on these phones. You know, his phone calls with his lawyer, or whoever is handling his IRS problems. Sometimes his vet, sometimes, I think, his sister. I want to meet Larry's sister, god help me.
Last week, my less than fruitful conversation with the GM about Larry ended up in, "I'll talk to him. I have to let him know we're taking the phones away." We've all been waiting with bated breath.
So today, the day arrived. Within minutes, Jose took away Larry's life.
We chatted, anticipating Larry's arrival. For the first time, words came out of our mouths like, "I wish Larry were here to see this," or my personal favorite, "I want to be here when Larry walks in the door." That one actually came from my mouth.
Larry did walk through the door, looked at the wall, and declared, "Shit! The phones are gone!" Then he asked, "What about the one in the men's locker room? Is that still there?" To which NGE (Nicest girl ever, aka SGE, sweetest girl ever) replied, "Yes, that one's still there."
Whew, you could see the look of relief cross Larry's face. He can continue to conduct his business from the locker room.
I relayed this information to the GM who was relieved beyond belief. I think because he doesn't have to deal with my complaints about Larry anymore and he doesn't have to do anything about it. Quickly though, the thought crossed his mind, "Oh, now other people will be complaining about Larry. Better take that phone out too."
I'm off for five days. I need a break. I always do after a few days at the club. But admittedly, I want to know what happens! I will be checking in with my friend NGE to get reports, and you can be sure, I'll be reporting here.

Larry, Barry, whatever. He's gonna kill me.

We have a member named Larry. I've referred to him here as Barry to protect him, but truthfully, I need you to know who he is, because when I get shot in the face greeting him at the front desk, I want you to know who did it.
Larry thinks the club is his home. He always has. He sets up shop in the lobby with his laptop and spends every day there. He uses the phone on the wall next to the front desk and even gives out our phone number to people as his "home" number. It's been speculated that he's had trouble with the IRS. Whatever the case, he seems to have very important business to conduct at all times.
For a brief stint, he told us he was homeless and living in the hotel next to the club. Yet, he manages to afford his membership. This is a big mystery.
But what's been even more of a mystery to me is that we allow it. He hovers over us and stares. He makes everyone uncomfortable, and when I offered to say something to him like, "Larry, you have to stay off the phones. These are club lines, and they need to be free for prospective members to call," management has told me not to because, they say, he might be dangerous. He's too creepy, they say, let the General Manager handle it. But alas, the GM doesn't. So we all put up with him.
Now, as we renovate, Larry is a bit lost. He has nowhere to set up shop, and he wanders around aimlessly looking for outlets to plug in his laptop. As we section out and build new walls, he moves. It's like "Where's Waldo."
Last week we found him in the waiting room of the massage office.
Larry has three cats. We know this because his vet calls the club all the time. Apparently they're sick. SGE (he even brings out the mean in her!) speculated that perhaps they are suicidal.
The other day Larry came into the club mumbling to himself. I thought to myself, this guy is going to go postal on us. The shit's gonna hit the fan and he's gonna lose it. And I'm gonna be the first person to go because I haven't been overly friendly to him. That is, I AM friendly, just not overly friendly, I will be the first person he sees when he walks in with his oozy and he's gonna think, "That bitch. She goes first."
Larry's got a very Jewish last name, so I assumed he was Jewish. The other day he brought a loaf of bread into the club (which he does from time to time) and offered us a piece. It was Passover. I lied (because I'm not observant) "Larry, I can't eat that! It's Passover!" He acted like he had never heard of Passover before in his life and looked at me inquisitively. Great, I thought. Now I've accused him of being a Jew, and he's not gonna like that.
I'm fucked.
So this is my public (well, public to my 4 readers) announcement that if I get shot at the front desk, Larry is your guy.

Do you own an Explorer? Do you own an Explorer? Do you own an Explorer?

A woman, it needn't be mentioned that she's old because she is, after all, a member of our club, approached me at the front desk asking me if I or anyone within ears' range had a Ford Explorer. When I said no, she started rambling, somewhat incoherently, that maybe there was someone who did. She just rambled and rambled until I finally got from her that she couldn't lower the back seat. I offered to help.
"Do you own an Explorer?"
"No." I answered again.
"Well, okay, maybe you can help but I really need to find someone who owns an Explorer. My son" blah blah blah...blah blah blah. I have no idea what her son did to put her in this tragic situation of not being able to lower the back seat. I kept silent through the entire thing, let her babble and lead me to this obnoxiously huge vehicle which, for the life of me, I couldn't understand why a little, old batty lady would be driving. It was kind of scary and I noted to try to avoid her on the road.
She put the seat down as far as it could go, and I detected the problem. The headrest needed to be folded down.
Lo and behold, mechanical genius that I am, there was a string to pull, which I pulled, and the headrest folded. All was well and as she babbled more I just walked away and wished her a pleasant afternoon.
So this begs the question: why are all old women so fucking batty! It concerns me. I'm not far away, and I just want someone to shoot me if I ever become that annoying.
My new tactic to deal with these rambling idiots is to just let them ramble, not acknowledge too much of what they say, and pray that I can help them quickly so they'll just go away.
St. Patrick's day we offered free guest passes to members wearing green shirts. A man bellied up to the desk and loudly proclaimed, "Where's my guest pass?"
I said, "You're wearing green, here you go. A please would be nice."
He thought I was joking. I said, "No, really."
We start our renovations next week. A member asked me, "Are you changing everything?" Not knowing what she was getting at I said, "Yes." She said, "Are you changing the locker rooms?" I said, "Oh yes, they're going to be really big and nice."
"Well," she said, "I really like the lotion you have in the dispensers, are they going to change that?"
Dumbfounded, I said, "You know, I have no idea. If you'd like, I can check that with management and call you with an answer."
Thank god she didn't take me up on my offer, but I suspect we will be losing her as a member.
Lastly, I had a call from a woman who asked about our pools. Long story short, she is allergic to chlorine and was wondering if we treat it with ozone (? I thought that was a layer of the stratosphere) because apparently that will counteract her allergy.
I said I'd be happy to get an answer for her and call her back, and then I passed that lead onto the salesperson who will have a great time trying to sell THAT membership.
Do you still wonder why I drink?

It just keeps getting better.

Every person who comes into our club has to check in with the front desk. And then, I have to remind them that they are entering a health club, not a homeless shelter.
The JCC in Worcester where my mother has volunteered and been a member for 12 years STILL makes her pay a guest fee for me when I visit, and we STILL have to check in at the front desk.
They run a business, and they need to make money. It's pretty fucking simple.
At least 3 times on every shift I get nasty looks from people who aren't able to enter to club for free. They think because they know a member, they are entitled to a free entry.
They think because they have lived in Boulder for X number of years, they are entitled an entry.
They thing because they're THEM, they are entitled an entry.
Well, let me tell you folks something. You ain't entitled to nothing. NOTHING!
I don't understand where people get this shit.
So renovations start next week. Thankfully, I'll be gone.
Renovations mean change. And change is bad. Change is progress, and for Christ's sake, we don't like that. Don't take away what we know! What we're comfortable with!
I can't even begin to try to explain, but let me do that tomorrow. When I'm sober. right now, I have overindulged after having to tell about 50 members that they need a new membership card. A new card!!!!! No!!!! It's THE END OF THE FUCKING WORLD!!!!!

The C Word

Chocolate. Normally you would expect me to be talking about my love of the stuff, how I eat too much of it and how I have to swim a mile, run 10, hike Sanitas and Spin my ass off to work off the snacks I've just consumed. That's the reputation I've formed for myself in the bubble over the years.
Alas, the C word, Chocolate, has led me to another story about my job, the one I keep telling you about.
Apparently, a mother asked for a smoothie, and when SGE asked her "Do you want chocolate powder?" the mother responded, "We don't use the "C" word in front of little Ashley (Tiffany, Mackenzie, Chloe, Madison, Serenity, Violet, Zoe, you fill in the top names of little girls in Boulder).
Wait till little August learns the real "C" word. Her mother's got another thing coming to her.

Fucking brats!

Just when I thought it was the old people at the club that were a nuisance, a little bratty girl banged her fist on the counter yesterday to get our attention so she could get a coke. Or rather, it was probably a smoothie as her entitled Boulder mother probably wouldn't let her drink a coke. I don't know 'cause I ignored her. My co-worker, I'm going to call her SGE (Sweetest Girl Ever because she's so nice to everyone whether they deserve it or not), jumped to her attention and took care of her. Then, behind her back, we proceeded to call her a fucking spoiled brat.
A few minutes later OJLIM, old jewish Long Island man, who I call that because that's what he is - whiney, complainy and a total dick (note: I'm allowed to say that because these are my people, but you're not. Unfortunately, people like OJLIM are what give the rest of us a bad name) - came running to us looking for a charger for his iPhone behind the desk. We informed him that we didn't have the kind he needed and he insisted - INSISTED - that we did because upstairs they had told him that we did. I looked at him and said "S, we aren't lying to you, THERE IS NO CHARGER HERE!" and stormed away from the desk.
Next thing I knew, I saw him complaining to the sales staff about something. I approached them, told them what happened and asked if I was fired. They said, "We love you BG. Never."
Whew, apparently my sarcasm and honesty has won over my fellow employees at the club.
Last week, a young guy said something to me that I didn't hear. When I asked, "Excuse me?" He replied, "Do you speak English?"
To that I replied, "EXCUSE ME?"
When I tell people what I do for a living, they inevitably ask, "Do you get a free membership?" As if that makes all the abuse worth it. Truth is, I belong to another club so I don't have to see these people on my off hours when I'm not working.
Another old man's membership card wasn't working. I asked him his name, to which he replied, "Would you like a sperm sample too?"
I'm not making this shit up. Who could?