I've been doing a little fitness routine that includes yoga a couple days a week, some weight lifting, and varied fitness classes. It's all been pretty enjoyable, and now before I hop in the shower I check out my hot, hot bod, mentally high-five myself, and do a sexy dance. My dogs stare in wonderment and/or horror.
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Please, someone, make it stop.
Unfortunately, the world is full of unsavory people, and my gym has not yet figured a way to keep out the ones that suck my life force.

Such as:

The Weight Room Caveman
Um, yeaaaaah. How do I put this? You need to stop making sex sounds while you work out. You're making everyone uncomfortable.
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UGH UGH UGH, OH GOD, OH YEAH, OH YEAAAAAAH
It doesn't help that you generally have another guy spotting you, and that somehow, his crotch is abnormally close to your face. Oddly, these same actions don't bother me at all at a gay bar. So gentlemen: GET THE TO A GAY BAR. Where grunting and grinding is not only welcome, but expected.

Oh- and khakis/jeans aren't appropriate in a gym. Buy some fucking gym shorts.

The Yoga Masters
When I first started doing the yoga thing, I HATED these people in class. You know- the ones that are slightly ahead of the curve and can do more advanced poses than everyone else, usually with a cool, collected look on their face.
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"Lets see, I need to get milk and eggs at the store...now what was I doing? Oh right, Salamba Sirsasana pose. No big deal."
Now, I say I *used* to hate these people because I have become one, and self-hate is hard when you're JUST THIS AWESOME. You get me anywhere near a class where I'm one of the most advanced and you better believe that I'm going to be whipping out some Adho Mukha Vrksasana or the mermaid variation of Eka Pada Rajakapotasana. I will do a lunge-into-handstand-into-backbend-into-tree pose and fucking YAWN at the end. I'm that asshole. Sorry, everyone.

Oh, but if you're better than me and show me up, you're pretty much a dick.

Moving on to my least favorite of the work-out brigade.

Fitness Class Cheerleaders
Now, I understand that there will be peppy mo-fos in some classes. I mean, if I was doing some step aerobics, I'd probably expect someone with an extra-high ponytail and leg warmers to shout out motivational nonsense.

HOWEVER

When I'm doing a class that involves barbells, bands, and various other forms of torture, there should be NO chipper outbursts in my vicinity.

My class on Wednesdays involves a lot of lifting weights, and an instructor that I am 87% sure is a Nazi sympathizer. She is a tiny muscly blonde woman who varies between shouting out repetition counts and yelling vague threats when you're caught resting. She also enjoys shouting things like, Y'ALL WANNA DO ONE MORE SET?!? DOES SILENCE MEAN YES???

Ok, lady:
A) No. Silence doesn't fucking mean "yes." Silence means that we are all so tired that we can't breathe, much less respond to you, you crazy ho-bag.
B) There is always that one a-hole who is all WOOO! YES! COME ON GUYS! LET'S DO IT!
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Somebody shut her up. I'm 'bout to cut a bitch.
Although I think it is my profound hate of this person that fuels me with the rage necessary to push through the rest of that class, soooo....thanks, ^@*#bag. I guess.

But if you break an ankle *accidentally* tripping over my foot I'm not exactly going to cry about it.

Alas, the things we must endure for physical perfection. That, and the ability to eat an entire pizza in one sitting.
 
So after my immature pissing contest with my Dad over who can carry the heaviest furniture, my back went into a spasm that crippled me for about 3 days. I tried icing it, I tried laying on the floor (in the middle of work, mind you), I even tried Vicodin that I got from a friend's coworker, who is, apparently, some kind of middle-aged drug pusher.
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Here you go, sweetie. If you want a *real* trip, take three with a glass of wine.
After listening to me whimper for about 3 days, my wonderful mother offered to pay for me to get a massage.

Now, I am no stranger to massages, they are some of my favorite things in the entire world. Currently, I cannot justify spending the money on them, but should I ever become independently wealthy, I will have a live-in masseuse. His name will be Hans.

I usually prefer men because they have stronger hands, but the woman I ended up having an appointment with was very good. While we were making small talk at the beginning of the massage, I started thinking about all the ways that a massage with a new masseuse was like a first date.

1) Until I start to really relax, the first few minutes are spent wondering if I'm skinnier than the last person they were with.

2) Let's face it- you don't really know this person. On a date you're in this strange person's car, maybe driving down a dark street. During a massage you are lying completely naked on a table alone in a room with them. With your eyes closed. At some point you think- why the FUCK did I not Google search this person first.
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3) Halfway through both, I always wish I had gotten a pedicure.

4) At the beginning, you don't really know how inappropriate things are going to get. Although I did get a clue from this woman when she told me to make sure and "take off the underwear so she could really get at my lower back." I don't know about your underwear, lady, but mine doesn't cover any part of my back. Turns out she was playing it a little fast and loose with the term "lower back." "I want to knead the hell out of your ass cheeks" would have been a bit more accurate. At times, she was about 2 inches away from needing to buy me breakfast the next morning.
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"Well, helloooo there."
5) And finally, perhaps the way that first dates and massages are most similar is in the way that during both, I am just PRAYING that I don't fart.

For the record, I didn't. But there's always next time.
 
So I moved last weekend. Lets talk about moving for a second.

It's fucking awful. Like- poke me in the eye, kick me in the stomach, spit-in-my-mouth awful.

However! I did learn some things. I would like to share these with you now:

1) I totally understand how people start hoarding. I found a note from a friend from high school. FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL. And you know what? I kept it. This is probably one of the warning signs.
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Hey! I might need this for something...one day.
2. Moving with your parents, while helpful, can make you want to throw yourself in front of a bus. My father acts like I'm as strong as he is. Being a competitive asshole, I will not admit that this isn't true. I've been icing my back for days, and I still can't bend over.

3. I own approximately 5 rolls of aluminum foil. I can't remember the last time I actually used aluminum foil. Or bought aluminum foil, for that matter. This is a complete mystery.

4. You will finally get to the point where you're so fed up that you start just throwing shit away. I go from carefully boxing up and labeling every little thing to wanting to bring all my belongings to Goodwill. Toaster? I'm not carrying that thing to the car- just leave it. More jewelry? Jesus- I've already taped up that box. Give it to a neighbor. Family heirloom? Looks heavy. Trash it.

5. When you have people helping you move/pack, be sure to take care of all *ahem* personal items beforehand. Because...hypothetically....after you move with your mother and father and suddenly don't know where, say, your vibrator is, it's not a good feeling. Or so I've heard.
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Don't worry! Your Dad put me away for you! On a related note, he'll never look at you the same again!
6. You're supposed to replace the air filters for your a/c units. Oh, everyone knew this? Right. My bad.

7. Even when you're done moving, you still have to unpack. It's like finishing a marathon and finding out that you have to walk 2 more miles to your car in order to get home.

I'm really starting to think that a moving service is the way to go.
 
Well, they say write what you know.

Let's face it, every girl out there has a touch of crazy. Some more, some less than others, but it's definitely there...waiting. Waiting for an event that will trigger the crazy and cause it to fly in someone's direction at terrifying speeds. When prompted, my crazy comes at you like a tornado of honey badgers and insecurity.
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Probably decent advice.
As you might have guessed, this crazy is most often brought about by men. To be fair, they often deserve it. Fellas, y'all do and say some stupid, stupid shit. When you sleep with your girlfriends cousin, you shouldn't be shocked when she super glues your junk to the inside of your leg while you sleep, you know, to keep it out of trouble. I have a friend (The Bombshell) who gave away a particularly skeezy guy's belonging to a homeless man after finding out that he had a girlfriend in a different city.
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Oh these shoes? They're Prada. Thanks for noticing!
My crazy doesn't usually come out to play, but when it does, it is more often a different flavor than revenge-crazy. Mine comes out when I'm not confident in a relationship that I'm really into. It results when I have absolutely no hand. Just...none. I turn into the girl who looks longingly at her phone every 20 minutes, and then judges herself for being a needy piece of shit. However, I have a special skill for keeping my crazy under wraps...as far as the guy knows. It usually goes something like this:

Me: Hey! I was thinking it would be fun to (ENTER AMAZINGLY AWESOME DATE IDEA HERE) tomorrow. What do you think?
Dude: Sounds fun, but I actually I have a thing tomorrow. Maybe the day after?
Me: Yeah, that sounds great, I'll talk to you later!

[Immediate call to The Duchess]
Me: I asked him to go to (AWESOME DATE) tomorrow and he can't cause he has "a thing." WHAT THE FUCK IS "A THING?" AND IS SHE PRETTIER THAN ME?
The Duchess: Men are just non-specific and he's probably playing basketball or some shit. You are insane. Calm down.
Me: BUT...but...yeah I know. Ok, I think it's passed.

The point is, girl crazy happens. Often our brains work in such a way that we are constantly thinking about every possible interpretation of a word or phrase until we have imagined the most negative, unlikely situation and convinced ourselves that it's definitely, definitely what's happening. Guys don't do this. I used to not believe them when they said that they can be sitting quietly and literally not thinking about anything. At all. If possible, they under-think things.
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Oh, look! There's Sandy over there with her ex-boyfriend outside a motel. It's nice that they stayed friends. I thought she was supposed to be having lunch with her mom? Must have had a change of plans.
I have managed to harness my crazy so it's usually only unleashed on unsuspecting friends and, occasionally, strangers (to all of whom I sincerely apologize). But the crazy passes, and after it does, we feel so much better. So if you're involved with a girl suffering from insecure-crazy, you'll probably never even know it. If you're dealing with a girl with revenge-crazy, well...you probably deserve it.
 
If you live in Tennessee, you have probably been following along with many of the crazy-ass laws that have been proposed in the most recent state legislative session. Even if you don't, some of them have received horribly, horribly embarrassing national news coverage. 

Lets begin!

Gather children, and we'll explore The Misguided Adventures of Tea Party Rednecks and Sexually Repressed Homophobes:

The ever-present, and possibly challenged, Sen. Stacy Campfield (Knoville-R) is really on a roll this year. He is the sponsor of the widely-discussed "Don't Say Gay Bill" which, you guessed it, would bar teachers from discussing homosexuality in public schools.
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"I hear the gays are like beetlejuice, as long as you don't say the name, they won't show up and try to have butt-sex with you." -Stacey Campfield (unverified)
Did you catch the Daily Show when they featured this? Check it out here. Luckily that bill only passed in the Senate and was watered down by an amendment to be slightly less horrifying. But that darling ginger doesn't stop at just one offensive move. He is currently trying to veto the state budget in order to defund Planned Parenthood. I can't think of a creative enough insult for you, sir.

Moving on.

Rep. Bill Dunn (R-Knoxville) is encouraging "critical thinking" through his bill that will allow teachers to present Creationism as a viable alternative to evolution in public school science classrooms. We're talking Adam, Eve, snake, etc etc.
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Obviously.
And don't even get me started about the community in Murfreesboro who are fighting the construction of a new Mosque.
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Muslim? I think you mean *TERRORIST*
Yes. That was the argument. People FEARED FOR THEIR SAFETY. Allow me to share with you a quote from one of the residents:
"Our country was founded through the founding fathers -- through the true God, the Father and Jesus Christ."
Really? Because I was under the impression that our country was founded on freedom of religion, you ignorant ho-bag.
Here is where I would add that the legislature also tried to pass a law making it illegal for Muslims to practice parts of their religion. But I won't. Because if I write any more about this I might just accidentally convince myself to move.

Point is: Not all Tennesseans are like this. I'd like to end with a quote from another one of the TN legislators:

“It hurts business. It’s embarrassing for me to talk to people in other parts of the country. It hurts our image down here. We had an image of everybody being barefoot and bucktoothed with cow licks on the sides of their head. [In the past], we came a long way to try to diminish some of that. We might have stepped back in the pack in the South.”
-Rep. Mike Turner
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Morans, indeed.
 
Dear Lady Doctor,

This morning was fun. As fun as those visits can be. I always enjoy our yearly dates. You warm the speculum for me, and that really means a lot. Seriously, when you have something shoved up your chalupa it's far more pleasant when it's not 19 degrees.
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Mmmmm, toasty
But there is something that I need to talk to you about.

Some people are uncomfortable with male gynos. I for one, am not. If a man loves vagina THAT MUCH, I feel like mine is safe in his gloved, lubed hands.

However.

You're a talker. Which is fine! I'll chat with you about the weather, upcoming vacations, work, and any other variation of general small-talk that you make with someone that you know, but are not actually "friends" with. But there is really a time and a place for this kind of prattle.
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And this isn't it.
You have ample time before and after the actual exam, but for some reason you wait until you are staring straight into my cervix before you ask about my Nana's birthday party.
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This is a tulip. Have you seen a cervix? They're pretty fucking gross.
I'm not really sure what to do when this happens. Do I shush you? Just mumble something and pray that you'll stop talking? Start working my kegels and make this little adventure a tad more challenging for you?

I don't know.

Lets consider this my official request to enact a new rule during our time together. When legs open, mouths shut.

Love,

Cassie

P.S. I really appreciated it when you told me that I had a great looking cervix. Careful though- don't want it to get too cocky.

HAHAHA, see what I did there? Seriously though, I'd like it to be a little cockier.
 
So the Rapture didn't happen on Saturday, which is unfortunate because I was planning on the world ending and therefore decimating my post-birthday hangover from the night before. But alas, it did not. I was ready to move on and pretend not to notice while the crazies had to toss out their THE END IS NEAR signs and start saving up for retirement again because, hell- that is embarrassing enough in itself.
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"Can I interest anyone in a pre-owned bus? Custom paint job!"
But no. Oooooh no. They can't just shrug and say, "Well, my goodness! The world is still here. We will now go quietly read the Bible to ourselves and stop harrassing you heathens."

Because Jesus? He is just FASHIONABLY LATE!

That's right, motherfuckers, the J Man will be back in October for, you know, the real Rapture. He was here watching us on Saturday, but he was just invisble. Which I thought was always the case, according to Sunday School teachers all over the nation.
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"LOL- got ya!"
Personally, I wish Jesus had taken all the Rapturers with him last weekend, because frankly- I'm tired of mocking them.
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But thank god other people aren't.
 
Actually? That title is slightly misleading. It suggests that he actually *thinks* about things before he says them.

Let me give you some background info:

I have an older and a younger brother. The older one is a quiet Baptist deacon, while the younger one is an introverted hippie. I, on the other hand, am a loud mouthed smart-ass. I get this exclusively from my father. Because of this, he refers to me as his "favorite son." My brothers are unaware of this, and are, fortunately, uninterested enough in social media to EVER find this blog. The point is, my father feels that he can chat with me about many inappropriate subjects. Imagine the kinds of things discussed in a men's locker room. Now imagine talking about that shit with your Dad.

My father spent much of his life as an uptight businessman, and when he was successful enough to retire at 50, he straight up reverted back to his childhood. Well, his 20s at least.

My friends love my Dad, mostly because he will talk shit about me without even a glimmer of guilt in his eye. He tells the story of what a horrifying emotional teeny bopper I was when I met *Nsync to anyone who will listen. He also likes to make awkward references to not only my sex life, but also his own. He is my future therapist's dream.

Here are some gems:

[While watching the episode of Sex & the City where Charlotte gets crabs.]
Dad: Honey, remember that time I got crabs? YEESH- those things are ITCHY.
Mom: Please. Please hush.
Dad: No really- remember? From those dirty sheets in San Fransisco? And you had to get them out with that little comb?
Mom: *Sigh*
Me: HORRIFIED STARE

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Dear God, sir. Please stop. I've never even been to San Fransisco.

Me: So, Dad...what do you want for Father's Day?
Dad: Every year that passes and you're not knocked up is really a gift in itself.

Dad: So this guy you're dating...does he play sports?
Me: Um, well yeah, I guess so.
Dad: Is he any good? Cause if I'm going to breed you, I want good athletic stock.
[That's right. My father just referred to me in terms of cattle.]

{While sitting at the renovated cabin that he just bought and fixed up]
Dad: So, Cass- Once this place is all done and I put a hot tub out here, you could come up here on a weekend just to hang by yourself and relax.
Me: Yeah, I could come up here and chill in the hot tub "alone," or you know...whatever
Dad: Ahahahaha, is she my daughter or what? Can I get a fist bump?
{To be fair, I brought this one on myself. I still was not comfortable with the thought of my Dad fist pounding the idea of me getting sexed up in a hot tub.}

Those are just a few. Stay tuned to the disturbing father/daughter version of Shit My Dad Says.
 
Ok, nature. We need to talk. About this:
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"I'm coming for your children"
Nashville is currently in the middle of a Cicada invasion. I grew up on a farm. I've killed snakes, I shoot guns, I hold my shit together around gross slimy things. But let me say this: this little plague is not funny. Seriously- I was starting to reconsider my blatant contempt for the uber-Christians who were preaching about the Rapture. You would to if you walked out your backyard and was smacked in the face with this shit:
Oh, that sound? THAT SOUND HAUNTS MY DREAMS.

You didn't know bugs could scream? Yeah, me neither. I also did not anticipate being able to hear them through the brick walls of my condo.

Spoiler alert: If eaten, they give dogs horrible, horrible diarrhea. My dogs think that the Lord of the bug kingdom is personally sending them flying popcorn. They are fucking ECSTATIC.

I do not feel the same way, mostly because at the beginning of "the invasion" one tried to crawl INTO MY VAGINA.
(Sometimes I go into my backyard in just a robe. What of it?)

In short: My vagina and I are way over this.