This just in from the Dept. of the Horrible — the Highlands Middle School Show Choir Orlando Trip of 1995 (HMSSCOT1995) is now living and breathing fresh new viruses onto the Internet. And not even the impressive part of the trip (when we festered in the Days Inn swimming pool for three straight hours and did not die), but rather the one song and dance number for which they let Kara and me take over the front row. WHY would you allow me to be in the front row of ANYTHING? I can’t remember if we bullied the director into that or she just felt sorry for us always being stuck in the back.

Gross.

Watch my new shiz, and if you’re out of your mind and really into American Idol, you should go ahead and watch the entire EW.com Idolatry series. It takes less than six hours and Michael Slezak is a total fox!

‘DWTS Talk’ — Season 6 Awards!
Field-testing the Wii Fit
‘Idolatry’ — Final 3 recap
‘Idolatry’ — David vs. David

Two of the new American Gladiators, Crush and Wolf, dropped by my ever-festive cubicle to share powerful secrets of gladiating with me and Slezak. Here’s Part 1 of what’s sure to be a truly enlightening series. My fave part is when I blurt out “Gassy!” Awkward…

Update: Here’s Part 2. We talk “style,” and Wolf compliments the tropical fish spandex leggings from the ’80s (Dee Barrett Original Flavored) that I am obviously wearing in these videos.

Michael Slezak (google alert!) is not havin’ it with my awesome pants in this frame.

Okay, here’s the best one, Part 3. Ridiculous challenges include catching candy in our moths, fielding a publicist’s phone call, and flying paper airplanes.

Oh, and I totally have a crush on Crush.

It might!

That “omelet” looks like pretend food, like it should be plasticized and play an integral role in an important sculpture or board game. DD obviously can’t make omelets on the spot so those things are pre-mixed, pre-shaped, etc. Ew. I’d eat the yellow stuff if it constituted some form of cake. Even if it looked like that — as long as it tasted like cake I’d be fine. Or even if it tasted like an English muffin with colorful herbs. I just can’t believe that mass is supposed to be eggs.

Whoa… Do I not like eggs? I just ate eggs!

Nice football in the background. Who’s up for some sports!

Here’s my love letter to Crystal Waters and Kristi Yamaguchi. It’s the PopWatch item I always wanted to write and now I have. I rule! Slightly.

I could never do a pull-up in elementary school. This meant I could never get the Presidential Fitness Award, because in order to get that, you had to do at least one pull-up (if you were a girl. Boys had to do more than one. Boys are way impressive).

Girls who couldn’t do a pull-up had to settle for the flexed-arm hang, which involved a gym teacher hoisting you up over a metal bar as if you were doing your own pull-up, simulating the experience for you to remind you of how unsatisfactory you are on your own. Then you just hung there with your arms “flexed” until they felt like they were about to fall off, at which point you let go and plummeted towards doom. To make things worse, the gym teacher would be counting out loud from all the way down on the ground, so that you knew exactly at which point you had earned the stupid, lesser, no-good National Fitness Award and could finally let go. My arms always started shaking well before this point, but I refused to quit. I’d end up earning the second-rate, Dan Quayle version of the esteemed George H. W. Bush honor. “She’s kind of a fighter, that Annie Barrett,” the gym teacher would say when we all left to change. I’m sure he said that. He had to.

So many things about the flexed-arm hang were uncomforable, the most obvious one being that another person had to lift you above the bar — all of you — because you couldn’t lift all of yourself by yourself. That’s gross. I dreaded the lift, not just because of the shame game, but because why should a gym teacher get to grasp a little kid like that? Looking back, I’m surrpsied no one ever yelled “bad touch!” during the lifts. I should have, just to see the looks on people’s faces. But I wasn’t that edgy yet. It would have been out of character for the Young AB to make any sort of outburst.

The shame I felt during the lift itself was astronomical. (What a lame word, astronomical. Do I mean to suggest the shame was from outer space? No.) The gym teacher had to undeservedly bear the brunt of my excessive existence — the random long limbs I couldn’t muster up the strength to deal with by myself. And my weight wasn’t even excessive. I was skinny! I realize today that this was never fair. I was too tall. There’s no way an 11-year-old girl who was my height could have lifted herself up without some serious weight training or ‘roid use on the side. (And you know how I feel about the ‘roids. I feel weird even accepting an immunity or protein booster from the smoothie place. Seeing as my diet consists mainly of pad thai and cookies, I should probably get over this for the sake of “health”.)

But that’s not what I told myself back then. The entire time I hung up there over the bar, flailing, I imagined a voice informing me what a disgusting slob with no upper body strength I was. I’d also be wondering why I bothered to break a sweat during the mile run.

This should not have happened! I’m telling you, gym class in Illinois public schools was evil. I’m sure everyone in every state had to take gym, but Illinois people have to take it for an HOUR each day,all throughout high schoo l. I could probably write an entire book based on traumatic gym-class episodes from the Land of Lincoln. Okay, great! Nobody steal my idea.

So when I’m trying to fall asleep, I often lament about the blue Presidential Fitness patch, or what I call “the one that got away.” I think of those little feisty girls who could do pull-ups, and I hate them all over again. When we got to high school, I’d kick their asses in all areas, including obvious ones such as sports but also others like intelligence, metabolism, stealth while ditching class to drive to Applebee’s, and general coolness. But in fifth grade, they were still the stars. They could lift their wiry bodies above a metal bar. It was awesome.

To better convey how I feel about forcing little girls to attempt pull-ups, here’s a homemade animated graphic (Huh? Annie can do that? YES.) of Madonna flipping the bird to the camera during a special-edition cut of her video for “Sorry.” Apparently the kiddies at home would have been too tormented by Madonna’s obscene, shriveled-up middle finger, so they cut the gesture out for the official release. A good move, if only because she knew the original cut would leak and keep people talking about her. Madonna is really funny. I often realize I’m simply glad she exists.

Yes, that’s me on the right. Get it? I’m as committed as an Olympian, and I also never fall.

Last night’s figure skating long program competition in Torino was the biggest night of the Olympics, even though Survivor and Dancing With the Stars were also on. What was a girl to do? Watch the Olympics from 2-5 a.m. when NBC helpfully replays the primetime events.

The entire thing — during which I proceed to fall in love with roughly all of the skaters… no not joking — is way too long to post here, so here are some excerpts:

2:09 a.m. Silvia’s waiting for her scores now. It was a little insensitive for someone to say “The scores really don’t matter, but here they are.” I’m not sure who that commentator was, but it was probably the one named Dick.

2:28 You expect me to believe 246 Olympic hopefuls work at Home Depot? Nice try.

3:25 “Joannie is a beautiful skater who doesn’t always believe in herself.” That sounds like how you’d introduce two friends who don’t know each other at a party. “This is Annie. Annie is a world-class eater who doesn’t always hold out for dessert.”

4:09 F***! Sasha Cohen fell. This is horrible! F***! She did it again. I’m devastated. “This’ll be a fight to be on the podium now.” Ugh. So she won’t win the gold medal. All the more reason for her to join the cast of The O.C. next season as Seth Cohen’s long-lost twin sister. They’ll meet at college and kind of fall for each other but then realize the only reason they like each other is because like all people, they’re secretly in love with themselves and they just happen to share a lot of the same DNA!

Read more.

Sometimes I wish I lived in Chicago and could be a Trixie. Only for a few minutes.

But let’s focus on New York. On Saturday, I went running for my obligatory monthly workout. On my way back, there were these ridiculous preteen hoodlums blocking the Hudson River pathway for anyone who ran by. As my shitty luck would have it, one kid sprinted up and literally played basketball defense against me as I ran for about five seconds.

I considered blowing my whistle (yes Dad, I had my whistle) and calling him out on the five-second rule, but he didn’t seem like he’d be that into organized sports. I had to actually shove him away (while thinking he might have a gun) with my iPod-wielding forearm (extra threatening!) so I could get by, and spat out a resounding “WTF” in the complete-word variety while doing so.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the kid seemed to really dig this reaction. He backed off and shouted triumphantly to his friends, “What the fuck! She said what the fuck!” It was as if his other little greasy partners-in-crime were recording a log of people’s reactions to their antics. I guess that would be better than playing with guns.

40 steps later, another one of them crept out from behind the bushes like one of those huge Washington Square Park rats who dart out from under the benches and ran towards me. But this time I warned him ahead of time with a simple imperative: “Get out of my face.” I said it calmly and in statement-like form so that things would be more clear. This kid actually backed off right away. Yeah. That’s right.

So what’s the protocol here? They were seriously under 13. At what point are children forgivable, and at what point is it okay to wish you were the one with the gun?

I guess at the very least, this particular could-only-happen-to-Annie experience can serve as a valid excuse to not go running in the near future (read: until April).

Thanks, kids.

Maybe they walk more than other people, but I just don’t think that’s the reason.

I never feel like I’ve accomplished anything even when I walk a “great distance.” In order to feel like a productive workout person, I need to be rockin’ the workoutfit. Right? Sometimes, even when I put on running clothes and then just walk around my apartment moving shit around (I put the clothes on thinking they might inspire me to go running, but then they end up inspiring me to make Lipton cheesy noodle mixes, drink beers, and fall asleep) — I assume that since I have the outfit on, I’m working out. There’s something about getting up from the toilet while wearing sneakers that feels so much more athletic.

Yesterday I ran. WTF? This was unprecedented. I mean, there were those three times in college, but they were only for the sake of journalism. But this last run actually involved free will… and a staggering dose of Olympics Guilt.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t alone. I’ve never seen more people exercising than I did yesterday. As I thundered my way up the Village/Chelsea-area piers, I saw plenty of people in as poor shape as me, trying and failing to role-play Olympic champions. Many even had Nike logos on their clothes, just like the U.S. track team. Coincidence? Not in my book!

Even though I have horrible form and a less-than-sleek physique, in my mind, for those 25 horrible minutes, I was an Olympic runner. Right? For all the people around me knew, I just barely missed the qualifying time to go to Athens. Lots of people look flabby despite their hard training, right? Blame the metabolism!

I even envisioned running fast enough for my facial features to do that scary thing where they jiggle violently, independent of the rest of the human being. Is this not the most fun element of slow-motion Olympics coverage? I say “envision” because I could never will my body to move fast enough for this to happen.

Key to my assuming near-Olympian status were my obscene red-and-gold sporty sunglasses. (Go Boston College! Um, no.) They were completely unnecessary, as the sun had just set. But in New York (and everywhere else, but especially here), when you exercise, people look at you. There’s no mercy whatsoever.

I think it’s assumed that if you work out in NYC, you do so in order to be stared at. During my very few jaunts along the Hudson River, I’ve noticed that almost everyone whizzing by me on rollerblades, bikes, foot, etc. is really, really attractive and fit (excluding Olympics Guilt Week). It’s almost like you need to be screened before venturing onto the pedestrian walkway (runway?). I feel like I just barely made the cutoff and am lucky I’m so tall and minimally chested that I could potentially pass as a really convincing transvestite who could F-ing POUND you if you tried to keep her from her daily jog because she still can’t shake the dead-giveaway manly strength.

I can’t stand stranger-to-stranger eye contact, especially when I’m groveling in a pool of city grime, tap-water-poured-into-an-Evian-bottle and, most importantly, my own sweat. Mmmmm.

Of course, I may resent the voyeurism, but I’m not above it. Hence the eyewear! The unnecessary glasses give me official license to stare at other people and hold the gaze longer than would be appropriate sans eyewear. I go all sorts of beyond the comfort level from behind those things - but it’s fine, because I’m cloaked by the shade(s) of my own creepiness.

And I’m no hypocrite - if someone wants to hold the gaze on me, I’m all for that, as long as I don’t have to watch it. I don’t mind if other sunglass-wearers stare at me inappropriately. It’s bound to happen, as I am rather striking and inexplicably dress in all royal blue to go running. (It clashes with the iSkin. It’s fun.) But please: NO EYE CONTACT. It freaks me out.

I’ve gotten over it to some degree, after realizing that as ‘not a gay man,’ I don’t hold the interest of anyone in my neighborhood. I actually love this. People blatantly sizing each other up - especially if only one person is doing the staring - is one of the most unsettling parts of society, along with McDonald’s Chicken Selects commericals and unattractive thongs on unattractive women peeking out of unattractive jeans.

Actually, it might be time for an official DR poll.

Which of the following is most unsettling about society?

a) Getting stared at (including eye contact)
b) McDonald’s Chicken Selects commercials
c) UTOUWPOOUJ

Take your mark… Beep!

Now that I’ve been updating daily, Google has been picking up each day’s entry as a new page. Thanks, invisible Web crawlers that until yesterday didn’t know this site existed. It’s amazing what selling out can do for your site’s traffic!

Anyway, I was somewhat amused to learn via my elaborate “stalk the stalkers” system that in the past few days, people have come across Diminishing Returns by Google searching phrases both boring (”swim cap worn at athens“) and obvious (”synchronized diving sucks“). Nice.

But I became absolutely thrilled after learning that apparently, at least three other people worldwide are with me in wondering why the F Olympic divers take little showers AFTER GETTING OUT OF THE POOL. Is this not redundant? They were just in the water! What is going on? Nihilism Bear?

It didn’t occur to me until after finding out people actually searched “olympic synchronized diving rinse,” “synchronized diving shower,” and FINALLY, “why do olympic divers rinse off after a dive” that I was not alone in my pondering.

So, since three wayward souls have already clicked on DR to find out, I feel sort of obliged to at least attempt an explanation or six. Here they are:

a) The rinse water is fresh, and the pool water is chlorinated. Chlorine makes hair turn green. Divers are on TV so their hair CANNOT turn green. (Within 20 seconds.)

b) The divers are ON TV! And they have hard bodies! They want more attention paid to their hard bodies. They must rinse off every inch of their hard, hard bodies just for their fans. And for creeps.

c) NBC planted these showers to improve ratings. “Water! Hard bodies! Being the only channel that shows The Olympics! We can’t lose!” Slow-motion footage can also be used surrounding commercial breaks. Instead of, you know, the dives.

d) Divers need something to do between diving and receiving their scores. God forbid they interact with each other, so they rinse off, just because. Plus, it’s rude to stare at the judges. You should entice them instead.

e) Divers just really, really love water and can’t get enough of it. To get enough of it, they need to arch their backs and slowly exhale with their eyes closed and the “go ahead, spritz me” facial expression of their choice.

f) None of the above, moron.

I can’t find an image online. This must not be a big enough deal. But come on! Three people plus me! That’s like a minor phenomenon.

Feel free to shoot me, but I think the Sprint commercials with the kids about the overtime minutes are hilarious.I’ve been watchcing the Olympics for six straight hours now, but feel no shame because it doesn’t really feel like TV. Today’s obsession is how absolutely gorgeous all of the athletes are. Seriously, with all of them - even if the face isn’t great, the body is so perfect that you kind of just stare. And gape. And snack on sugary cereal.

I have noticed, particularly during women’s volleyball, that they do a lot more closeups of the prettiest two players on the court than the “stars” of the teams. Sometimes the cameras just follow them around for no reason. This was even more obnoxious during women’s synchronized diving. They showed this beautiful German girl on every dive even though she came in close to last place. The seemingly unnecessary “rinse off” shower portion after every dive of hers was especially gratuitous.

I guess this isn’t wrong. Anyone who makes it to the Olympics has a right to be on TV, and personally I’d rather watch nicer-looking people than ugly people. I feel horrible admitting that. On normal TV, there’s none of this guilt because everyone in every show is aesthetically close to perfect. The Olympics can’t screen like that.

Wait for the profoundness. It’s coming. It’s so close.

The Olympics are like the epitome of democracy. And they’re in ATHENS! Democracy’s BIRTHPLACE! It’s, like, all coming together! Like.

Does anyone else feel a little uneasy in the time surrounding, and especially during, the Olympics? I always feel so worthless whenever I watch them, particularly the women’s events.

While watching the Olympics during high school, I’d always keep one eye on my parents and one eye on the screen, scanning their expressions to see if they’d have that disappointed “Annie, that could have been you” face.

Sometimes I ended up not caring about who wins the medals and instead searched the screen for that girl who spent her entire 17-year life training for one Olympic event and just came in seventh.

That sucks. I wonder if she thought it was worth it. Don’t get me wrong, seventh place worldwide is a huge accomplishment. But part of her had to be thinking, “Fine. It’s over. I’m a failure. NOW can I eat some donuts?”

I speak from experience. When I was 13 and on a local swim team, this evil 14-year-old named Trish Jackson edged me out from my rightful place on the Timber Trails Swim Club 13-14 Girls Medley Relay.

Our group of four had won gold medals at the annual inter-suburban conference for three years now. I was the slowest of the four, so swam the final freestyle leg, also known as the “let the other people get the lead for you and then try not to fuck it up” leg.

But suddenly, we did “time trials” during practice and Trish Jackson swam freestyle faster than me. I was devastated. I had to swim butterfly, the hardest stroke, in the B relay. At meets, I watched the other three - MY three - gossiping with the cool older girl from two lanes over.

Trish never put on her bathing cap until two seconds before her event was called - she was that cool. I envisioned mauling her in the face with her bathing cap, forcing her into the water only to be drowned by her own wayward locks of hair. “MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE WORN YOUR BATHING CAP!” I would have screeched, in cold blood.

Then it came time for the biggest event of the summer, the inter-suburban conference. Booyah. I still wasn’t on the medley relay, but I was one of two Timber Trails representatives in the 50-yard freestyle event along with - you guessed it - Trish the Dish. We were so close in time that she was the third seed and I the fourth, out of 20 swimmers.

The pressure was high. I can honestly say, even after ten subsequent years of beer and nachos cravings, that in my entire life I have never wanted anything more than to beat her time, even by one hundreth of a second. I had never won a medal of my own, and this was my chance. It would be mine. Pure, glimmering, bullet-proof… bronze.

(Sidenote: this just proves that I am not Olympic material. I don’t need to “win it all.” I just need to beat the people I don’t like.)

Race time. I looked over at Trish. Still no bathing cap. She was making friends with girls from other teams, totally NOT focusing on the race.

I decided I would beat her. Maybe, throughout my intense swim club career, I just hadn’t been trying. Maybe I wasn’t using my spindly little limbs to their fullest capacity. That was it. I would simply swim faster than ever, at a pace not even the coaches would believe. Those evil dictators, Bob and Marc, would be stopped dead in their tracks at the side of the pool, able to muster up only enough movement to reach up and slowly lower their knockoff Ray-Bans in utter amazement.

The most pathetic self-psych-up of all time ensued. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, thinking that might help. I performed the “visualization” exercise our coaches had taught us, except my version didn’t involve the race, just the moment after the race, when my name would come up next to “3″ and Trish would look perplexed. And then start to cry.

It was settled. I would win the bronze medal and Trish would get the puke yellow 4th place ribbon. I was sure of it.

Then she beat me by .04 seconds. My insignificant 13-year-old world crashed down around me.

Well, sort of. After all that drama, I’m pretty sure I hid my oppressive, overflowing emotions from my mom and simply begged her to take me to Applebee’s or something. It was easier that way, plus I got to eat Applebee’s.

Because, you see, I’m not Olympic material. And nothing looks prettier next to puke yellow than an Oriental Chicken Salad Rollup and huge fountain Coke.