Wednesday, April 16, 2014

How Guitar Hero saved my sanity

Every now and then you need to time travel to your younger days before your current life laden with responsibilities, bills and rabbit food for every goddamn meal. I love my life, but shit on a STICK it's busy and stressful and my kid insists on eating dinner every night after I get home from working all day - I mean, what is that EVEN ABOUT. Not to mention my mortgage company insisting that I pay them for my house every month. You won't just let me live here for free? Because it'd be a lot cooler if you did.

My point is, I spent this last weekend playing Guitar Hero and MarioKart, eating jalapeno cheetos (NOT flaming hot cheetos - they're different and it's important), watching nerky movies we've seen a thousand times, drinking beer, shooting all sorts liquor like we were 21 again and laughing with my best friend as if we see each other every week instead of twice a year at best. I didn't exercise. I didn't watch my calories or protein or food intake in general. I didn't set an alarm clock. 

We've been friends since the summer before junior year of high school when we were playing kickball during hell week of drumline camp and the boys stuck us out in the outfield together because they thought we'd be useless and she asked if I wanted to form a superhero crime-fighting dance team and I said FUCK YEAH because that sounded like way more fun than mysogynistic kickball and we made up names for ourselves and it turns out the boys were right because we didn't pay attention to the game at all. Aw.

I learned that I need to just sit and do nothing more often. I'm always going. It's hard to do this one with a 2 foot tall ball of energy around, but I could carve time out for relaxation. I just don't.

I learned that sometimes it works better if you lefty flip. (Wink.)

I learned that Malibu coconut rum tastes like suntan lotion and probably always has. Similarly, I was reminded that Captain Morgan spiced rum is fuggin' terrible, only made worse when you chase it with a Corona (the piss-wateriest of lagers).

I was also reminded that Rainbow Road can eat a dick. It's SO HARD. (twss)

I learned that my BFF and I have been friends for 12 years and across thousands of miles of distance for a reason (because we're both awesome, duh), because we're very different, but we're the same in the important ways.

No homo.

And finally, I learned that there's a cost associated with going 4 days without considering the junk you're eating and drinking and the exercise you're not doing. Cheers to a vacation from my organized chaos I call life, to best friends and to jalapeno cheetos. Now it's time to get back on track. Stay tuned for gym selfies and tweets about clean eating and ass sweat. Keepin' it real since that year I was born a while ago.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The Elevator Workout

I call this The Elevator Workout because you gon' need to ride the elevator tomorrow. Stairs will be a negative, Ghost Rider.

BEGIN with 15 minutes of sprints. Crank the dreadmill up to 10 and run 20 seconds, rest 20 seconds, run 20, rest 20, etc. until you get to 15 minutes. It's easy for the first 5, but just wait.

THEN do 50 weighted squats. 5 sets of 10. I'm up to squatting 165. (Hot damn, that's something I never thought I'd say.) I use the squat rack where the bar is attached to the rack so I don't die, especially because I workout alone most of the time. The machine is my spotter just in case my ass and quad muscles can't take the heat. Safety first! 

THEN do 100 walking lunges. Again, it's easy for the first 30 or so. Then shit gets real.

Then end it with a 2 minute plank, because abs are neat. You know what else is neat? Trying to hold your plank when your legs are jello and your arms are slip-sliding around because of ALL THE SWEAT.

It takes about 40ish minutes - perfect for a lunch hour workout. Plus, soon you'll be able to crack a walnut between your ass cheeks, and that's a pretty cool party trick.

For your Pinning pleasure.
Nobody should smile this big during The Elevator Workout. NOBODY.
I just hadn't finished the squats yet.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

More unicorn kisses, please

I'm not gonna act like having a kid is all rainbows and unicorn kisses. I love my kid with every fiber of my being, but sometimes he's a little twat. This usually happens when he skips naptime. Like yesterday.

To be fair, we had Sonic for dinner and fast food always makes me a little bit short-tempered and ragey. Surprise, I eat fast food sometimes. It's maybe 2-3 times a month, and it's almost always Sonic because they have grilled cheese and tater tots, my son's two favorite food groups.

This kid, though. He was actin' a fool last night. Throwing his toys around in the car. Grunting at me instead of using words. Then he'd pepper in some cute stuff, like having a gigglefest when we rode the escalators up and down. Going to the mall to ride the "escavators" up and down and up and down is his favorite thing in the world right now, so I take him maybe once a week. We also always stop in the Lego store to play with the Legos they have out, too. Cheap thrills. Sometimes when he's extra cute or good or I'm feeling generous, he also gets a new toy.

Side note: The Lego store is my favorite place in the mall. The staff is always so nice. They build things with my son and ask him questions. They can (and will) talk about Star Wars at great length. They know the DC and Marvel superheroes. These are my people. One day I will buy the expensive-as-fuck-but-totally-worth-it-probably R2-D2. One day.

So he wants to go to Build a Bear after the Lego store. I shouldn't have succumbed. He was being an asshole, but I knew it was just because he was tired. It wasn't his fault, right? Wrong. It's not okay to be an asshole, ever. And he will learn. Except that I still bought him a teddy bear because nobody is a perfect, shining example of impeccable parenting. Whatever. He had to have it in the store, then he didn't want it when we got home. Figures. He'll see his Captain A-bear-ica tomorrow when he's in less of a dillhole mood and probably love it.

So we get home and he's exhausted. He threw a fit. And then another fit. And then another fit. Seriously, kid? Let's just do ourselves a favor and call it a day. I'm feeling like I want to punch some kittens because the fast food fog has set in, and he's starting to look a lot like a kitten. (I kid. I would never punch my child. (In the face.))

He gets up. I put him back to bed. He gets up. I put him back to bed. Come freakin' on, kid. Finally, I sprawl out on his racecar bed and he climbs on top of me, wraps his arms around me, lays his head down in the space between my shoulder and head and falls asleep within a minute. See what I mean about the cute? It's like all the asshole-itude is totally forgiven because all he wanted was for his mommy to hold him. I mean, seriously. Melt my cold, steel heart, why don't you. So I lay there for a few minutes making sure he's really asleep and slowly begin to inch out from under him. Very, very slowly. Any change in breathing and I freeze - you know how it is. Everything is on the line here, the child musn't know I'm leaving. After a solid 5 minutes of stress and snail-speed movement, I'm free. Just in time to go to sleep at a reasonable hour to do it all over again tomorrow. Minus the fast food rage.

Moral of the story: Don't eat fast food if your kid hasn't napped.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Wonder Woman Self Portrait

I did one of those drink-while-you-paint classes over the weekend at Wild Brush Studio. It was a Christmas gift for my friend and the voucher was about to expire (don't act like it's weird to give someone a Groupon for Christmas with the caveat that they have to use it with you). Because I'm total shit at planning things, it's almost April and we're just now redeeming it. We all have our faults.

As a douchebag artist, I thought it would be a fun night out, but I wasn't gonna hold my breath about whatever they had us paint. I've seen the pictures on Facebook of my friends high school and college acquaintances. It's like 10 people each holding up a picture of a multi-colored tree against a night sky. Totally fun that everyone is learning to paint, but that kind of art just isn't my style. I looked at it as a fun new experience and then I'd probably reuse the canvas later for something else if they had us paint something I didn't want to hang up. No biggie.

This studio was a little different, though. We got to pick whatever we wanted, either from a sample book they had available, a picture we had, the interwebs or whatever. Boomshakalaka, game on. I'm more on board now.

Plus, wine. 

Wine2-D2

Real talk: who goes to a BYOB painting class without any libations in tow? Answer: everyone else in the class. My friend and I were lit like the fourth of July while the middle-aged couples stared us down with blatant judgment for being the ratchet lesbians they thought we were.

I settled on a variation of the picture I have as my phone lock screen. I pretty much had to.

True story.

My grandma was an artist. She once told me that if you change 5 things about a painting, then you can call it your own. I don't know if that's an actual rule, but I follow it. There's a fine line between inspiration and plagiarism.

Basically, you paint your background, dry it with a blow dryer, then they draw your image in chalk, and you paint in the lines. I drew my own image because I'm picky like that. I can't believe I've never thought to use chalk before. I always use pencil to sketch murals on the wall and it's a pain right in the ass to erase/paint over. The more you know.

Get it? Because I have blonde hair.

Because life is a balancing act of cheeseburgers, wine and exercise, I yogged 7 miles on Sunday, sweating out cheap wine and caffeine the whole way. Boom, nailed it.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Frisky Friday: Up in Da Club

Alcohol, loud music (n-tss n-tss n-tss), dark corners and middle-aged men in skintight snakeskin pants. How could you go wrong?


Clubs in movies are always well-lit and full of pretty people drinking pretty drinks, oftentimes resulting in a choreographed synchronized dance-off. If that's how clubs actually were, I'd be so. on. board. Lemme get in the front row, I want to show off my sweet Ricky Bobby moves. All DAY, son.

Real life clubs are loud, dirty orgies and everyone is invited. Bob, the sleazeball from accounting? He's invited. Cassandra, the walking STD? She's invited. Your mom? She's invited, bro. It's a chance for cougars to let loose and show the world they still got it. It's a chance for oogie men to gawk at scantily clad young women. It's a chance for young women to get free drinks in exchange for dressing like mid-level hookers. It's a chance for young guys to have complete disregard for societal norms and act a fool.


Once you cross the threshold guarded by the bouncer who determines if you're pretty enough to not pay cover, anything goes. No holds barred. Wheels off. Pro tip: nothing good happens when you're wearing a handkerchief sized shirt at 2am. NOTHING. Nobody's mother would be proud of them for the way they act in da club, unless your mom was in fact, at da club.

Here's some simple math:

Alcohol + late nights - clothing = Bad decisions.

But that's not really club math, is it? That's just adult math. Club math has more variables to consider:

Never ending alcohol + late nights + loud music + Handsy McGropertons - inhibition + courageous and provocative dancing - clothing - self awareness - respect = A night you will most likely regret and the worst 2 day hangover you will ever experience in your life. And maybe crabs.

The moral of the story is that bad things happen to good people who get turnt up in da club, not the least of which are sloppy selfies taken in the bathroom and uploaded immediately to Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. Where there are females with alcohol, there are selfies.

Monday, March 24, 2014

Kneel

My knee's been giving me a wee bit 'o trouble lately, just in the form of general achiness. It's not like I've been squatting what my mama gave me (I'm at 5 reps of 10 with 155lbs) or running miles at a time on hard, unforgiving concrete or anything. It's not like I finished a half marathon 3 months post-ACL/meniscus repair or anything. It's not like I'm the worst patient ever or anything.

This was before surgery but after I injured it in a soccer game.
I refused to believe I had seriously injured myself.
Until I got the MRI back.

What I'm saying is that it's not unexpected for me to have residual knee pain. I was depressed after my surgery. I was terrified of getting fat again overnight and losing my ability to run distances. This thing I had become was something I couldn't be for a while - athletic and a runner - so I fought it. 


I was back in the gym a week post-op. I used one crutch to get around between the equipment and my gym bros helped me by bringing the medicine ball and dumbbells to me (they were also my photographers). I was stubborn, impatient, angry, motivated, focused, and high on pain killers. So maybe not focused as much. All the other things, though.


I took it (my version of) easy after the Shiner Beer Run last November so that I could heal. Problem is, my version of easy isn't my doctor's version of easy annnnd here I am six months post-op with knee pain. I'd do it all again, though. I'm pretty notorious for not letting injuries heal completely. When I'm old and wrinkly, I'll be sitting in my Professor X style wheelchair thinking back to all the fun I had during my life and saying it was worth every minute.

I called my dad about the knee pain. I'm a lucky duck in a truck, because he's a doctor and he makes house calls. He also babysits. It's pretty rad. So he came by to check it out to see if I need to go back to the doc that cut me open an this is how that went:

Dr. Dad: Does it hurt when I press here? *presses where I told him it hurt*
Me: Yes.
Dr. Dad: Does it hurt when I twist it like this? *twists it in a hurty way*
Me: Yes.
Dr. Dad: Does it hurt when I press here? *presses on scar*
Me: Yeah, but that's probably just from having the ACL surgery, right?
Dr. Dad: Shit, you tore your ACL? *more seriously examines entire knee*
Me: *facepalm*

So my point with all that was to say that my knee hurts a little and it's because I didn't let it heal properly. Whatev. It will probably go away eventually and until then I'll just ice it or take it easy when the pain gets really bad and otherwise just deal with it. Whining is seriously not my style, just keepin' it realio.

I manage by moving slowly when I get up from sitting for a long time, like in a movie. Every time I step up or off of a curb when running, I favor it by taking most of the impact on my right leg. I also find it extremely uncomfortable to kneel with my bad leg. If that's the worst I have to deal with, then I'm golden. I can handle having to do all my kneeling on my right side.

I mean, yeah.
But yanno, just with my right leg.

Is this not your natural state?

Thursday, March 20, 2014

What I did when I wasn't here

I'm baaaaaaack. I missed you.

I needed a break, y'all. I was stretched too thin and making poor choices left and right and I'm not about that life. Since I tapped the brakes on the blog-train, I had so much extra time (for activities!) to do a bunch of things on my to-do list, like:

Hang art.


I wanna dance!

One of my favorite pictures ev that my friend ChelsCon Photography took.

Paint walls. 


I'll do a tutorial for this shiz latah.

Write a book. Well maybe not an entire book, but I've started. Getting ready to cross that one off the ol' bucket list

Learn French. I mean I started to learn French, but I haven't mastered it yet. What is this, The Matrix? Gimme some time. They're worse about not pronouncing letters than we are, but at least there's some consistency as opposed to how superfucked English is. It's rough eating cookie dough with a cough, although I've had a sudden breakthrough and determined I've had enough. It's tough being this thorough. I mean, seriously.

I also decorated a lil bit. I like to call this wall "why a man will never live here".



WHATEVER,  I like flowers. And rainbow chairs. IDGAF. 

Out of sheer convenience, I also started lining up the shoes I wear the most often downstairs by my door rather than the jumbled mess I used to trip over and curse the gods. 



This is shocking, but it turns out walking down stairs with a toddler and a gym bag in 5-6" heels is a death wish. I could never be a princess. I mean I could, but it would be more along the lines of a rough and tumble princess that doesn't fit the mold and all the other princesses would make fun and laugh at me, but I'd totally win the heart of the prince in the end with my quirky charm, interesting back story and oddly specific skillset (Heyo!), that I would use to thwart the antagonist's evil plot. 

And we can't forget about that time I bought a basil plant, promptly killed it, brought it back to life, and killed it again.


Nailed it.

The coolest thing that happened during my furlough was that we got a little visit from Thor and Captain America and they left souvenirs.


Lights are from Target

Next on my list is to finish out my bathroom - just need to stain the cabinets and hang art, and then paint my kiddo's toy closet. It's his little Harry Potter closet under the stairs, except I don't make him sleep in there. I'm gonna do a superhero theme, I mean I pretty much have to now. (Does anyone out there illustrate comic books? Email me if so, I have some questions about another project I want to start.)

Another goal is to set all of my clocks to read the same time. Dream big, folks. It's all about setting realistic goals.