I'm up in Fairfax for a few days, visiting family and photographing the D.C. Cherry Blossoms. It's always fun hanging out with the fam. My mom ("Nana") is beside herself, spoiling Spencer rotten. She took him to Toys R Us yesterday and spent a small fortune on toys (have I mentioned that he's only 5.5 months old???), and she hasn't put him down since we arrived. All in all, a great time.
Today, however, I got to experience once again the insanity that is "cleaning day" at my parents house. Mom and Mark have cleaning people who come fortnightly (look it up, it's a cool word that's undoubtedly underused). They both work full-time and have a larger-than-average home, so I've always thought this to be a good idea. Until today.
The "cleaning day" ritual begins the night before, with Mark scrubbing the kitchen top to bottom. I'm more than slightly confused about this practice, as it seems to me that that may be one of the things they are paying their cleaning buddies to do, but apparently that's just the beginning of the insanity. In addition to the kitchen, he picks up every magazine and book from his bookcase in the living room and stacks them on top of his chair. Before bed, mom goes around the entire main floor and picks up every single thing weighing less than 100lbs off the floor and stacks them on various pieces of furniture. The following morning is a flurry of activity, as mom runs around making sure the bathroom vanities, dresser tops, nightstands, and all other pieces of wood furniture get cleaned off. She then does a cursory cleaning of the bathrooms, making sure to hide the toothbrushes in a drawer so they don't get cleaning spray misted upon them. She locks up her sewing room (she has resorted to locking the door, since the sign on the door saying "No Entrar, Por Favor" caused them to "entrar" anyway and suck up with the vacuum cleaner half of her materials that were perfectly laid out to make her latest quilt--they were hanging on a piece of felt on the wall, for crying-out-loud!!), and then she pulls out the crappy vacuum cleaner (don't worry, the "good vacuum" is hidden away somewhere so they can't find it and break it...the cleaning people have somehow broken two previous "good vacuums" so their pennance is to have to use a sub-par vacuum cleaner...THAT'LL SHOW 'EM!) Last, we have to call the company's owner and find out what time they'll be there so we don't interrupt their "creative process".
At 11am, three very tiny, very sweet El Salvadorian ladies enter the home and proceed to cause more damage to my parents house than any child, frat boy, or hurricaine could ever manage. They rub the vacuum cleaner against the walls and floorboards, they also beat the living hell out of any and all hardwood furnture (can't you just hear that vacuum banging against the legs of your nice dining room suite...SCHMACK...SCHMACK...SCHMACK!) It'll probably take a few days to survey all the damage (it usually does), but there's always multiple little "surprises" after cleaning day. Mom informed me last night that they seem to pleasure in pointing the shower heads toward the door, so when you turn on the shower to warm it up it shoots you in the face. And we can't forget the great peanut-shell incident of 2008 . My mom came home from work mid-day to grab something and accidentally surprised the cleaning ladies while they were working. That night, their sink was totally clogged and the disposal was jammed and full of peanut shells. Apparently one of the girls had been shopping in their pantry and eating their peanuts (which wouldn't have been a big deal, had they not tried to cover it up by cramming the shells down the sink in order to conceal the evidence and almost cost them a new sink.)
Mom and Mark have been talking about firing them for years. I think they've even gone so far as to inform the owner of the "company" that she would be letting them go due to all the destruction. However, my mother being a bleeding-heart, took one look at the sadness in his eyes when he shook her hand and thanked her for her business, that she called him the next day and invited them back for more damage. Why not just give them the house, mom? Seriously.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Ouch
Is it just me, or do the developers of underwire-bra's need to be lined up in an old fashioned firing line and then shot multiple times in various uncomfortable places with BB guns? I should preface this story by saying that yes, I am aware that you get what you pay for, and that my Nordstrom Bra's have NEVER caused the near-fatal injuries that my cheap Kohls ones have. However, when you're in the process of being pregnant (which means you're gaining about 70 pounds per week) and you know that the day you give birth your bra size is going to shoot up to letters that aren't even an option in the English language, and then throughout nursing you'll be losing weight, but your bra size won't necessarily go down...anyway...you get the point...I was not about to spend $70 on a bra that would only fit me for a minute. So a month or so after I had little man, I bought myself a few cheap-o $20 nursing bras in various sizes and shapes to hopefully accommodate MOST of the changes that my upper-body would be facing over the next 6 months or so.
Now comes the fun story...
Today, about 20 minutes after leaving the house (of course) to run a ton of errands, the left underwire of my bra snaps and begins stabbing me in the absolute most uncomfortable place imaginable on my chest. This is not the first time this has happened to me, but I am usually either home or am able to get myself to a restroom where I can MacGyver it somehow into working until I get home and ceremoniously throw the damn thing in the garbage. Today, I was not. Today, it happened while I was sitting in the car on my way to a frou-frou invitation store (buying invitations for the Ladies Tea that I'm throwing my mother-in-law for her 60'th birthday.) I waited until the next stop-light, and then played around with it (in the most ladylike of ways, of course) until I saw the guy in the truck next to me staring, then I decided to leave it until I got to my destination. Upon arrival at the frou-frou invitation store, I realized that this was not the type of establishment that would appreciate me digging around in my bra, so again I waited. At this point the itching/irritated skin was morphing into a pretty awesome pain. I've said it before, but I'm really not a wimp about pain. It takes a lot for me to react to physical discomfort. The boob-stabbage being caused by el-cheapo bra was becoming unbearable in a hurry. Next stop on our list of errands was to return a few pillows to West Elm. Once I found a parking spot at the mall, I made sure no one was watching, and then quickly peeked down my shirt to see what sort of evil was transpiring down there. It was not pretty.
There was actual blood.
The broken wire had somehow (in record time) rubbed a spot so raw in my skin that I was bleeding all over my shirt. Of course, I happened to be wearing white today. Of course. I found a few tissues in my glove-box that I used to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. Then (after waving to the nice elderly man that I didn't notice getting into the passenger side of his car, right next to my window...watching me doctor up 'the girls'), I yanked the underwire out of the bra on that side (you're going to want to remember the words "on that side" a little later in this post). Victory is mine. I felt a lot better at that point, and it was on to West Elm. While pushing the stroller through the store, I stopped to admire this gorgeous huge floor-mirror. And then I saw myself...and realized why underwires are so very necessary for those of us that are "well endowed." My left breast was almost 2 inches lower than my right. I looked like some sort of circus freak. At the very least, I could easily make myself at home on the stage of the Jerry Springer show. I immediately ducked into a corner of the store and messed around a bit, but it didn't seem to be working. The left 'girl' didn't seem to want to be confined any longer. She was tired of her mistreatment with the whole underwire debacle and wanted freedom. I tried to be covert while digging my arms around in my shirt, pushing here and tugging there. Just then a very young, very homosexual, very peeved-looking (male) sales associate came around the corner and said "Can I help you with something ma'am?" I turned around slightly (hand still in shirt...looking very guilty) and said "no, no, I'm fine...I just...need a minute." As I pulled my hand out of my shirt, I felt a certain breeze that informed me that only half of my left breast was still contained in it's rightful place, and that side of the bra had shifted north by several inches. Then, as if on cue, about 3 pieces of bloody tissue fell from my shirt onto the ground.
He looked horrified.
I tried really hard for about 15 seconds to disappear, and when that didn't work I started rambling out an excuse as to why I looked so disheveled. I started regurgitating some lie about scratching myself on something, but realized quickly that it was stupid and pointless. It's not like there was any non-embarrassing reason for me to be standing in his store, feeling myself up and throwing my bloody tissues all over his floor. I quickly made my return and then slinked away in embarrassment. I tried to call my mom to tell her of my mortifying story but somehow (SOMEHOW) got caught up in other details of my fabulous life and forgot.
I probably won't be shopping at West Elm ever again. Also, I'll be calling my girl Jodie (my Nordstrom bra sales associate) to make an appointment tomorrow. The end.
Now comes the fun story...
Today, about 20 minutes after leaving the house (of course) to run a ton of errands, the left underwire of my bra snaps and begins stabbing me in the absolute most uncomfortable place imaginable on my chest. This is not the first time this has happened to me, but I am usually either home or am able to get myself to a restroom where I can MacGyver it somehow into working until I get home and ceremoniously throw the damn thing in the garbage. Today, I was not. Today, it happened while I was sitting in the car on my way to a frou-frou invitation store (buying invitations for the Ladies Tea that I'm throwing my mother-in-law for her 60'th birthday.) I waited until the next stop-light, and then played around with it (in the most ladylike of ways, of course) until I saw the guy in the truck next to me staring, then I decided to leave it until I got to my destination. Upon arrival at the frou-frou invitation store, I realized that this was not the type of establishment that would appreciate me digging around in my bra, so again I waited. At this point the itching/irritated skin was morphing into a pretty awesome pain. I've said it before, but I'm really not a wimp about pain. It takes a lot for me to react to physical discomfort. The boob-stabbage being caused by el-cheapo bra was becoming unbearable in a hurry. Next stop on our list of errands was to return a few pillows to West Elm. Once I found a parking spot at the mall, I made sure no one was watching, and then quickly peeked down my shirt to see what sort of evil was transpiring down there. It was not pretty.
There was actual blood.
The broken wire had somehow (in record time) rubbed a spot so raw in my skin that I was bleeding all over my shirt. Of course, I happened to be wearing white today. Of course. I found a few tissues in my glove-box that I used to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. Then (after waving to the nice elderly man that I didn't notice getting into the passenger side of his car, right next to my window...watching me doctor up 'the girls'), I yanked the underwire out of the bra on that side (you're going to want to remember the words "on that side" a little later in this post). Victory is mine. I felt a lot better at that point, and it was on to West Elm. While pushing the stroller through the store, I stopped to admire this gorgeous huge floor-mirror. And then I saw myself...and realized why underwires are so very necessary for those of us that are "well endowed." My left breast was almost 2 inches lower than my right. I looked like some sort of circus freak. At the very least, I could easily make myself at home on the stage of the Jerry Springer show. I immediately ducked into a corner of the store and messed around a bit, but it didn't seem to be working. The left 'girl' didn't seem to want to be confined any longer. She was tired of her mistreatment with the whole underwire debacle and wanted freedom. I tried to be covert while digging my arms around in my shirt, pushing here and tugging there. Just then a very young, very homosexual, very peeved-looking (male) sales associate came around the corner and said "Can I help you with something ma'am?" I turned around slightly (hand still in shirt...looking very guilty) and said "no, no, I'm fine...I just...need a minute." As I pulled my hand out of my shirt, I felt a certain breeze that informed me that only half of my left breast was still contained in it's rightful place, and that side of the bra had shifted north by several inches. Then, as if on cue, about 3 pieces of bloody tissue fell from my shirt onto the ground.
He looked horrified.
I tried really hard for about 15 seconds to disappear, and when that didn't work I started rambling out an excuse as to why I looked so disheveled. I started regurgitating some lie about scratching myself on something, but realized quickly that it was stupid and pointless. It's not like there was any non-embarrassing reason for me to be standing in his store, feeling myself up and throwing my bloody tissues all over his floor. I quickly made my return and then slinked away in embarrassment. I tried to call my mom to tell her of my mortifying story but somehow (SOMEHOW) got caught up in other details of my fabulous life and forgot.
I probably won't be shopping at West Elm ever again. Also, I'll be calling my girl Jodie (my Nordstrom bra sales associate) to make an appointment tomorrow. The end.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Welcome to Blogspot
I've decided to start up a blogger account. I'm trying (pretty unsuccessfully) to import some of my recent blogs from my other page and my wordpress account, but I'm incredibly computer-illiterate and seem to be losing many of them. I swear, I'm like an 80 year-old lady when it comes to technology. I know how to turn on the computer, and open up my web browser, but that's about it. Hubs is constantly yelling at me because whenever I get any sort of pop-up, I just start clicking "Enter" over and over (sometimes I throw in a few "Escape"'s for good measure) until it goes away. Apparently we ended up with a LOT of spyware on our PC because of my shenanigans. It's not nearly as bad now that I own a mac (they are SO much more intuitive...I heart my MacBook so...) but I still have no idea how to use this crazy internet thing. I'm so old.
Anyway, if anyone cares to read about my somewhat dull existence, have at it...
Anyway, if anyone cares to read about my somewhat dull existence, have at it...
Friday, February 15, 2008
The Times, They Are A-Changin'
Yep, I’m pregnant.
I know that most of my friends have read my blog about children entitled “Isn’t she knocked up yet?” I know this because of the MASSIVE amounts of emails, calls, dirty looks, etc that I received in response to it. Some told me that I was their hero, able to articulate without fear what so many are thinking. Others were horrified and thought that I was an insensitive jerk, and somehow took it to mean that I hate ALL children and think anyone who has them is an idiot (not the case at all.) Either way, most people who know me know that I am not what you would call a “lover of all things child.” However, anyone that knows me WELL knows that although I have had certain hesitations about turning my life upside down and becoming a mom, I still always intended for it to happen some day.
About a year ago I made a deal with Chris (who has been ready to become a daddy for about three years) and with God that I would “stop preventing” pregnancy (please note that “stop actively preventing” and “start trying” are two VERY different things, especially for those of us actually educated in Biology 101.) I decided that I would put it in Gods hands (I can almost count how many of my friends are calling me an ignorant fool right now) and hope and pray that when the time came that I did get preggers, that I would be content and eventually, excited. Towards the end of last year, I started feeling more like I was closer to being ready, and less dread toward the idea of a family (one that involved more than my fabulous self, my fabulous husband, and our two fabulous puppies). My main hesitation remaining though, was the fact that my best friend, Catheirne, who had been wanting to get pregnant for almost two years, still wasn’t. I didn’t want for her to have to be happy for me (the girl who complains when we’re out to lunch and a small child starts peeking at us over the booth, Catherine thinks it’s adorable, I find myself plagued with a complete and utter disdain toward the parents of the little tike who are allowing their child to invade my personal space.) I started praying this winter that although I trust whatever timing God has planned for my family, I just asked Him to let Catherine be first.
God is a funny, funny man. Three weeks ago Catherine informed me that she was finally pregnant. I think I was more happy for her than I would be for myself. Not two weeks later, while still wrapped up in the excitement of becoming an “auntie,” I found out that apparently she and I really do do everything together. We’ve been accused of it before (we’ve had the exact same car twice, worked in the exact same office or restaurant three times, we were both Dental Assistants (despite her degree in History and my pursuit of Psychology), we both lived in Northern Virginia, Blacksburg, and then Richmond together, she ended up falling in love with one of Chris’ groomsmen whom she first met at our rehearsal dinner, our husbands are both IT consultants, and both worked for two of the same IT consulting firms, and last year when she quit her job to take a “sabbatical” I pronounced her crazy to turn down all that added household income just to sit around the house and read magazines…I followed suit and quit my job two months later. Despite our obvious differences in personality, likes/dislikes, etc, we have lived parallel lives and now we will be having babies within three weeks of each other. Pretty amazing.
So yes, I am going to be a mommy. Due date is October 16th. It’s going to be a crazy year and things are definitely going to change a bit starting in October, but it’s truly for the best. It’s a new chapter of my life and I’m excited to be turning the page.
I know that most of my friends have read my blog about children entitled “Isn’t she knocked up yet?” I know this because of the MASSIVE amounts of emails, calls, dirty looks, etc that I received in response to it. Some told me that I was their hero, able to articulate without fear what so many are thinking. Others were horrified and thought that I was an insensitive jerk, and somehow took it to mean that I hate ALL children and think anyone who has them is an idiot (not the case at all.) Either way, most people who know me know that I am not what you would call a “lover of all things child.” However, anyone that knows me WELL knows that although I have had certain hesitations about turning my life upside down and becoming a mom, I still always intended for it to happen some day.
About a year ago I made a deal with Chris (who has been ready to become a daddy for about three years) and with God that I would “stop preventing” pregnancy (please note that “stop actively preventing” and “start trying” are two VERY different things, especially for those of us actually educated in Biology 101.) I decided that I would put it in Gods hands (I can almost count how many of my friends are calling me an ignorant fool right now) and hope and pray that when the time came that I did get preggers, that I would be content and eventually, excited. Towards the end of last year, I started feeling more like I was closer to being ready, and less dread toward the idea of a family (one that involved more than my fabulous self, my fabulous husband, and our two fabulous puppies). My main hesitation remaining though, was the fact that my best friend, Catheirne, who had been wanting to get pregnant for almost two years, still wasn’t. I didn’t want for her to have to be happy for me (the girl who complains when we’re out to lunch and a small child starts peeking at us over the booth, Catherine thinks it’s adorable, I find myself plagued with a complete and utter disdain toward the parents of the little tike who are allowing their child to invade my personal space.) I started praying this winter that although I trust whatever timing God has planned for my family, I just asked Him to let Catherine be first.
God is a funny, funny man. Three weeks ago Catherine informed me that she was finally pregnant. I think I was more happy for her than I would be for myself. Not two weeks later, while still wrapped up in the excitement of becoming an “auntie,” I found out that apparently she and I really do do everything together. We’ve been accused of it before (we’ve had the exact same car twice, worked in the exact same office or restaurant three times, we were both Dental Assistants (despite her degree in History and my pursuit of Psychology), we both lived in Northern Virginia, Blacksburg, and then Richmond together, she ended up falling in love with one of Chris’ groomsmen whom she first met at our rehearsal dinner, our husbands are both IT consultants, and both worked for two of the same IT consulting firms, and last year when she quit her job to take a “sabbatical” I pronounced her crazy to turn down all that added household income just to sit around the house and read magazines…I followed suit and quit my job two months later. Despite our obvious differences in personality, likes/dislikes, etc, we have lived parallel lives and now we will be having babies within three weeks of each other. Pretty amazing.
So yes, I am going to be a mommy. Due date is October 16th. It’s going to be a crazy year and things are definitely going to change a bit starting in October, but it’s truly for the best. It’s a new chapter of my life and I’m excited to be turning the page.
Monday, June 25, 2007
My Own Personal Hell
After careful consideration, I’ve started utilizing my gym membership to a fuller potential. I’ve called upon the strengths of a personal trainer to guide me a bit, and per her suggestion I decided to take a Spinning class. Now for any of you who (like me) think that this sort of class only entails a bunch of overaged, overweight women lazily sitting on a stationary bike for an hour…I would like to educate you a bit…
Due to a higher demand, they require you to call ahead to schedule an “appointment,” so after my workout on Saturday I scheduled the 9:30 monday morning class with Lisa G. She sounds friendly enough, right? I choose the hour-long class (as opposed to the regular 45 minute classes) but I figure this may provide me with a little more of a challenge, seeing as how I AM the girl who rode her bike across the state of Florida in high school with my youth group (let’s forget that that little excursion took place over 10 years ago) and afterall, what kind of wimp can’t ride a bicycle for an hour? Little did I know on Saturday that on Sunday night, I would be the proud winner of a sleepless 8 hours full of cramps of epic proportions. Some of you ladies may know what I am speaking of, we are talking like biblical pain here. 4 Advil + 2 Tylenol + a heating pad didn’t touch this puppy. So when Chris wakes me up at 8:30 (after what little sleep I was able to obtain) to say he’s leaving for work, I am about the crankiest person that has ever lived. Chris sweetly tries to tell me that I have a good excuse if I want to skip the class, that he’ll even call for me if I want and tell them I’m sick and can’t make it. But I am a trooper. I am woman, let’s hear me roar, right?
So I drag my butt out of bed and to the gym, being sure to arrive early to meet Lisa G. and have her help me set up my bike. My first impression of Lisa G. is that homegirl is possibly the perkiest woman I have ever met. Everything about her is perky. Her voice. The bounce in her step. Her boobs are perky. Even her ponytail seems to sit at an unnatural point on her head. She puts on her little Britney-Spears-esqe microphone and then introduces herself to me and tells me how glad she is that I am here. I am only slightly self-conscious as the others are filling in and her microphone is booming our conversation about this being my first time in a spinning class, and that I don’t really know what I’m doing, but that I regularly do long cardio sets on the Elliptical trainers and Treadmills so I shouldn’t have any problems keeping up. Lisa G. only smiles at me a bit while I am saying this. I wonder what that smile means while I choose a seat in the front row, the center seat, of course. This is a typical practice of mine in any class I take. I am a bit of an overachiever and I like to give the professor/instructor my full attention. And I am only slightly concerned when I overhear the two people sitting on my right discussing their times on their most recent Triathlons and see the T-shirt of the man on my left proudly displaying that he was a contendor in the Ironman Challenge. But only slightly concerned, right? Before we even begin I am sitting on my seat, peddling away (following the cues of the Mrs. Triathlete and Mr. Ironman) to warm up, and realizing that my butt REALLY hurts. Already. I peak behind me at the room (that is now filled to it’s 35 person capacity) and notice a number of people using either gel seat-covers, or padded-butt shorts. I also notice that there is not a single overaged, nor overweight person in the bunch. These people are some real hardbodies. I notice their special little cycling shoes and am faced with a sudden harsh realization that these people ALL look to be professional atheletes. I wonder to myself if there is any possibility that I accidentally got placed in the class that is training for the 2008 Olympics. I am beginning to think that maybe this was a bad idea. I start cursing myself for choosing this particular seat. Had I been a bit more strategic (or less cocky, however you want to look at it) I would have chosen a wiser placement possibly towards the back or even better, in the very back next to the door so I could sneak out and no one would see me.
Lisa G. turns the lights off, and a mini-lazer-lightshow begins. Some (rather hip) music starts playing, and Lisa G. instructs us to increase our intensity by 3. She then tells us to pick up the pace and go into “Standing Climb” position (this is exactly as it sounds, you stand on the pedals while leaning forward to the furthest-away handlebars as though you are climbing a steep hill on a mountain bike.) I notice immediately that my quadriceps are (already) aching but at least my butt is no longer sitting on that dreadful, hard seat (always looking for that silver lining, folks). A chorus of exhuberant cyclists yelling “WHEW,” and “WOO-HOO” is bouncing around the room. Lisa G. says “Keep your back neutral and head up people” in her perkiest voice while looking directly at me (who had taken to staring at my handlebars). I correct my position while wishing that I had superpowers to shoot lazerbeams from my eyes and knock her perky head clean off her perky shoulders. The sudden (horrifying) realization now occurs to me that in this position, “the junk in my trunk” is on display for every one of the 30 people in the rows behind me. I flex my glutes tightly while peddling faster, I can’t let Ironman next to me beat me up the “hill” by too much. Chaz, a supermodel in the row behind me who is clearly a regular, yells out “Is everyone having fun?” Several “WHEW”s break out throughout the room. Who the heck is this guy? I decide that he must be sleeping with Lisa G, because nobody else would be this much of a butt-kisser. I look at the clock…9:42. About 45 minutes left. Lisa G. tells us to go back to ’Position 1’ and increase intensity again, as the music speeds up. She wants us doing 120 rotations per minute and leads us in a count. I am at about 110 and decide that I refuse to go faster unless she allows us to decrease our intensity. At a very appropriate moment, she reads my mind and asks “Are y’all cycling through quicksand?” I stop hating for her only a moment, seeing that she does notice the pained looks on our faces (or possibly just mine), until I hear Her Royal Perkiness say “Then increase intensity and speed because you’re ALMOST working hard enough.” Urge to kill increasing.
9:47…more than a quarter of the way done…and I am about to pass out. I decide to take my mind off my intense rear-pain and calculate exactly what percentage I am done…It’s now 9:48 and I can’t just say 1/4 done. I need further encouragement so I believe that 18/60ths or 9/30ths is much better. Makes me feel closer to 1/3 which I like. A lot.
Around the one half-mark (or as I prefer to see it, the 11/20ths) I begin to feel a little less like I am going to die. I believe this is what we (professional athletes) like to call “getting over the wall.” My butt is now numb so I hate ’Position 1’ the most but ’Positions 2 and 3’ have both rubbed a huge blister on the side of my left foot so I don’t like them either. I begin thinking up my own positions, such as ’Position 4’ where you stand up on the pedals but don’t actually have to pedal at all, or ’Position 5’ which is really just me standing outside this wretched place dumping the remainder of my Aquafina bottle all over myself. I decide that I like ’Position 5’ the best, and that maybe I should leave it as an (anonymous) suggestion in the comment box. It is now 10:23 and I am litterally counting the droplets of sweat on the black floor below my bike…I believe I am up to about 22, which is actually a little less than the 24 below Ironman and the 30ish below Mrs. Triathelete. I experience only a fleeting sense of accomplishment followed by some pretty severe self-loathing while remembering my initial assesment of what a “nice, relaxing break” a spinning class would be from my daily intense Elliptical cardio marathons.
Lisa G. informs us that we have just 30 seconds left, and to push ourselves. I am fighting the urge to flip her the bird. We finally finish, and the sweaty 30-something ladies behind me tap me on the back and tell me how impressed they are that I made it through the whole thing my first time. Now this type of compliment would usually make my day but at this moment I am plotting a way to punch them both square in the ear for patronizing me. I decide that I may be slightly cranky and it’s best that I just smile sweetly and thank them (I will let the air out of their tires along with Lisa G’s later.) I do feel accomplished. The bright side is that my cramps are now only a distant memory, the less-than-bright side is that my Quads, Hamstrings, and Calves are now informing me that I won’t be able to walk tomorrow…or sit on anything other than a doughnut, for that matter. Overall I consider it a ’character building’ move on my part. On my way out I see my personal trainer. She walks over and asks me if I’ve had a chance to try out that spinning class she recommended. I am overwhelmed by a newfound respect for her, as well as my own personal desire to stab her in the eye. I tell her that I tried it, and that I may even try it again next week…only this time I will only be doing the 45 minute class, and I will be rockin’ a pair of padded-butt shorts. You live, you learn, right?
Due to a higher demand, they require you to call ahead to schedule an “appointment,” so after my workout on Saturday I scheduled the 9:30 monday morning class with Lisa G. She sounds friendly enough, right? I choose the hour-long class (as opposed to the regular 45 minute classes) but I figure this may provide me with a little more of a challenge, seeing as how I AM the girl who rode her bike across the state of Florida in high school with my youth group (let’s forget that that little excursion took place over 10 years ago) and afterall, what kind of wimp can’t ride a bicycle for an hour? Little did I know on Saturday that on Sunday night, I would be the proud winner of a sleepless 8 hours full of cramps of epic proportions. Some of you ladies may know what I am speaking of, we are talking like biblical pain here. 4 Advil + 2 Tylenol + a heating pad didn’t touch this puppy. So when Chris wakes me up at 8:30 (after what little sleep I was able to obtain) to say he’s leaving for work, I am about the crankiest person that has ever lived. Chris sweetly tries to tell me that I have a good excuse if I want to skip the class, that he’ll even call for me if I want and tell them I’m sick and can’t make it. But I am a trooper. I am woman, let’s hear me roar, right?
So I drag my butt out of bed and to the gym, being sure to arrive early to meet Lisa G. and have her help me set up my bike. My first impression of Lisa G. is that homegirl is possibly the perkiest woman I have ever met. Everything about her is perky. Her voice. The bounce in her step. Her boobs are perky. Even her ponytail seems to sit at an unnatural point on her head. She puts on her little Britney-Spears-esqe microphone and then introduces herself to me and tells me how glad she is that I am here. I am only slightly self-conscious as the others are filling in and her microphone is booming our conversation about this being my first time in a spinning class, and that I don’t really know what I’m doing, but that I regularly do long cardio sets on the Elliptical trainers and Treadmills so I shouldn’t have any problems keeping up. Lisa G. only smiles at me a bit while I am saying this. I wonder what that smile means while I choose a seat in the front row, the center seat, of course. This is a typical practice of mine in any class I take. I am a bit of an overachiever and I like to give the professor/instructor my full attention. And I am only slightly concerned when I overhear the two people sitting on my right discussing their times on their most recent Triathlons and see the T-shirt of the man on my left proudly displaying that he was a contendor in the Ironman Challenge. But only slightly concerned, right? Before we even begin I am sitting on my seat, peddling away (following the cues of the Mrs. Triathlete and Mr. Ironman) to warm up, and realizing that my butt REALLY hurts. Already. I peak behind me at the room (that is now filled to it’s 35 person capacity) and notice a number of people using either gel seat-covers, or padded-butt shorts. I also notice that there is not a single overaged, nor overweight person in the bunch. These people are some real hardbodies. I notice their special little cycling shoes and am faced with a sudden harsh realization that these people ALL look to be professional atheletes. I wonder to myself if there is any possibility that I accidentally got placed in the class that is training for the 2008 Olympics. I am beginning to think that maybe this was a bad idea. I start cursing myself for choosing this particular seat. Had I been a bit more strategic (or less cocky, however you want to look at it) I would have chosen a wiser placement possibly towards the back or even better, in the very back next to the door so I could sneak out and no one would see me.
Lisa G. turns the lights off, and a mini-lazer-lightshow begins. Some (rather hip) music starts playing, and Lisa G. instructs us to increase our intensity by 3. She then tells us to pick up the pace and go into “Standing Climb” position (this is exactly as it sounds, you stand on the pedals while leaning forward to the furthest-away handlebars as though you are climbing a steep hill on a mountain bike.) I notice immediately that my quadriceps are (already) aching but at least my butt is no longer sitting on that dreadful, hard seat (always looking for that silver lining, folks). A chorus of exhuberant cyclists yelling “WHEW,” and “WOO-HOO” is bouncing around the room. Lisa G. says “Keep your back neutral and head up people” in her perkiest voice while looking directly at me (who had taken to staring at my handlebars). I correct my position while wishing that I had superpowers to shoot lazerbeams from my eyes and knock her perky head clean off her perky shoulders. The sudden (horrifying) realization now occurs to me that in this position, “the junk in my trunk” is on display for every one of the 30 people in the rows behind me. I flex my glutes tightly while peddling faster, I can’t let Ironman next to me beat me up the “hill” by too much. Chaz, a supermodel in the row behind me who is clearly a regular, yells out “Is everyone having fun?” Several “WHEW”s break out throughout the room. Who the heck is this guy? I decide that he must be sleeping with Lisa G, because nobody else would be this much of a butt-kisser. I look at the clock…9:42. About 45 minutes left. Lisa G. tells us to go back to ’Position 1’ and increase intensity again, as the music speeds up. She wants us doing 120 rotations per minute and leads us in a count. I am at about 110 and decide that I refuse to go faster unless she allows us to decrease our intensity. At a very appropriate moment, she reads my mind and asks “Are y’all cycling through quicksand?” I stop hating for her only a moment, seeing that she does notice the pained looks on our faces (or possibly just mine), until I hear Her Royal Perkiness say “Then increase intensity and speed because you’re ALMOST working hard enough.” Urge to kill increasing.
9:47…more than a quarter of the way done…and I am about to pass out. I decide to take my mind off my intense rear-pain and calculate exactly what percentage I am done…It’s now 9:48 and I can’t just say 1/4 done. I need further encouragement so I believe that 18/60ths or 9/30ths is much better. Makes me feel closer to 1/3 which I like. A lot.
Around the one half-mark (or as I prefer to see it, the 11/20ths) I begin to feel a little less like I am going to die. I believe this is what we (professional athletes) like to call “getting over the wall.” My butt is now numb so I hate ’Position 1’ the most but ’Positions 2 and 3’ have both rubbed a huge blister on the side of my left foot so I don’t like them either. I begin thinking up my own positions, such as ’Position 4’ where you stand up on the pedals but don’t actually have to pedal at all, or ’Position 5’ which is really just me standing outside this wretched place dumping the remainder of my Aquafina bottle all over myself. I decide that I like ’Position 5’ the best, and that maybe I should leave it as an (anonymous) suggestion in the comment box. It is now 10:23 and I am litterally counting the droplets of sweat on the black floor below my bike…I believe I am up to about 22, which is actually a little less than the 24 below Ironman and the 30ish below Mrs. Triathelete. I experience only a fleeting sense of accomplishment followed by some pretty severe self-loathing while remembering my initial assesment of what a “nice, relaxing break” a spinning class would be from my daily intense Elliptical cardio marathons.
Lisa G. informs us that we have just 30 seconds left, and to push ourselves. I am fighting the urge to flip her the bird. We finally finish, and the sweaty 30-something ladies behind me tap me on the back and tell me how impressed they are that I made it through the whole thing my first time. Now this type of compliment would usually make my day but at this moment I am plotting a way to punch them both square in the ear for patronizing me. I decide that I may be slightly cranky and it’s best that I just smile sweetly and thank them (I will let the air out of their tires along with Lisa G’s later.) I do feel accomplished. The bright side is that my cramps are now only a distant memory, the less-than-bright side is that my Quads, Hamstrings, and Calves are now informing me that I won’t be able to walk tomorrow…or sit on anything other than a doughnut, for that matter. Overall I consider it a ’character building’ move on my part. On my way out I see my personal trainer. She walks over and asks me if I’ve had a chance to try out that spinning class she recommended. I am overwhelmed by a newfound respect for her, as well as my own personal desire to stab her in the eye. I tell her that I tried it, and that I may even try it again next week…only this time I will only be doing the 45 minute class, and I will be rockin’ a pair of padded-butt shorts. You live, you learn, right?
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Paging Dr. Freud...
So this was my dream last night…
I’m coming home from work, and I notice that my doormat is gone is has been replaced by a new, strange one that's the size of my entire front porch.
The doormat is the shape of the state of Virginia. In the center of the state is a large, 3-D picture of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Underneath Ruth’s face is one of those conversation bubbles coming out of her mouth, with the words “Don’t Tread On Me!”
And that, my friends, is pretty much all I remember. So what the heck does all this mean? Hmmmm…
I’m coming home from work, and I notice that my doormat is gone is has been replaced by a new, strange one that's the size of my entire front porch.
The doormat is the shape of the state of Virginia. In the center of the state is a large, 3-D picture of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Underneath Ruth’s face is one of those conversation bubbles coming out of her mouth, with the words “Don’t Tread On Me!”
And that, my friends, is pretty much all I remember. So what the heck does all this mean? Hmmmm…
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Isn't She Knocked Up Yet?
So I feel that it’s time to address a certain issue with everyone. One that has become quite the topic of discussion lately. Here is the answer to everyone’s questions…
No. I am NOT getting preggers anytime soon. And No, I do NOT WISH to be preggers.
Here’s something that y’all need to get…I am a selfish person. I have always been a selfish person. I am an only child (technically) and it kind of comes with the territory. I actually really LOVE being selfish. I guess you could say it looks good on me. I wear it well. Whatever. My point is that when you become a “mommy” (even the word makes me cringe), you have to put the little bundle of poop first in your life. And let me be honest, I’m not altogether certain that I’m capable of that. I mean, have you ever met a child? If you think I’m selfish you should meet a six-month old. Seriously. Talk about having absolutely NO regard for other human beings! Now I’m not saying that I won’t wake up one day and decide to change my mind…that’s a woman’s prerogative, isn’t it? But until that day you all need to STOP asking me that disgusting question…
“When are you and Chris going to have a baby?”
Gross. Every time I hear that question I nearly vomit in my own mouth. And yet you people keep asking. As if I’m some sort of freak for being married a whole five years and not feeling the pangs of desire to be a mo… (you know, the “M”-word). Call me strange, but I just don’t think it’s fair to be bullied into having a baby just because I happen to own a uterus. I mean, do you people plan on being the ones to wake up at 12, 3, and 5:30 am to feed this screaming beast? Do you plan on coming over three times a week to watch the little monster while Chris and I go out to dinner? Are you people going to be the ones to forfeit YOUR play-money to buy diapers? To find yourselves coming home from a friday afternoon shopping excursion toting Baby Gap and Children's Place bags instead of Nordstom and Pottery Barn? And allow me to paint you a little picture…
Do YOU want to be the unfortunate discoverer of a booger (yes, a booger) on your cream colored casz-chic couch that you saved up for for months? Do you? Because I, sir, do not.
So in closing I want to make it very clear…I don’t hate children (well okay, maybe a little). There was a time when I would have told you I couldn’t wait to have a child. Chris is praying that I’m just going through a phase…and that I’ll just snap out of it one day. And maybe I will. That would be just like me. But it will happen when I am ready. Not when you all decide that YOU’VE waited long enough. The spawn will come along eventually. I’m personally looking in to just waiting until we’re 55 and then adopt a nice, independent, respectful, independently-wealthy young 25 year-old who has an innate desire to take care of us when we’re old. I think we’ll call him Clayton…
No. I am NOT getting preggers anytime soon. And No, I do NOT WISH to be preggers.
Here’s something that y’all need to get…I am a selfish person. I have always been a selfish person. I am an only child (technically) and it kind of comes with the territory. I actually really LOVE being selfish. I guess you could say it looks good on me. I wear it well. Whatever. My point is that when you become a “mommy” (even the word makes me cringe), you have to put the little bundle of poop first in your life. And let me be honest, I’m not altogether certain that I’m capable of that. I mean, have you ever met a child? If you think I’m selfish you should meet a six-month old. Seriously. Talk about having absolutely NO regard for other human beings! Now I’m not saying that I won’t wake up one day and decide to change my mind…that’s a woman’s prerogative, isn’t it? But until that day you all need to STOP asking me that disgusting question…
“When are you and Chris going to have a baby?”
Gross. Every time I hear that question I nearly vomit in my own mouth. And yet you people keep asking. As if I’m some sort of freak for being married a whole five years and not feeling the pangs of desire to be a mo… (you know, the “M”-word). Call me strange, but I just don’t think it’s fair to be bullied into having a baby just because I happen to own a uterus. I mean, do you people plan on being the ones to wake up at 12, 3, and 5:30 am to feed this screaming beast? Do you plan on coming over three times a week to watch the little monster while Chris and I go out to dinner? Are you people going to be the ones to forfeit YOUR play-money to buy diapers? To find yourselves coming home from a friday afternoon shopping excursion toting Baby Gap and Children's Place bags instead of Nordstom and Pottery Barn? And allow me to paint you a little picture…
Do YOU want to be the unfortunate discoverer of a booger (yes, a booger) on your cream colored casz-chic couch that you saved up for for months? Do you? Because I, sir, do not.
So in closing I want to make it very clear…I don’t hate children (well okay, maybe a little). There was a time when I would have told you I couldn’t wait to have a child. Chris is praying that I’m just going through a phase…and that I’ll just snap out of it one day. And maybe I will. That would be just like me. But it will happen when I am ready. Not when you all decide that YOU’VE waited long enough. The spawn will come along eventually. I’m personally looking in to just waiting until we’re 55 and then adopt a nice, independent, respectful, independently-wealthy young 25 year-old who has an innate desire to take care of us when we’re old. I think we’ll call him Clayton…
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