Sunday, May 29, 2011

Toilet Time

A few nights ago I almost died of fright. 

But let me start at the beginning.

Halfway through the night I woke from a cozy dream with a straining bladder.  Rolling over and ignoring it was no longer an option because I had already done that 5 times and said bladder had finally reached maximum painful capacity. 

But why not get up the first time the 'ole bladder woke me you ask?  Well...  Because of the following:

1.  Somewhere under the covers is an ear flapping time bomb known as the butt rat snuggler.  Whenever she notices me shifting awake she bolts from the folds of JS' tush using only her sharpest toes to dislodge herself.  After breaking the surface of the covers and reaching fresh air she immediately flaps her sonar devices (ears) loudly enough to wake the neighbors and possibly the dead, if they were somewhat light sleepers.  This absolutely infuriates the Grisly Bear, otherwise known as JS, and can lead to a middle of the night (somewhat incoherent) tirade.  Lives may be threatened and grudges will be held.  Indefinitely.

2.  Our bed is over 4 feet tall with a marvelous memory foam topper that is damn near impossible to extract yourself from without the help of a crane and, or a well placed, freshly sharpened Chihuahuan toe as incentive. 

3.  Somewhere down in the darkness is the sleeping Akita.  She is guaranteed to wake just as you have carefully straddled all 96 pounds of her body, potentially throwing everyone to the ground.  At the minimum you will sacrifice a delicate pinky toe to her senile flailing.

So this particular night I somehow manage to slide from under the covers without waking the ear flapper.  The Akita is alerted to my presence because my ankles are so incredibly sore that I cannot walk in the middle of the night without a very loud shuffle, slide, shuffle, slide, kick ball change, shuffle, step.  I'm certain she can't actually hear me but thankfully she can feel the vibrations.  I make it to the potty without incident, a first in many days and proceed to blissfully empty my painfully full bladder.

I'm just about to dose off in the darkness when I am scared to attention by a very loud girlish scream a mere 3 feet from my face.  After levitating and loosing the rest of the contents in my bladder, I realize I'm not actually under attack.  I have only startled my dearest JS with my stealthy potty presence.  Apparently he didn't feel the vibrations. 

I immediately scream at him because it's 3 in the morning and I have just suffered SEVERE fright if not, in fact, an actual heart attack. 


This seems to really amuse JS and he begins giggling.  A lot.  I bolt from the bathroom with my adrenaline laced indignity and stomp back to bed.  I can still hear him giggling as I curl up with my sweet little Chihuahuan, who promises to never, ever scare me like that.  As I eventually dose off I'm pretty sure I hear the Chihuahua giggle a little bit too.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Pipe Dreams

I need a new Camaro

I woke up last week with a new revelation.  I WANT a new Camaro.  Bad.  I think I’ve gone mad.  And now I’m kind of sad.  JS said that I better get a roomy version because if I brought home a new car I’d have to live in it…  Dream crusher.

It was like I woke one day and I was struck with a bolt of consumerism lightening.  It’s a very disturbing feeling because I have not EVER wanted a brand new car.  One: I have always been a poor student and now I’m a poor newish business owner, and Two:  I’m a Virgo with a huge OCD complex and given my poor driving history…  New car + dent and/or scratch = months of therapy and/or costly insurance claims.

I KNOW better.  I READ Dave Ramsey.  I ALMOST have a savings account!

And now I’m a hypocrite because waaaaay back in the day I even tried to convince JS that a brand new “Farm Truck” was a really bad idea.  He had his “Aha! She was right” moment, when a week after its purchase the farm gate smashed into its side.  And again a few months later when he took out a few reflector posts in a well executed side slide right into a ditch.  (Now listen here, just because one of those accidents was my fault doesn’t mean that a new truck was a wise acquisition.)

AND THEN more recently I discovered that not only did I really, really WANT a new Camaro… I NEED a new Camaro.  Have you seen that thing?  It’s a frickin’ revelation.  But most importantly I think we can all agree that I would look super fly rocking less than 20% body fat driving a muscle car.

Yep.  See.  That’s EXACTLY why I need the new Camaro.

Check it:

It's okay to drool.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Boxing Epilogue

So... I went back for more today.  Dummy.

I attended a boxing class this morning whereas yesterday I had a private lesson.  Let's just say my friends, I found myself in a whole new world...

I wrapped up my hands like a big girl, pretty sure I was doing it all wrong but not willing to look like I was a beginner.  Thanks be to the Sweet Baby Jesus I chose to wear the black top instead of the pink one I left laying on the closet floor.  Although the purple shoelaces were definitely a good choice.  Think mostly ninja with purple accents. That was me.

There were six full grown really sweaty men and one extremely red faced crazy lady with purple shoelaces in our class.  We started with 5 minutes of jump rope but my gimpy ankles garnered me sprints on the ancient bicycle instead.  I guiltily watched them make mince meat of 5 minutes.  On a good ankle day I have trouble counting to 50 jumps without landing some heinous lashes to my body but those dudes had mad skills.  There was a lot of criss-cross and double unders and all sorts of fancy speed steppin.'  Clearly this wasn't their first rodeo.

When Bruce finally got off his phone, I was exhausted from watching the men jump rope and trying not to cry about how painful the bike seat was.  Then we all got into the ring for shadow boxing in front of the mirrors.  I only know one step and a few swings, add in the feinting and that's all I've got folks.  I did my best to stay out of the other guys way and hoped no one was watching my pinata get all hot, red and drippy. 

I'm not gonna lie...  When Bruce instructed them to start sparring two at a time, I was a little frightened.  My 'Boxing is TOTALLY AWESOME' bubble came crashing to the ground.  It was like tires squealing to a halt when it dawned on me that one day I might actually get hit in the kisser. 


I am a little ashamed to admit that in that moment of abject terror my next thought was:  Is it too late to get a refund!? 

I spent the next 10 minutes praying that he wouldn't make me spar with one of his man beasts and alternately that they wouldn't stomp me into the mats as they sparred RIGHT beside us. 

Jesus heard my prayers and/or Bruce could hear the potential lawsuits stacking up against him and I was not asked to spar with any giant man beasts before we moved on to the bags.  Ahhhh!  My good  friend Mister Punching Bag.  The bag that would never smack me in the head or knock a freshly bleached tooth from my sweaty little head.  How I missed thee!

Bruce changed up his taunting tactics and opted for Sissy Britches today instead of Prissy Pants.  He told the men that maybe they'd box better in stilettos and skirts seeing as they sucked so badly in their tennis shoes.  He used a lot more humour with me than he did with his men.  Which is good.  I might actually cry. 

The best part of the entire class was when Bruce squirted each of us with icy water from a spray bottle.  He said, "Good Lord girl.  We need to wash some of that color off your face."

To which I replied, "Fat chance Brucey.  Them's my unfortunate Irish genes."

After endless boxing drills we finished with real sprints outside for the men folk and more bicycle sprints for Gimpy ankle girl.  I opted for higher resistance so I could stand up instead of risking my girlie bits to that rabid bicycle seat.  All in all it was a good old fashioned ass kicking.  We finished with another 10 minutes of core and all together I burned 946 calories. 

In an hour and a half I lost (I swear to God because I weighed myself before and after) exactly 8 ounces of water through my knee caps.  I looked around for comparison purposes and it seemed like I was the only one with dripping knees and shins.  Neat.

So!  Can you guess what my new mantra is?

Original mantra:  BOXING IS AWESOME!

New mantra:  Please Sweet Jesus, DO NOT let me cry ;)

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Gator's Golden Gloves

A few weeks ago at the gym my trainer whipped out a set of these bad boys:

Ewing Galloway at

And a fever was born.

You see, I’ve been working out like a crazy person over the last year and a half and I dialed up the intensity to 7 days a week at the beginning of March.  AND NOW I’ve hit a weight plateau!  Give or take 5 pounds which I attribute to my sugar and Mexican food addiction.  Fajitas and Honey Nut Chex are the only thing keeping me from rock hard abs y’all.

After doing some online research I put a phone call in to good ole Bruce from Bruce’s KO Boxing Gym and set up my first private boxing lesson for this morning.  If anything can help get my 24% body fat below 20%, sweating my ass off smackin’ stuff around sounds promising.

When I called yesterday Bruce asked me, “Why you so excited?  You got yourself a fight coming up?”

“No sir,”  I answered.  “I’m just tired of being told that I hit like a girl.”

After laughing he replied,  “All right girl.  I’ll see you tomorrow.  Wear shorts.  It’ll be hot.”

So I met Bruce at his gym this morning before he went off to work at his second company, Tri-Recycling. Imagine!  A boxing environmentalist.

Bruce, a shorter, fit, bald man was wearing khakis and steel-toed boots and I was in shorts and sneakers rocking majorly scary hair.  After wrapping my hands we started in the ring.  I’ve got one word for standing in a boxing ring.


Actually, I would like to say four words.

Totally Mother EFFING AWESOME.

After I performed my scariest Rocky impersonation and bounced around with my gloves held high over my head and then preened in the mirrors, we got started.  Bruce is a stickler for form and technique so he made me repeat my jabs 8,000 times only correcting me for about 3 million unperceivable flaws.  He taught me about reach, staying balanced over your feet and angling your body so you don’t take a punch flat to the sternum.

I have to confess, for someone with boundary issues like myself  (As in:  This is my personal space.  Draw imaginary box.  Please step the F Bomb back.)  boxing is very uncomfortably an intimate sport.  Bruce was all up IN my grill.  AND he kept smacking me.  Not hard or anything, just like a gentle slap to the shoulder or leg or elbow to remind me keep my elbows up or my ribs protected.  Just a little antagonizing.  No malice. He saved the malice for the boxing bag.

When Bruce got tired of watching me struggle with my foot work we climbed out of the ring and went over to the punching bags.  I, unfortunately, made eye contact with the “spit tube” on my way out of the ring. Needless to say my amor for said ring was greatly diminished after discovering that little treasure.

“Oh Jeebus, Bruce!  Is that a PUKE FUNNEL!?”  I squeaked after very nearly touching it.

“Naw, girl.  That’s a spit tube.  Snot too.  Maybe a little blood, but mostly spit.  Those out there,”  He said pointing to the trees in the parking lot.  “Those are puke trees.  We try real hard not to puke in my gym.”


After that revelation every spot on the mirror, smell or discoloration had me highly suspect.  My skin was sort of crawly.  I fought down my squeamishness by imaging my return to class wearing holsters for my own personal sized bottle of bleach.

Working on the bag I discovered my jabs are good, I suck at feinting, my right foot belongs in the ‘special needs’ class, I need to practice more slow dancing (wha?) and my stamina needs work.  We punch for 1 minute intervals and rest for 10 seconds before punching again.  Whew-ey!  Bruce uses playground taunts to inspire his champions.  He asked me if I shouldn’t just go home and get a manicure instead of boxing RIGHT before I beat the shiz out of him.  Just kidding.  He did call me prissy pants (A LOT) and he totally told me my head looked like a piƱata, but it was all in good fun.  He says it with a lot of love in his eyes.

After about an hour and 3 liters of sweat had dripped from my knee caps, we finished with core and conditioning.  I immediately signed up for a 6 week membership and raced home to order my purple hand wraps.  That’s purple Mexican style hand wraps y’all.  Just in case you were wondering ;)  Now lets just hope this lasts longer than the belly dancing...