Monday, April 2, 2018

It's Never Over or "Show Me How the Humans Eat"

Hi. Remember me? The shrieky old woman who unloads all her bullshit into cyberspace? Well, I'm back. You're welcome or I'm sorry, choose your own adventure.

You may remember from our last little digital tete a tete that I had just competed in a powerlifting meet following a dismally unsuccessful cut (I was shooting for 72kg). During that cut (a soul-sucking foray into salad eating) I gained something like 4 pounds? Yeah, you read that right. I ascended from my usual 75kg (165#, MAGA) to 77.1 on meet day and to north of 78kg in the day or two following.

Here I am in all my 170# glory.

On the recommendation of a friend, I signed on with Stronger U and was assigned to a coach with powerlifting experience. He gave me some macros and everything in my being rebelled against weighing my food, tracking every single morsel, and weighing myself every fucking day.

Weigh everything! Youself! Your food! Random household objects!

Measure everything! Egg whites! Oats! Motherfucking blueberries!


I have a checkered relationship with the scale. I think a lot of people do, women in particular. I've been on so many bloody diets over the course of my life. When I'm feeling self destructive I weigh myself when I know I'll be the heaviest. You know, fresh off a night shift with a belly full of breakfast. After dinner with a belly full of water. Whenever will make me feel the worst about myself. I've learned over time that if I'm feeling really, really body positive that I should absolutely not step on the scale because that number will wreck me. I'll go from feeling like a goddamn siren to feeling like a fucking hippopotamus in one fell swoop.

Neurotic you say? Well yes, yes it is. I'm batshit crazy, but I'm nothing if not self-aware. 

                                                                      Image result for neurotic girl meme

So. Cutting with Stronger U. I filled out a spreadsheet every day. Macros consumed, weight, self assigned "grade" for the day, hours slept, waist measurement 3 times a week, workout, and general notes. I hate to admit it, but that spreadsheet was what kept me on the straight and narrow. Not My Fucking Fitness Pal (who named that app...they couldn't think of something less insipid?). I actually stopped "completing the day" in MFFP because I couldn't stand the judgy little messages anymore. I sent the spreadsheet in every week with my progress pictures. Front/side/back.

Week one. Just kill me.

I hated taking those pictures. Every week, I hated it. Especially because every other week? I had to take them fresh off the night shift, all bloated and pasty. I can't pinpoint exactly why I hate the photos so much...maybe because I've taken so many "before" photos and never any "afters"? I mean god knows I don't fear the selfie, but something about putting on a swimsuit and photographing my cellulite made me cringe. 

You know, it's the back view. That's why I can't stand the progress photo of it all. I cannot stand to see myself from the back. Hideous. I swear, if I could discover the cure for cellulite I'd make a mint. I'll wear the hell out of some booty shorts, but Jesus Fuck, don't photograph me wearing them unless the lighting is right. Ugh. 

                                         Image result for the right lighting meme
Sing it.

I struggled a lot initially. I was very resistant to preparing and eating the same damn thing every single day. I despise salad and I cannot abide the standard chicken/rice/broccoli that seems to be the standard for cutting. I would rather be heavy. That whole "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" saying is utter, total bullshit. Plenty of things taste as good as skinny feels. 

I don't remember what they are anymore, but plenty of things.
                                                       Image result for cadbury creme egg
I seem to recall these tasting pretty good?

Eventually I caved to that, too. I meal prepped. I tracked. I photographed. I spreadsheeted (spreadshot?). And the number on the scale started going down. Here's some of the shit I made. I also ate a fuckload of egg white oats and something I call "depressing cake" made from casein powder. Every time my macros got cut I died a little inside, but I adjusted my meals and carried on. 

Taco bowls, I ate these a lot.

Wheat pasta with home made marinara

Shrimp and broccoli with chickpea noodles and cauliflower alfredo

Jerk pork loin with sprouts and potato

Shrimp stir fry with cellophane noodles

Vietnamese lettuce cups

Tomato marinated shrimp with quinoa and roasted eggplant.

I got on the scale every goddamn day except one because we were out of town (and I am NOT obsessive enough to bring my scale and weigh myself in a hotel). And one day, this happened.

I actually did it. Also? My house is disgusting. 

And I took a final set of pictures.
Ugggghhhhh, the back view.

If I'm being completely honest, I don't see much of a difference. I feel different. My clothing size is different. There's less flesh squashing around, but even 12# lighter than the first picture, I don't see it. Neurotic AF, bitches. Right here. I took one set of photos that actually made me feel proud. These. 

In a weightlifting singlet that I'll never wear outside my house.

So I made weight. I'm fighting to stay here. I have to keep myself below 72kg until 0900 on Saturday morning, because I'm telling you right now that if I weigh in at 72.1 I'm going to set some shit on fire.

                                                            Image result for set it on fire

I feel better about competing this time around. I'm pretty sure I'm going to beat my total from last time, and a higher total is always a good thing. Don't misunderstand, I'm not going to win anything. I'll probably have the lowest total in the comp, but it'll be better than the last one. Ultimately I'd like to hit a 600# total. In theory that shouldn't be a problem. Hell, most of the people who started around the same time I did (and after me) hit that right away. Well, I'm not athletic. It takes me longer to master things. It takes me a LOT longer to build strength. Fortunately or unfortunately for me I'm also pigheaded, and that makes me tenacious as fuck. There are many people more talented than I am. Stronger. More powerful. But I am relentless, and that's just as good. 

                                                 Image result for persistence
I am a Tenacious B.

So after this meet, what's next. Well, first I'm going to take a breath. I've been hard driving towards 72kg for so long that I've forgotten how to relate to food like a normal person. This assumes of course that I've ever related to food like a normal person and that's debatable. I need to back away from tracking and the scale for a week or so and try to get used to my body again. I need to assess what I've done and what I need to do to either stay here or not. I need to un-diet so that I don't end up stuck on these starvation level macros for the rest of my life (I'm not kidding here. 145c/43f/120p or roughly 1400 calories a day, and I've been here for over a month). I need to reassess my goals and decide what works for me to maintain the aesthetic that I like and build the muscle that I need to pull a semi (not kidding here either, #goals).  

And because I'm a neurotic asshole, I'm going to need help. So I got some. 

 Hey that's me!
This is Alex. He talks a lot of sense. Hopefully he'll be able to talk sense to me without wanting to bash in my skull.

You can find Alex on his website at We had a little chat last week and I dumped all my crazy onto the floor for him to sift through, and he didn't block my number so that's a good sign. 

My challenges going forward are mostly about reframing the way I look at food and how what I eat and how I track (or don't) relates to my real life. I went from structured program with NH to free for all to cutting with RP (and fuck you, RP! Fuck you very much!) to hard core cutting with Stronger U. All these methods were learning experiences, but now it's time to find my own method. The one I can work long term.

For the next four days I'm going to drink all the water and curse the clearance candy and turn down treats. Saturday I'll give my all on the platform and hopefully walk away with a shiny new deadlift PR. I'll enjoy a few beers and some type of previously forbidden food...and then I'll go back to eating normally.

You know what I can't wait to eat? Whole eggs. Egg white are bloody depressing. You know what else is depressing? That whole eggs sound like a treat.

It's been a long cut, y'all. 

                                               Image result for skinny miss piggy
                                                             Even Miss Piggy slims down occasionally. 

You may see blogs more frequently as I try to figure all this shit out. Apologies in advance. 

Monday, January 29, 2018

Powerlifting vs. Everybody or "It Has Been 7 Hours Since My Last WOD"

So I had a Powerlifting meet. I did NOT make the 72kg weight class, but it's cool. I weighed in at 77.1kg the morning of the meet (that's 169.62# for you real Americans), which put me in the 84kg weight class. I understand now the appeal of the heavyweight. I could've just stood on the scale eating a motherfucking hoagie and it wouldn't have made a lick of difference.

I mean, blah blah Wilks score, but whatever.

The singlet made it's public debut.

I know. Super hawt. Try to control yourself.

I watched an old dude squat over 800#, which was not at all intimidating, and then some of my own teammates squat and bench some scary numbers. So, yeah, pretty terrified at the outset.

Really. Terrified. Knot in my belly, sweaty palms terrified. My palms don't sweat, people. I've used chalk exactly once in my life and that was in the fucking tropics, okay? Palms sweating terrified.  This was made worse by the fact that we kept getting delayed. First an hour, then two. The above photo was taken in the bathroom on my 239th trip in there before my flight started squatting three hours late. 

you know what, fuck it.

It was at "You know what? Fuck it." That I approached the first lift.

And I got it.

One of the oddest things for me was the sheer number of people around you when you lift. I'm not used to lifting with spotters (except at Power Club), as I normally lift alone in a power rack with safeties. Having someone pretty much breathing down your neck while you squat is a strange sensation. Especially for someone like me who basically hates human contact.

I hit the first squat, got red lighted on the second, reattempted and got the third. I was so concerned about the commands and not fucking up that I swear I blacked out on the actual squat. I don't remember it at all. Have I ever mentioned what a shitty squatter I am? Because I am. I was really worried about bombing out, because it was a real possibility. Having this out of the way was a huge relief.

If squatting is weird, benching is weirder. Three commands to remember and a bunch of positional shit you have to be aware of. Also you kind of have to look up some guy's shorts while he hands off, and there are a lot of really unattractive angles to be filmed from. Like this one.

Again, try to control yourself.

Another example of being so concerned with the commands that I forgot barbells are heavy. I had three lifts with three white lights. Kinda wish I'd gone heavier on the third, to be honest, but there's always the next meet, and it felt good to see those white lights in the corner. 

The deadlift was fun. I have noted in the past that deadlifting makes me piss myself. I actually wore reinforced granny panties to avoid the urine-soaked singlet of it all. I had three deadlifts. NO PEEING. For real. NOT A DROP. I mean, WTF bladder? Other women peed on the platform, and no shame or shade from me...but for some reason I had a bladder of goddamn steel that day. PR'd my DL, (which I actually DO remember) easy as fuck, and NOT A DROP OF URINE.

Look, Ma, NO PEE

Deadlifted in my basement this past Tuesday? Pissed all over the place. My body is fucking with me. 

My Wilks score put me pretty firmly in the "intermediate" strata for a powerlifter, and I'm completely fine with that. I have a starting place and I know what to work on, and while stage fright will always be a problem it's at least now a demon I've met. I wrestle with my demons all the time, this one can get in line.

Our teams (Senior and Rookie) took first place, and there was a lot of hardware worn home by my teammates, including the crazy bitch who talked me into this bullshit to begin with. She also provided me with the above videos, so thanks, Scully. I think. Here we are looking hungry.

Because that was a long fucking day, yo. Also? ALL GIRL TEAM, BITCHES.

Once we got started it was actually a lot of fun. Everyone was super friendly, we cheered for each other and there was a lot of high fiveing and hugging and tired-and-hungry manic glee. I recognized a few Strongman competitors (and they recognized me) and that was cool. We also had a ton of coaching support as we warmed up and took the platform, and that meant a lot. 

I'm glad I gave this a try. I am so much stronger now than I was 6 months ago, and watching all the incredible athletes I get to train with every week (especially my fellow Masters lifters) has really lit a fire in me to continue. I want to deadlift 150kg, too, goddammit, and there's a 100kg squat in this 40 year old ass...I know there is. 

After the meet we got some pizza and fucking destroyed that shit. It was delicious, and the fact that it put me over 78kg the next day? Totally worth it.

So now I'm back to trying to cut my weight down a bit. Mostly this is because I get itchy when my weight creeps up for no appreciable reason. It's not the number so much as the increase. I don't want to gain 3 pounds a year and wake up at age fifty, 200# and WTF. When I start to creep up to that 170 mark I start looking for answers. Lately I've been counting macros. 

I fucking hate counting macros. Especially with My Fitness Pal. Are you familiar with My Fitness Pal? More like "The Fitspo Bitch I Hate Follow On Instagram". I fucking hate MFP. First of all, it tries to tell me that I should be eating 1200 calories a day for weight loss and you can go fuck yourself with that number. Yeah, I'd be thin on 1200 calories a day because I'd be fucking dead. 

I am a big woman. I require more fuel than your average lawn mower, Pal. I also despise that it seems to be geared towards eating shit with bar codes. The only way to be absolutely sure you have the right thing is with a barcode. I find that infuriating. 752 entries for "egg", but if I scan a bag of cookies my Pal is johnny on it. Just like that sabotaging Fitspo Bitch. That bitch wants you to get fat. 

My life. So big. Towering over people, stepping 
on cars. It's awkward.

And every fucking day, when you log your numbers, your Pal tells you exactly how you fucked up (NO, PAL, my goal is not to be UNDER 160g of carbs a day. It's a TARGET, okay?) and "if every day was like today" how much you'd weigh in 5 weeks. THANKS FOR THE FAT SHAMING, PAL. 

So to simplify things, I basically eat the same boring ass shit every single day. Up until now it hasn't been paying off much, but the last few days I seem to have turned a corner.

Boring ass shit.

More boring ass shit. Not pictured, the guac for good fats.

Shitty protein cake with FF Redi-whip.

After creeping steadily upwards for weeks in spite of active cutting, I suddenly dropped to 75kg without warning or explanation. I saw abs. They were there until breakfast. 


So now that the upward creep has stopped, I'm just going to grind and eat boring ass shit and see where that gets me. Maybe I'll be a 72kg lifter at my next meet. Maybe I'll be an 84+. It's anyone's guess really. Maybe I'll say "fuck it" and eat until I graft into the couch. I am trying to get to a 600# total. Maybe it'll be bodyweight instead of squat/bench/dead. 

I mean, there's only so much ground turkey a person can take before they lose their shit completely. 

Oh, I did CrossFit this week for the first time in months. Even did a WOD today. I can honestly say I don't miss it. I like my hands intact and my shins unsplit. Dropping in on cherry picked workouts is more my speed. This year will be the first in 5 years that I haven't signed up for the Open. At first it felt strange, but I just don't want to. The bloom is off the rose. Have fun, CF friends, I'll cheer from the sidelines and revel in the unrippedness of my palms. 

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to eat another box of boring ass shit.

Tuesday, December 26, 2017

Big is Beautiful or "RP Can Go Fuck Itself"

I am apparently unable to cut weight. 4 weeks ago I was 76.5kg and set out on Cut 3 of my RP template. It was soul sucking. I ate salad. Salad. I hate salad. But I did it. For 3 weeks I did it.

And I lost 1kg.  ONE KILOGRAM.

Ok. It's okay, I thought to myself. I feel leaner, surely I must have put on a shitload of muscle over the last 2 months and that's why I'm having trouble cutting. My arms are bigger, my quads are bigger, my backside is bigger. That's what's going on here. For fuck's sake I swear I could almost see abs.

So I scheduled an appointment for a BIA to confirm this. I figured if my body fat percentage is down and I've put on muscle then I'll just hang at 75kg and forget about cutting.

What I found out is that I'm just fat. Fatter than I was before I started cutting. 

DID YOU HEAR THAT RP? MY BODY FAT PERCENTAGE WENT UP ON CUT THREE. Please feel free to go fuck yourself. 

This means two things. 
1. I definitely can cut to 72kg because I am definitely fat enough.
2. I definitely ate my weight in Christmas cookies this weekend because I am amazing at self-sabotage.

I'm fairly certain that the 1kg I lost is back and brought 2 or 3 of it's friends to the party. Because that's how I roll. 3 weeks to lose 2.2#, 4 days to gain 8. Nobody gets fat as well as me. Nobody. 

Ridiculously easy to see. From space.

Fuck. Now I have to make a decision. Do I get back on that horse and try to whittle myself down to 72kg over the next 4ish weeks with a super low carb, high protein, modified fluid manipulation, joyless soul-sucking cut? Or do I just try to get myself back together so I don't actually become 84kg (the ceiling for the next weight class). 


A healthy non-cookie-related snack.

Goddammit. Nothing but meat, protein powder, kale, and fucking sorrow for the next 4ish weeks.

And I'll probably Be 72.1kg on the scale. Or 84.1, because dieting makes me fat.


And I was feeling so positive about it, all strong and stuff. I hit a 200# back squat on Thursday after finding out that I'm fat. So that was cool.

I'm told strong is sexy. 

Ugh. Now I have to do cardio. I have to eat chicken breasts and kale and drink protein shakes and do cardio.

So I can be like this bitch. 
I don't think she has the right size shorts on. 
She doesn't have enough legs and ass for these shorts.

I guess January is for suffering, right? I'm just starting a little ahead of schedule. January is cold and bleak. I can eat cold and bleak and do cold, bleak cardio for a month or so. Probably.

Last week was strange. Aside from hitting my 200# squat it was sort of garbage. Not only did I find out that I'm fat, I had my neck and back adjusted last Monday. I've only ever seen one chiropractor in my life (Historically I've been wary of chiropractors, though I will say my previous one was very helpful) but he didn't crack my back. Sadly, he moved away. I've been lifting heavy lately and thought maybe I should line someone else up in case my back goes south again (I have scoliosis, my back goes out periodically). So I had a consultation with someone new. The first time for back cracking? Also the last time. I'll probably go back to side-eyeing chiropractic. Everything was fine for a few hours, and then it all went to hell in a hand basket.

It started with my balance going to shit. I couldn't stay in a crescent lunge at yoga that night. I couldn't hold my arms up above my head for more than a few seconds. About 10 minutes into class it was like showers of sparks were flowing down my spine and my right arm. The spark shower continued even when I stopped moving, all the way home in the car. That night I developed deep shooting pains from my low back down my glutes and hamstrings. 

Lotta shit goes on up and down the spine.

I spent all week sleeping for shit and every lifting session came with some new neuralgia. I couldn't deadlift because it hurt too much. Sparks, burning, numbness, headache...and after one heavy session my hand shook off and on for about 30 minutes. Heat helped some while the heat was applied, ice made it worse, and when my husband tried to work on the section of my back that was most locked up? I cried. I don't do that. Cry. It's not my thing. 

Finally, I was able to sweet talk my way into a prescription for cyclobenzaprine. I say sweet talk, because providers never want to write pain meds for me. I don't know if it's because I ask for drugs by name (I'm a pharmacist, yo, what am I supposed to do...pretend I don't know what shit is for?) or because my "excruciating pain" face looks pretty much like my regular face. Sorta pissed off. Maybe I look like a seeker. A shitty one, because I never score. 

Just a few Flexeril, bro, that's all mama needs.

Still, I got what I needed and after a few days of solid, muscle-relaxer-induced sleep I feel almost normal. Just a little bit of a twanging sensation across my right shoulder remains, but I was able to run without inducing pain or sparks so that's positive. Later today I'll put a barbell on my back and see what happens. I'm hopeful. 

I need to be in tip-top shape so I can torture myself really, really effectively with chicken, kale, and cardio. 

If I get fatter doing cardio, lifting, and eating nothing but meat and veggies do you think I could get written up in a medical journal? Because that has to be impossible, right?

We're gonna find out. 

Oh, also I did my roots...toning went better this time but it did get a teeny bit purple. Also I might have melted some of my hair off. Just a little bit, though.

Closer to white blonde than before. 
Also, my nose is really long. Wow.

Tossing around the idea of dyeing it silver, but I can't decide if it'd look edgy or if I'd just look old. 

Would it look like this?

Or more like this?

I mean, I fully expect to look like Bea Arthur in about 25 years. About the same height, similar build, similar face, same general sense of dude-ness. It's cool. I'd probably skip the shoulder pads, but it was the 80s, no judgement on my girl Bea. It could be worse...I'm just not looking to go there right this second. 

It's veggie time. Except not potatoes or carrots because too many carbs. I can't wait to go back to dieting. I love dieting. 

Kill me. 

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Abs are Made in the Kitchen or "Nobody Wants to See Your Cellulite in a Singlet"

I haven't written for a while. Lots of stuff has happened since September. Mostly the things happened in October.

I did a CF competition. 

Team Active Bitch Face. We placed third in the old lady division.

I did a Strongman.

I'm so fucking pretty I can hardly stand it.
I placed mega-last so it's a good thing, too.

I ran the Marine Corps Marathon.

It was miserable. Hardest thing I've ever done.
Eyelashes on point, though.

And after all that...I did something stupid.  I registered for a Powerlifting meet. A Powerlifting meet. Do you know what that means? I have to put on a motherfucking singlet in front of live action people.

One of these.  In public.

Related image
I ordered an XL, because I'm a big potato
and in Virus land every woman 69kg and over is XL
Except when they're a Small.
Fucking Virus.

Only I don't even get to wear that unattractive thing, as it's not IPF approved. For the record, the Virus XL didn't fit. It was advertised as compressive and it wasn't. I sent it back. SO MUCH FOR YOUR SIZE CHART, VIRUS. KISS MY 76.5KG ASS. 

Instead I get to wear an even MORE unattractive thing. This thing. But in black. Size Large because "Unisex". 

Ha. Unisex. Even this phantom model has a bulge.
I don't have a bulge. I'm a manly looking woman,
but even I'm not quite THAT manly.

Unisex clothes can go fuck themselves. Ha. See what I did there. Actually, I suppose that would be hermaphroditic clothes. Wait, no...parthenogenetic clothes? I'm starting to forget my nomenclature. It's hell to get old.  It's also hell to be a big woman. Am I a small man? A medium man? A large man? Depends what brand we're talking about. Trying to get something that fits my body AND my condor arms? HA. HAHAHAHAHAHA. A unisex article of clothing that fits my wide ass hips and also my narrower ribcage? HA. I say HA. I am not at all peevish about this. 

I've been known to wear some objectionable shit in my basement gym, but there are no real live people there. My squat rack doesn't care if I wear a sports bra and booty shorts with my gut hanging out over the waistband. My squat rack doesn't judge me. My squat rack loves me and wants me to be happy. 

This is my squat rack. It needs a name. I think it's a girl, but I'm not sure.

Isn't it beautiful?

Oh! Oh! and it has safeties for benching, too!

Here I am attempting to arch. It's a work in progress.

We did invest in a sturdier, longer bench. The bench in this photo is now just for sitting on while I rest or change shoes. ALL THE GYM STUFF, Y'ALL.

As an aside? Whenever this song comes on while I'm squatting? I sing the lyric 
as "The rack I squat in? I bought it."

Back to the meet. There's another catch beyond the singlet. I registered as a 72kg (158#) lifter. Let's just say I don't weigh 72kg right now. My last known weight was 76.5kg (168.3#). I've hopped on the scale once or twice since my last "official" weight and in spite of a pretty drastic cut, my numbers have been all over the place. I should've started cutting in earnest months ago.

I make a lot of poor choices.

Cutting weight sucks balls. It is two months of uninspiring food, and if you know me, you know I like mealtime to be an event. Eating isn't an event these days, it's an obligation. I started out with terrible cravings, and now that has tapered off to a general dissatisfaction with everything I put in my mouth. I don't even want to eat anymore. One might think "Hey, starvation is probably great for cutting!" except I need to be light AND strong. Not eating doesn't make muscle. 

I have until 1/20 to make weight. I can't water cut because it's a 2 hour weigh in and dehydration is not my friend from a performance standpoint. So I actually have to lose 4.5kg. TEN POUNDS. In reality I should probably lose more like 12 pounds because I'm pretty sure we don't weigh in butt naked, and since weigh in is at noon it'll be more like curb weight vs. dry weight. 

Goddammit. If I'm not at 74kg when I weigh next I may just scrap the whole thing and tell the lady in charge of the meet that I need to move up to the 84kg class.

There goes my Wilks score.

On a positive note, I've been enjoying all the barbell work. I really have. So far I've maxed out my bench, dead, AND squat at more than I thought possible for me and it seems there's more in the tank. I can rep out squats at much heavier weights than at any time in the past. I don't even mind doing them, and I used to hate them. I've invested in knee sleeves and an Inzer lever belt that is a truly beautiful and alarming piece of equipment. I have a short torso. The distance between the bottom of my ribs and the top of my iliac crest is not a lot of real estate. In the past I've worn tapered belts to avoid compressing the bottom of my rib cage. The new Inzer belt isn't tapered.

It's, um, hefty. Every time I snap it shut I'm pretty sure
I'm going to pinch my belly flubber in it.

I love the way it feels when I'm in the act of lifting, but closing it hurts a little. I'm fairly certain there're going to be bruises along the base of my ribs. Sad thing is I think it should be a notch tighter...but my rib cage is in the way. Today I tried to push it down a bit because it was hurting my ribs and I couldn't because skeletal structure, y'all. 

Oh hey, it's also the holiday season. Have I mentioned cutting blows? Yeah, it blows more during the food-a-palooza that is this time of year. One thing that's on my side is the fact that I'm not allowed to have holidays at all, ever, so at least I'm not tempted by lovely meals with my family.

Health care careers FTW.

I'm on social media hiatus at the moment. I started by deactivating my Facebook and Instagram accounts for a week and removing the apps from my phone. The accounts are up again (chances are you're reading this linked from my FB page, since nobody actually goes to my blog website), but the apps aren't on my phone and they won't be until after the first of the year at least. Frankly, I can't handle all the holiday posts. Your family is lovely. Really, they are. But I can't deal with the constant stream of  smiling faces and holiday jollies.  For the fourth year in a row, I'm working the winter holidays, and because schedules hate us, so is my husband. My kids weren't home on Thanksgiving, and they won't be home on Christmas. They'll be with people who love them, but not with us. I'll spend close to 14 hours in the hospital on Christmas Day, working my own shift and covering for a co-worker. Hell, even the day we selected for our family gift exchange was fucked around by an order-in. I'm reachable, I'm not hiding in a hole or anything, but I'm full on Bah Humbuging it at the moment, so be warned.

A party you say? Oh, sorry, I work that day.
Yup. That day, too. Allllllll those days around the holiday.
That's my shift. 

I'll be keeping the obsidian shards of my cold, bitter heart out of your holiday celebrations. You're welcome. And for those who would say "You're atheist AF, why do you give a shit about Christmas at all?" I give you this (it's actually pretty interesting, debauchery for all!). 

I like debauchery and excess in all it's forms. Just keeping Yule sacred.

Looking through the archive of this blog was interesting today. Last year I had some goals. I actually hit most of them. There are three still outstanding, but there are still over 2 weeks left in the year and I have max days coming.

1. 100# snatch (current max 95#)
2. 200# squat (current max 180# set today with a max out this Friday and next Friday)
3. 250# dead (current max 235# and I got 255 off the floor two weeks ago)

My main goal for 2017 was to triumph over my flat-ass genes (or at least keep that shit from sliding down the backs of my legs). I don't know if I've reached the mountain top, but I'm on the way to the summit. I no longer fit under a barbell, and there's definitely more going on back there now than there was before.

And these aren't even flattering pants.

I guess my new goal for the New Year needs to be set, right? Well, I'll start with something that'll get me a t-shirt. A 600# total to earn my entry into the Ghrino Club. Current total: 535. Holy shit that sounds pathetic...but my bench has improved dramatically of late, squatting feels like a completely different ballgame now, and if I can find a decent pair of pee panties my deadlift is going up to 275# easy (I don't like to wet myself in front of strangers and that causes me to bail out of lifts when I feel the floodgates now you know that about me). That 535 is 30# higher than 6 weeks ago. Six weeks for a 30# overall improvement. That's pretty good, right? 600# is in the bag for 2018, bruised ribs and all.

So. I'm going to grind for the next 2 weeks, skip over Christmas, and head straight into the New Year.

New Year, same old me...

All 76.5kg of me.