Yup, checks. I write checks now, because my debit card number got lifted for the 4th time in 12 months and I'm done. I have a tote bag full of nickles and I'm pissed off. Look out, Target cashiers, you're about to earn your $10/hour. I'm serious. I paid cash for things this week. I never have cash. I was a debit card junkie and now I'm all about trading glass beads and sexual favors for organic produce.
I haven't blogged in a while. So what have I been up to other than buying gas for randoms at Wal-Marts in SoCal? A little of this, a little of that. Running, yoga, CrossFit, the usual. I've also engaged in acts of home improvement. Namely, I painted a few walls, hung some curtains, and ordered some new furniture. It was cheaper than burning this house down and buying a new one.
Mean green. That's not the new furniture.
The smalls now want walls painted in their rooms. Per C "You can just paint around all my posters". Awesome, kid. That sounds extra fun.
P&C toothless factory got tapped to appear in a commercial for a local dentist's office. P was little Mr. Perfect as usual, and C? Well, he's all over the place but he's a charming little bastard. Mostly they were stoked to play with the games in the waiting room and eat cookies. They got a nice little gift bag for their troubles, and they had a lot of fun.
I had a line in the commercial, too. The woman who asked us to participate said they needed a "good-looking mom" to do a line. Well, they got me. I covered my tattoo with a long sleeve shirt and tried not to look venomous. They seemed okay with it. I guess we'll see what ends up on TV. I got a Target gift card, so winning there. The nickles will wait for another day.
My program finished up about a year ago, but I've been back at Nutritional Healing once a month-ish to keep myself on track and to make sure I hit my fortieth birthday party looking (to quote IceT) bangin'. And staying healthy and trying not to die early and shit, but mostly...bangin'. It's going okay. I tried a bulk and cut, and it worked. I dropped some fat and gained some muscle. It was good stuff.
Lately I've just been feeling...large...but not necessarily in charge. It's all in my head. My weight hasn't changed appreciably and I'm continuing to gain strength.
Portrait of a heavyweight.
I spent a lot of years trying to get myself below 160# so I wouldn't be considered an "Athena" for road races. Then the fucking bastards made the cut off 150# and I sort of threw up my hands and gave up. I signed up for a competition (it's a Strongman competition and I'm gonna suuuuuuuuck at it) this coming June and the weight cut off for "heavyweight" is 150#. I weigh 163#. I could maybe sneak below 150#, but I'd have to eat nothing but kale and sorrow for the next 5 weeks, and I can guarantee all my hard-won strength would go right down the drain.
What kind of a girl does kale think I am? I don't just give it up to any old leafy green!
So I'm a heavyweight. Honestly, I'm fine with my weight. It's that fucking label. It messes with my head. I'll get over it, and it will go back to being the joke it should be, but I had a few moments of panic today thinking about it. I have brain weasels, I think most of us do. Mine tell me I'm fat and weak and worthless. I wonder if brain weasels taste good roasted. I'm hungry.
I got some new toys for my home gym, which is my fucking pride and joy, y'all, for real.
Slice sled. For the pulling and pushing of it all.
This will be helpful for a few reasons. It helps develop strength which equals speed when running. It'll help me develop power for pushing which may come in handy (I may get to go back to the rugby pitch this summer). It's a practice tool for the competition...and it's fun for the whole neighborhood.
The kids love this thing. It's hilarious.
I pulled out my carry bars and basically all the weight I own and started working on my farmer carry.
So far my max is 240# Still time yet.
I've been engaging in some powerlifting behavior with a friend. Always the chance I'll die crushed by a bar that the teeny little woman in the next rack could pick up one handed. Itty bitty women who can lift a shitload of weight just baffle me. By rights I should be able to snap her in half, yet she can bench my body weight. I can't bench my body weight. I can barely bench her body weight. Damn my giant bone structure and atrophied muscles.
Squats are happening again. Fucking squats.
Squats have to keep happening. I may never squat more that 165# (my current max, and you can shut up about how shitty that is, I'm well aware), but I need to keep trying. I have some flat-ass genes that need to be fought. That's my personal dragon. I'll be trying to slay that one for the rest of my life.
I've been running more lately, mostly with the friend I've been powerlifting with. Come to think of it, she's the same friend who got me interested in trying the Strongman thing. I might need new friends.
The MCM is this October, which will be my final marathon. At this point thinking about training for that distance makes me feel slightly ill, but I'll do it, and if I can squeak my time down into the 4:45 range I'll be really fucking happy. Go out on a high note, right? I probably should've registered as a fucking Athena. That term makes me laugh. It's the lady version of Clydesdale. It's like they said to themselves "We need a fat chick division, but fat chicks don't like being compared to horses...wait, what's that Greek statue of the fat goddess? Athena, y'all! We'll call them fat chicks Athenas!"
There she is. Sexy. I think she has a mustache.
I imagine dudes are down with "Clydesdale" because of their association with pulling a beer wagon, and big old horse cocks, of course.
Holy shit. I Googled "Clydesdale penis" and this image appeared.
It is Chuck Norris with a stuffed fuckin' Clydesdale head.
In a little less than two months, fantastic husband and I will be off to Scotland to hike the West Highland Way. 96 miles in a week. We've been hiking near the house to break in our boots and try out socks and pants and other gear. I'm very excited about this trip. The chances of us becoming hopelessly lost are slim, and we will likely come back still married. We travel pretty well together, always have. That's fortunate. Of course, most of our travel consists of me saying "I WANT TO DO THE THING, LET'S DO THE THING!" and him nodding vaguely...then me bouncebouncebouncing until I can't stand it anymore and announcing "I HAVE ARRANGED THE THING! GIRD YOUR LOINS!". He then gives a heavy sigh and starts buying gear.
OMG THE HAIRY COOS.
He's a good sport, fantastic husband is. Sometimes he comes up with shit all on his own. Like this. OPEN WATER DIVING, MOTHERFUCKERS! We're gonna learn to dive! And then I will likely plan a vacation to Saba and announce "I ARRANGED THE THING!"
If I make it to 40, it'll be a goddamn miracle.
So, to sum up, here's all the ways I might go less than gently into that good night in 2017:
1. Crushed under a bench press
2. Neck snapped by Atlas stone
3. Drowning and/or the bends
4. Heart failure while running
5. Falling off the side of a munro/whisky poisoning
6. Crushed under a scrum
7. All the generally stupid things I do on the regular
The only non-lethal activity I engage in is knitting.
Speaking of things that make me wish for death (was that a smooth segue or what)...clothes shopping. Fuck all clothing brands and stores. There. I said it. Shopping is a horrible, stupid activity that makes me want to throw myself off a cliff.
Why do women love shopping? Why is it fun? Putting on ill fitting clothes in dressing rooms with shitty lighting so you can evaluate every line and wrinkle on your face and every lump, bump, and cellulite dimple on your body. I have hated shopping my whole life. The internet was the best damn thing that ever happened to me from a shopping standpoint. I can try on a brand once and then just order online forevah.
This works fine for workout clothes. Which is like 92% of my non-work wardrobe. Shit, it's 35% of my work wardrobe, too, thanks to swiftlies as underscrub wear. Not so fine for non-workout clothes. I don't wear non-workout clothes all that often, but when I do it's the same 3 things. So I use Front Door Fashion from time to time. It comes to my house and there's always things I never would have tried, but really like. This was super well timed today, since I was feeling the heavyweight of it all. I've never had something from FDF not fit me. Aside from the little fit issues I have with everything (condor arms, man, they're the worst), that is. Today's box had dresses, shorts, tops, and jewelry. Some of it was awesome.
Cutesy dress. A little short, but I liked it.
This one made me so happy. I felt like Athena in a good way,
not a "hey, you're fucking heavy" way.
This one surprised me. I was sure it wasn't going to fit.
Oh it fit. It was motherfucking magic.
Shorts and a tank. Basic.
Poncho. I doubt I'd wear it, but I don't hate it.
These shorts are like jammies.
There was other stuff, too, and I'll go through it all again tomorrow, but it was super cool to play dress up and feel good about it tonight.
It's night 1 of 7 at the moment, and the houses are full. Fingers crossed nothing weird goes down. I'll be hanging out listening to the Cold War Kids catalog and drinking coffee. If it settles down, I might pull out the colored pencils and drop into a little zen coloring action.
Are you familiar with Jenny Lawson? No?
Get familiar. You won't regret it.
So that's been my last few months in a nutshell. Exciting shit, yeah? My life is a goddamn roller-coaster ride.
Roller coasters. I'm totally going to Great America this summer. I don't care if I have to go by myself. I love coasters and it's been too long. I'm the asshole that laughs the whole ride...no screaming for me, just laughing until my face hurts. I live for danger. Carefully controlled danger with failsafes. Or a mouthguard. Whichever.
I'm going to have the best stories.
(Jenny Lawson "You Are Here")