Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Take the Stairs

Since I got back from the cruise, I've really been focused on working out and not eating everything around me just because it's there. A cruise is the greatest catalyst for this epiphany, or for getting one into the place where she needs this epiphany.
Some days I just don't have time to go to the gym or it's just too bloody hot to run outside. (Apparently I think I'm from London. Although, if I was from London, it wouldn't be too bloody hot to run) Today, I work from 7-5 and then have a 20-30 club meeting until around 11 pm. Yes, you read that correctly. If I was more insane, I would have worked-out before work, or when I get home at 11.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I'm only slightly insane.

 A perk of my job is that little kids take naps. Another perk is that little kids take naps in their houses, sometimes with stairs. So, on some days where I know I can't fit in gym time or a run, I take advantage of the 16 carpet covered stairs that bridge the first floor play zone/war zone to the nap/amazingly quiet zone.
If you're interested, and you have a set of stairs you can borrow, check it out.
 Sometimes I just don't have the energy to work out, and am grateful to cut this work out in half, which seems pathetic, but you know how that goes. The ability to burn calories for an hour one day, and barely get through 10 minutes the next, is one of  life's greatest mysteries.

Another great mystery? Why I have songs like "Slow Motion" by Juvenile, on my itunes. Yet, I do, and I listened to it today when I did this work-out.

Last note, I do not use a watch timer for these intervals because I didn't have one on me: I just picked songs whose times matched up/skipped the song to the appropriate time so I knew when to stop. That also provides a quick little break between intervals, woo hoo!

Stop staring at the Stairs: A work-out

Put on some good cardio shoes.

1. 4 minutes: Walk up and down stairs, moving arms back and forth. You should be tired, but no out of breath that you can't talk

2. 1 minute: Run up and down the stairs as fast as you can

3. 2 minutes: Walk briskly up and down the stairs while holding 3-5 free weights at a 90 degree angle above you. Each time you go up, raise one arm, return to starting position, then raise the other. Hold free weights at that starting position as you walk down.

4. 1 minute: Run up and down the stairs, skipping a step while you run up. You should be more out of breath here. To the point where it's hard to get the words "shit", "f this", and "kill me now"

5. Repeat steps 2-4 three or four more times, depending on how much you wanna puke.

6. 4 minutes: walk up and down the stairs- this is your cool down!

7. Drink some water, take a shower



P.S. I am not a trainer and this work-out was not designed by one. My belief is, if you sweat, your muscles burn and you're endorphines are happy, you must be doing something right. Unlike P90X, this work-out does not promise to make you look like Victoria Beckham.




Friday, July 20, 2012

Ballerinas and Kardashians

I have a confession to make.
I've never wanted to be a ballerina. But the bun, oh the bun.

I have another confession to make.
I don't want to be Kim Kardashian.


I don't need her ass (who really needs a body part that needs a separate seat on an airplane?) I definitely don't want any of her husbands, and I could go through my whole life without soliciting enough haters to end up with a pound of flour thrown at me.

But the bun, oh the bun!
 
The girl has style, which probably has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the people who are forced to work on her all the time.
Nevertheless, I pathetically researched "Kim Kardashian high bun"/ "Kim Kardashian chic bun" "Kim Kardashian DIY bun" "Kim Kardashian bun in the oven".
After watching a couple youtube videos, I found one that made the look super easy. Now I do it all the time and people on facebook seem to think I have magic hair.

Watch the vid, and read my tips below:
You really need to have...
1. long hair/extensions
2. A soft bristle hair brush
3. Hair spray/flyaway spray
4. BOBBYPINS!!!!
5. A hair tie
6. an old sock (a clean ome)

That last one may seem weird, but that's how you get the look, once you put your hair in a high ponytail, take an old sock, cut out the toe area, and roll it into it self, and place the new invention on your hair tie. That's when take your hair and bobby pin it around the socky thing. This is all explained way better in the video, but it really works. That sock do-dad really gives your bun the volume that you in no way get when you just wrap your hair around itself, curse repeatedly because your arms are tired, and end up hating every celebrity who can do a bun, thinking that they must have the world's thickest hair (they don't).
They just have fab stylists with tricks up their sleeves, and now you do, too!

It takes a little practice and sometimes it comes out better or worse and then I get frustrated and the bf says something like, "your hair always looks great" and I say "ugggh" and try again and remind myself that there are more important things in life than looking like a Kardashian.


Friday, July 13, 2012

Nooks and Crannies

For the past year I've lived in a tiny house, with no backyard or dishwasher, a good air conditioner and an even better location. I'm down the street from downtown, a Redbox, farmer's market, local coffee shop and most importantly, the library. The last fact I didn't realize until a few weeks ago, but I've taken advantage of the situation ever since. I forgot how much fun it is to borrow a book and not care if it's less than enjoyable because I didn't pay for it.
The library is small, but I've happened upon some awesome reads. One of which, a book of poetry, that randomly caught my eye, while I was searching for the fiction section (I blinked and accidentally walked past it). The book, How to be Perfect, reminded me of how fun poetry can be: I haven't read any since my Modern Poetry class in college.
ENG 400-something consisted of about 20 students and one liberal Jewish, jeans and blazer wearing professor- he just happened to have a red headed daughter named Allison. I'm not sure if that scored me extra points, but he certainly mentioned it a time or two. Not only did we read poetry, but we wrote it. Every week we would bring in our newly crafted poem, pass out copies to our eager classmates and sit around and talk about the writing of our peers. I'm sure I would be embarrassed if I re-read those poems, I feel there would be an intense air of naivety, especially compared to my classmates who wrote about sex, love, alcohol, disgust, oppression- most of which I had never experienced.
The class was hard, but the good kind of hard. The kind that made me want to try harder, even when I had no idea what I was trying to do. The professor was passionate about all things; poetry, education, family, writing, and everything in between. He is the kind of person that gets fired about things that no one else even notices: I remember he once spent 20 minutes describing how crazy it is that college is about freedom and choice yet we put so much stress on tests, grades and class times. (What an outrage!)
I fell in love with poetry and some time after the class was over, I forget I loved it. I continued my lifetime affair with novels, and poetry became the one night stand I rarely thought about. But standing there in the library last weekend, I picked up Padgett's book and it filled me with memories of how intricate and complicated and fun poetry is.
One poem in particularly rekindled the fire and so, I share it with you. Enjoy the genre of writing that allows us to take two minutes out of our day (no more needed) to think, question, and best of all, laugh.

Mortal Combat

You can't tell yourself not to think
of the English muffin because that's what
you just did, and now the idea
of the English muffin has moved
to your salivary glands and caused
a ruckus. But I am more powerful
than you, salivary glands, stronger
than you, idea, and able to leap
over you, thoughts that keep coming
like an invading army trying to pull
me away from who I am. I am
a squinty old fool stooped over
his keyboard having an anxiety attack
over an English muffin! And
that's the way I like it. 

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Hook, Line and Father

On Tuesdays and Thursdays the nanny boy goes to pre-school, giving me a few hours with just nanny baby, and to some extend, a reprieve: the baby is guaranteed to sleep for at least an hour and I relish that time, watching some pathetic excuse for a tv show, reading or catching up on emails. After Beanie Bear wakes up, I take him on a walk (my life really is this predictable): I've secured a good route with some minor hills, a decent amount of shade and lots of real nature- not the manufactured trees and 1/4 inch grass that is mandatory when living in the suburbs.
Last week, we took our regular route: past the duck pond, along the bike trail, the major road to our right, constantly competing for top billing of loudness over the thoughts in my head.
As we made our way back, I briefly noticed a few people hanging around the duck pond. My noticing didn't go beyond that, as I was in a rush to pick up Sam from school and my Ginger features were melting in the sun. But before I knew it, I was taken away from my own thoughts as one of the people in the group hollered for me to come over. By holler I mean "Excuse me, can you please help me over here?!" in a voice that indicated someone had a gun to his head or was being savagely attacked by the duck family nearby. Well, neither of these scenarios were reality, but reality was still pretty painful.
I wasn't sure what I was getting myself into when I walked over, was this some elaborate ruse to steal a wallet I didn't have on me, or run off with Ben as I tended to the fake victim? Apparently i have no faith in humans.
As I got closer, I saw that three boys were crying and the dad was sweating so hard I thought he might have actually just got out of the pond. What I witnessed next is probably the most odd picture I've ever seen. The dad explained that his son had cast the fishing line before he instructed him to and the hook wound up in the side of his neck. I know little about fishing. Actually, I know that a person fishing is called an angler and I only know that because of an episode of GIlmore Girls. In any case, I definitely know that a hook belongs in a tackle box, a fish, and that's about it.
I have no idea what kind of pain the guy was in, but the 90 degree weather, his three crying children and a stranger with no medical knowledge whatsoever, had to send him over the edge.
I decided that trying to take the hook out of the guy's neck was probably the worst idea, closely followed by me running away from the situation.
Neither the fish hook guy or I had a cell phone on us. I need to tangent here for a sec: I HATE carrying my cellphone. I really should not be alive in the cell phone era. I don't like it disturbing me while I'm trying to do something nature-y. I hate worrying about how low the battery is, and I put off charging it as long as possible, I only check my voicemail when I have about 5 blinking on my dinosaur phone and someone says, "does that say you have FIVE new voicemails?!" and when I receive more than one text message at a time, I get super stressed out about answering them- I need 21st century therapy. The bf always tried to convince me to bring my cell phone places, "what if someone has an emergency?" "They won't," I say. "What if your family needs you?" he asks and I answer, "they have your number." He will not be seen without having his phone because, "you never know". So, imagine for a second, the look on his face when I come and tell him I had to help a guy with a fish hook in his neck and neither of us had a cell phone: he was wearing pure "I told you so" face.
So without a cell phone, the guy, who by this point is sweating so hard, I think the lubrication might wiggle the hook right out of him, sends his oldest kid on his bike and back to their house to get his wife.
Talk about a long ten minutes. Bless Beanie Bear's little heart because he sat in that stroller not making a peep, while the guys younger boys were still crying. Tensions were running high, and the skin around the fish hook was swelling. It looked like a marshmallow pierced by a campfire skewer. I could not see where the hook was because of the fluffy skin that had now gone from pink to white. The kids were screaming apologies at their dad and the dad was in so much pain, he was shouting, politely- there was a stranger around, after all!- at his son for having put them in this mess.
The counselor in me knew I had to help in some way, so I looked at the sons and told them that it was okay to be scared, but that their dad would be fine. I'm not sure it calmed the kids down, but it definitely put the dad in his sons Spiderman shoes for a second. He gathered himself and told his son that he was going to be okay and accidents happen.
The mom came a few minutes later and although she thought she should pull the hook out of her husband's neck (for better or worse, I guess) we convinced her to drive him to the ER.
I have no idea how they ended up, but I imagine that hook is in a medical trash can somewhere and that the family's fishing poles are slowly collecting dust in a nearby garage.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Don't trip, Chocolate chip.

Here I am starting a new e-venture. We'll see how long it sticks.
I am under no misconception that I am the kind of person who sticks with regimens. I do not run every day, 365 days a year, I often forget to take my daily vitamin, and I have yet to create a blog I can stick with.
Maybe that's okay.
As a kid, I received a journal/diary nearly every birthday or Christmas. First of all, thank goodness I've moved past the age where distant aunts and family friends think that a 12 year old needs a new journal every year. I'd rather take the other typical pre-teen gift: Bath and Body Works lotion. At least I could actually put that to good use!
When I would receive a journal, there was a part of me that tried to be really thankful- my mama taught me well. Plus, I am a decent actress and an excellent liar (probably shouldn't brag about that), so I had no problem convincing the gift giver, and myself, that I could not wait to open the leather book, adorned with sometime of inspirational saying (I'm sure it always said something about stars) and scribble away on the gold lined pages. Ah, how many goals I would make in that first entry! I mustered the same amount of enthusiasm one does on the first day of school. But in due time, I would slip writing, stop studying for tests, and promise to return to it tomorrow and then feel guilty when I didn't and give up all together.
This pattern continued, even when I started blogging. I guess I am consistent. Consistently inconsistent must account for something. But, I still feel guilty about it. The same guilt you get when you skip a work-out you promised yourself you'd do, or the thank-you card you were going to write. And then I convince myself I'm the worst person in the world for not sticking with something. I can hear them upgrading me to a luxury suite in Hell. My mind works in mysterious ways. And even though I get tired of whatever journal or blog I've created, I eventually want to try again. It's like returning to spinach salad after you need a break of those deliciously evil french fries.
So, this time around I'm creating a new mindset. Reframing the situation, as we say in counseling. Yes, it's cost me $20,000 to make me feel better about not blogging. Next I'll get a degree in finance so I can learn to not spend money.
Maybe this will be the only piece of writing I ever have on this blog. Maybe I won't come back here for another three weeks...so what?!
Perhaps I'm busy doing really awesome things. Like training for a marathon, taking singing lessons, saving all the children of Africa, writing a novel, planning a trip to Southeast Asia.
Ok, maybe not those things, but I can guarantee I will be running, savoring the smiles of the 7 month old I take care of, baking muffins, cuddling with my man, going to see best friends in Boise, reading a good book and watching Fashion Police (my addiction cannot be stopped). You can also I assume I'll be pissing around on facebook somewhere in there, too.
I will stop feeling guilty for not sticking to some crazy regimen I created, simply because I am living life.
I just finished a book called Drop Dead Healthy (I will blog about that soon, maybe?) and the writer spent 2 years trying to become the healthiest person alive. Of all the crazy steps he took to do so, one of the biggest lessons was learning to avoid the unhealthy level of stress humans seem to be so fond of. This is a lesson I took away from the book, too. (That, and the raw food diet can make you delusional) Don't punish yourself for living, people. This is the only life you've got.

But, don't take my word for it. I'm just a ginger, and as the saying goes, Gingers don't have Souls.