Fitness Tip

1 Mar

A few months ago I had to stop running.  I know, right?  I love running.  I love the pain, the grit, the challenge.  It. is. AWESOME.

But sometimes we humans become aware of our frailties and find ourselves unable to continue an activity we enjoy.*  The result?


When I finally got back into the gym, I discovered something amazing.  Sure, my leg strength was about that of a baby duck’s, but my arms were amazing.  I actually had to up my weights.

How in the world does one stay out of the gym for three months and end up with Herculean upper body strength?

I left out a small detail.

I got a dog.  I got a mastiff.  And he does not walk nicely on a leash.

He is a 90 pound shake weight on a  rope.

So if you find yourself to be a weakling, go adopt an adult mastiff.  He will force you to get stronger or die.**

* I have since recovered from my leg problem and am nearly back up to speed.

** I really do not advocate adopting a giant breed dog solely for building upper body strength.  It’s just a fun benefit of owning a mini-cerberus.


A Word or Two on Your Upcoming Court Date

26 Feb

If you ever should find yourself in a situation that requires a trial I have one very valuable peice3 of advice for you: Your court date is not the day to wear your head to toe St Louis Cardinals outfit*.  It is highly encouraged that you wear a suit or perhaps just a nice shirt and tie.  You should also instruct your lawyer that while you approve of his snazzy dress in a normal every day setting, you would appreciate it if he would leave his pimp hat at home for your trial.

I f you are a female, today is not the day to show the world your LBT** or your trampstamp.  Instead, it would be adviseable for you to wear something a little on the conservative side. (Think turtleneck and pants)

I am sure that many of you are wondering how you will express yourself or make a statement about your individuality with the above guidelines.  The answer?  Let your lawyer make your statements.***

* Or really any type of sports gear.

** LBT is a lovely abbreviation for “left boob tattoo”

***Unless, of course, your lawyer is wearing a pimp hat.  Then, you should get a new lawyer.


12 Sep

* I have been trying to write this post for a while, but my inability to figure out certain aspects of WordPress has kind of frustrated me to the point of stomping away from the computer claiming that “I don’t have time , anyways”. .. Which is actually very very true)*

I love entertaining.  I love pulling off a meal that’s more of a production than simple sustenance.  I love making way too much food.

I have never gotten over the fact that 20 and 30 somethings cannot eat as much as a 16-year-old boy.  I always assume that everyone is going to eat a minimum of 10% of their body weight in whatever I make.

I am sure that there is some very strict, very specific etiquette law regarding how much food one should make for an event. I am sure that I should never encourage people to over eat.  I am sure that I should go to great lengths to make a precisely appropriate and sane amount of food per person.  But. . . Sometime sI wonder whether it is simply my own animal nature or if perhaps I was some sort of starving nomad in a past life, because to me, if there’s not way too much food, then it’s not a party.  Think about it!  What does it do to your psyche to see a table laden with all sorts of amazing food?  It makes you so happy!  There is just something deeply appealing about being around more food than you could ever eat.  It doesn’t mean that you will try to eat all of it, but it brings a feeling of safety to everyone involved. . .That and, aren’t you more prone to say “Let’s go over to Katie’s house.  She always has so much food!” Versus “Let’s go to Katie’s house.  We will all starve.”

So in closing my tip for the day is this: Always make more food than you think you need when entertaining.  It makes people happy and then there’s never any worry over unexpected guests.

** The two pictures featured in my post were both for parties I threw.  I cooked for about 40 people.  And had under 15 attend.

Gym-ish Things Part 2

25 Aug

It was a day like any other.  I went to the gym.  I started my typical Interval Run of Doom.  I realize that some of you aren’t familiar with interval running, so let me explain.  Interval running is a very mean thing to do when your body complains too much.  It is an excellent way to build endurance, improve heart health, and as a bonus, it will scare any cellulite into smoothness.  Really.  My fat cells shrink with fear post run.  While it is an extremely challenging work out, it keeps your brain interested and you always have the ‘carrot’ of a one minute interval of walking post sprint.  I typically warm up with a thirteen minute run at a moderate pace and then I do intervals of three minute run, one minute sprint, and a one minute walk for about an hour.  It’s not something you should do every day, but it sure does mix up your work outs nicely.

Anyways. . . So it was interval day and things were going beautifully.  Ipee the Ipod may or may not have been playing “My Humps” and the world was a happy place.  My sprints were on fire, my legs were taking it like a champ, my breathing technique was great and my insanely heavy hair was even staying in place.  And then, something weird happened.  A lady got onto the treadmill next to me and began to slowly trudge away. . . while talking on her cell phone. Her conversation really didn’t bother me, really, I don’t care, it was odd but none of my business.  I went on my merry way walking, running, and sprinting.  When all of a sudden, she gave me a withering look, turned off her cell phone and stomped away.  Um. ..   Ok, I realize that a sprint is technically loud, but lady, you are NOT in your living room.  You are in a  gym.

Perhaps I am old fashioned, but is it too much to request that we not insist upon talking on our cell phones at every single moment?  There is no way that I will ever think that her anger towards my workout was justified.

The Fate of The Modern American Woman

16 Aug

Once upon a time, a woman named Eve made a mistake. A huge Mistake. It changed the course of humanity forever. She talked to a snake and disobeyed God. The punishment? Mortality, pain during childbirth, banishment from paradise, etc. But what the Bible does not say is what I believe is an unspoken part of The Curse:
“Also, you will have menstrual cramps and be obligated to attend baby showers until you die.”
I understand that some people find sitting around with a group of women looking at items that are soon to be puked and defecated upon to be a most pleasant way to spend one’s afternoon. Those people are crazy.
I just don’t understand why the North American Baby Shower has to be so weird. The worst part? Men don’t have to go.  Men go eat steak.  Men go watch movies.  Men go fire guns and shoot bows and arrows.  Men get to play video games.   While women. . . sit primly nibbling a  jello jiggler shaped like a foot while listening to everyone’s grossest blow out diaper story or most horrifying labor experience. Does anyone really want to go to a shower? No! Do they want to give a gift? Yes! So here is my proposal to all pregnant ladies everywhere: REBEL. We are celebrating the baby’s birth day, right? Ok, so lets have a birthday party. Invite spouses. Play normal games. Have a cook out. Buy some balloons. Listen to grown up music because it’s your last chance for that type of thing.
So what do you say ladies? Can we reform the standard baby shower from the fruit of my nightmares into something fun? Who’s with me?
* Aside: This post was inspired by baby showers in general and not any shower in particular. This means that if you are a friend or family member, you ought not be offended as I probably did have at least an inkling of enjoyment at your shower especially if I helped throw it.

Gym-ish Things Part 1

12 Aug

Life is insane right now. There is no balance at all. It has simply been rushing by full of busy-ness and crazy since I got back from the Mountains of my homeland (WV). I am hoping to make a return to consistency with my writing after this Sunday. I will also have to make a return to “The Violin Cave of Solitude” as well, but that is a completely different story.
Tonight’s blog is rather cliche. I think everyone has read a monstrous amount of garbage regarding gym etiquette. It truly is a subject that has been beaten to death.
I solemnly swear to you that I attend the world’s most hilarious gym.
Really. There are so many bizarre situations and people there that I should be rolling in topics for years to come.
Today, let’s examine a particularly fascinating species, the pitchy walking songbird of the midwest.
It’s 7:30 in the morning and I have managed to drag my sorry little behind to the gym. Stand on treadmill, insert key, wait for it to start. The familiar and -oh-so-catchy beat of The Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” begins. I am focused. I am determined. Let’s get “Katie’s Crazy Death March of Doom and Calamity out of the way. But then something odd happens. Over my Ipod and the rythmic thud of my yuppie issue Asics comes a strange sound. I check my arm band. Is something wrong? No, my Ipod is fine. Am I going deaf? I knew I should have worn my earplugs more faithfully. No… .The person next to me is slowly loping along SINGING. Runs of arpeggios without one discernible pitch, loud, grating, painful. How in the world does my crazy ear pick out off-key when my ear buds are playing something else? Suddenly my determination is failing, it’s hard to keep a beat when all I can think is “Flat, flat, sharp, flat, um, that’s a quarter tone. . .ow ow ow OWWW!”*
I turn up my Ipod and try to drown it all out, but I am left with one thought:
If you can sing and run at the same time, then you are doing one or both activities incorrectly.
* I feel the need to explain. After years and years of training myself to play a particularly difficult instrument, I have developed my hearing to the point that anything that is even slightly out of tune really does cause me physical pain. It sounds so snooty, but it’s the truth.

Work Appropriate #1

5 Aug

Tappity tappity ping! Tappity tappity ping! Tappity Ring ring!
“Guy Gumshoe, Private Eye. . .  Hello Mrs Finklebottom. . .*Tappity* No, we haven’t found him yet. . .*tap*.. .Yes we’re working on it. . .*yelling. . Slam!*. . . Good grief. .. ”
I continued to type. . .Tappity. .. Tappity. . The door creaked open and-  Slam! Guy Gumshoe strode into the office with purpose, with determination, with panache with-
“Ms Friday I need you to get me Sammy the Snitch on the phone immediately and then I need you to-”
“Sir, I can’t. Sammy the Snitch-”
“Of course you can. Wait a minute, who are you? What have you done with your hair?”
“Sammy the Snitch got whacked by Moe the Mobster last Wednesday. I just got my hair done. It’s supposed to look like Veronica Lake, I hear it’s the latest thing, do you like it?”
“No. I don’t like it and I don’t like change. Ring Flo-”
“Florence the Floozy has been sleeping with the fishes since she crossed Speak Easy Pete 2 months ago.”
“Hmm. .. Well call someone and get the low down on the Finklesteen boy and get it fast.”
And just as quickly as he had come, Guy Gumshoe disappeared into his office. I turned open my address book and began searching for someone, anyone who might know the whereabouts of Freddy Finklesteen. He had been missing for 3 months and our investigation had revealed a bit of a seedy past. Guy’s door opened slowly.
“And Ms Friday, will you get me something to drink?”
“I thought we were abiding by prohibition now.”
“Only on Tuesdays”
“It is Tuesday.”
“Only on last Tuesday”
“Just a minute.”
I opened my desk drawer and brought out our contraband bottle of scotch when something terrible happened.
The door opened and in rushed what could best be described as a giant lime green swamp monster with a bad hair day. Tentacles and assorted pond scum waved in a threatening manner. I dropped the scotch and screamed.
“Katie are you ok? Oh my-”
With an ominous wail, the swamp creature fell to the floor. Cautiously, Guy and I approached the deceased monster only to find. . .
“Holy cats! That’s my assistant, Ms. Tacky!” I cried.
We had a bit of trouble explaining ourselves to the fuzz, but upon examination they agreed that Ms. Tacky’s death was purely accidental. Given the strange costume she had on, it was a mistake that anyone could have made, they said.
Turns out she was really just going for one of those new fangled, Bohemian looks. She was dressed from head to toe in flowy ruffly crepe-y fabric. Her fatal mistake was the color choice of lime green.
And that is why, dear friends, you should always wear sane and professional attire at work.