Posts Tagged ‘Exercise Schmeckcercise’



Randomness ahead!


I got Bill the new Super Mario Bros for Wii last Father’s Day. It’s the one where multiple players can play the same board at the same time. This has not been good for our marriage, as we end up killing each other on accident more than helping the other out. Then I get mad that I was killed, even though it was (probably) an accident so I kill Bill’s mustachioed plumber on purpose. Only that really doesn’t solve anything because we are supposed to be working together to save the princess. We are not one of those couples that opperates well together when put in stressful situations. We are one of those couples that turn on each other by hurling turtle shells at one anothers’ faces.

Anyway, we’ve been stuck on playing  level 3-3 for probably 70 years now. It’s an ice world and true to life, when you walk on the ice you slip and may possibly fall down a bottomless crevice that first eats your soul and then sets you on fire while you just. keep. falling (I can only assume this is what happens after the wah-wah-wah YOU DIED music plays). After dying an inordinate amount of times, I made an executive decision to try to beat the board myself, for I was trying to save my marriage. It didn’t go as well as I had hoped and I died probably 76 more times and then you know what happened? It took pity on me! A little message box popped up and asked me if I wanted to see a demonstration of how the board should be played and then it sent Luigi in to do what I couldn’t. It felt weird at first but then I was all, Whatever Luigi, BETTER YOU THAN ME. Then it asked me if I would like to move on to the next board or try to play it myself and since I have no pride I was all, MOVE ON BITCHES!


I use the Nike+ iPod application and device while running, which I really, really like. After I obtain a new personal best I get a congratulatory message from Paula Radcliffe. But…who is Paula Radcliffe and why is she congratulating me for shit when I run? What kind of motivation is that? I would much prefer this message, “Hello. This is Javier Bardem and that mile you just ran was so sexy I’m considering leaving Penelope for you.” I don’t want some chic my fingers don’t even have the energy to google, giving me a marginally interested pat on the back with her haughty British accent, because people with accents really always make me feel inferior and I think my iPod must know this. It’s completely backhanded. “I’m complimenting you but I’m British so really what I’m saying is you fucking suck. But in a way that’s so dignified you’ll never be able to decipher it.” Now I try not to obtain personal bests because I don’t want Paula judging me.


This was the headline on the website for one of our local news stations:

“Craigslist killing suspect dead in Mass. suicide”

OK, really? I see that there is capitalization and a period after the “Mass.” so I know that they mean Massachusetts but COME ON. You didn’t have to abbreviate it like that, KARE 11. I know you did it on purpose so people who are maybe in a hurry or perhaps just a little slow would be all “Mass suicide? What? Where? How many people died?” Click click click. Or, “They hold mass for suicides now? I’m confused, I thought the catholic faith was decidedly not pro-suicide.” Click click click. For shame, news outlet for using mass suicide as a way to garner traffic on your stories.


Bill and I share laundry responsibilities, which typically goes something like this, Step 1.) Christy sorts laundry, puts first load in and promptly forgets about it. Step 2.) Bill does everything else. The best is when my swimsuits are in because the boob pads inevitably come out of their boob pad homes when being flung around in the drier. So the little thin sort of/but-sort-of-not triangular pads need to be placed back into their slots, by means of a very small slit on the inside of the swimsuit top; this job being only slightly easier than re-stringing a pair of sweatpants that have been filled with hyperactive mexican jumping beans. That is to say, I don’t like doing it so much that I intentionally let Bill handle the load my swimsuit comes out of. Scruples? I HAVE NONE. I see him struggling with the boobie pads, trying to stuff them in and smooth them out with his giant man fingers that are not at all conducive to this task and instead of helping I pretend to be really engrossed with something so he has to figure it out on his own. WHAT?! Don’t you understand that it’s really hard and I don’t like doing it and twittle doodie fukes splarg he’s still not done but I have to look busy type type type etc type buffalo pancakes.


The kids have been in a pretty big potty talk stage for, well, the whole summer. They think poopy head, pee-pee face and tootie-butt are the best words the English language has to offer. And while I appreciate this is a right of passage that every kid must go through and honestly I too think pee-pee face is pretty great, I can’t have them going around repeating these phrases once school starts. So when they start calling each other names I turn into a Very Responsible Parent that has Rules and Regulations and lay down the no potty talk and/or name calling rule, but Internet? They have found other ways to insult one another. It goes something like this:

R: {pointing to a picture on a box} I want this Littlest Petshop armadillo!

K: Dats not an armadillo.

R: Yes it is.

K: No it’s not! Not an armadillo!

R: Yes it is an armadillo!

K: No, it’s NOT an armadillo!




Etc etc etc etc and onandonandonandon for infinity times pi.

I know I have to step in here but I can’t exactly pinpoint what I should be yelling at them for.  Yes, they are arguing but arguing is not really something we altogether discourage in this house as long as they are being respectful of each others’ personal space. There was no potty talk and yes, they were technically name-calling but would Armadillo as a defamatory remark really hold up in a court of law? It’s all so confusing. Usually I just get so annoyed with their repetitive persistence and steadfast conviction that the other is in fact an armadillo that I just snap and say “GAH! NO ONE IS AN ARMADILLO!” when secretly inside I am saying “You are BOTH armadillos.”


Another headline:

“Mel Gibson ‘fine’ after car crash”

That sucks. I don’t even know why I read the news anymore. Nothing but depressing shit.


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Well, Internet, I am within 2 days of my goal of doing all 30 days of the Shred before we leave for vacation. This might be the very first time I’ve followed through and completed a workout goal which, can we all just take a minute to think about how very sad that statement is, coming from  a 29-year-old? Kinda sad? Pretty sad? Really fucking sad?  I’d think about it harder but my legs hurt too much and if you think you don’t need your legs to think then YOU just try to do the Level 3 jumping lunges. You will be quite surprised to find out you need your legs for everything and OH GOD HOW THEY HURT. When I eat, my legs hurt, when I breathe, my legs hurt and I think I fell asleep somewhere up there in the middle of that paragraph and my legs? Still hurt.

The funny part is even though my legs are clearly being put through the ringer, I don’t see much of a difference in them or their dumb cousin, my butt. After every workout I check myself out in the mirror and let Bill know that I think it’s workin—NOPE. Butt and thighs are still there and they are yelling at me to KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF. Then I swear at Jillian Micheals’ stupid face on the DVD cover.

On a positive note, my upper body has definitely benefited from the workout. I no longer cry like a tiny child when I have to do more than one push-up or open a jar of olives. My abs are way tighter than they were 5 and a half weeks ago, although they still have a ways to go.

The biggest praise I can give this workout regime is that it didn’t sprain my ankle like that jerkoff Running did. It also did the job of strengthening my core and I’m pleased to report that I started in last week with a running schedule. Bill has jumped on board and we’ve been trying to get out 3-4 times a week for a 5k, each of us pushing a stroller full of kid. Rowan has been going through a clingy stage and insisting that I push her, which fine, whatever…OR SO I THOUGHT.

Internet, she’s MEAN. She yells at me! When Bill pulls out ahead of me, she’s all “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Are you gonna let him just beat you like that? GO FASTER.”

I try to appeal to her 4 and a half-ed-ness and put it in simple terms that she will understand, “Daddy (huff) is like (hooo) 4 feet taller (huff) than mommy and so (hooo) his legs are (huff) longer which means that (hooo) he takes bigger strides (huff) than I do (HOOOO).” But she has no time for my excuses.

“He’s so far away now! He’s getting smaller and smaller and I can hardly even see him anymore, I have to squint my eyes and you need to move faster and catch up and BEAT HIM, COME ON!”

And she doesn’t stop until we’ve caught up with Bill and Keaton who have kindly stopped at the corner to wait for us, the look of disgust in her eyes very palpable. “I want daddy to push me next time.”


In my defense, Bill may not be 4 feet taller than me but he is at least 7, maybe 8 inches taller and I really feel like that should count in terms of how much ground each of us can cover and also Bill has chicken legs and chickens are notorious for their fast running gait, so a genetic factor clearly plays a role. I don’t have chicken DNA so how can I even compete? Plus he’s pushing Keaton who weighs like 2 and three quarter pounds LESS than Rowan so I am clearly going to be slower pushing a 30 pound child vs Bill who has only got a 27.25 pound child- that’s MATH right there, and we all know I can’t do math to save my life, so how does anyone expect me to outrun ANYONE under these conditions?

Impossible, I tell you.

To punish her for berating my running abilities, we made her do incline push-ups. Everyone please to be noting she is doing them the girly way, on her knees. Now there is just no excuse for that.

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