Recording the little things

My not so little brother Tanner sent me a really sweet text the other day:

"Most kids my age get to say that their first album they ever owned was Britney Spears or Backstreet Boys. I get to say mine was Weezers Blue album. Thanks for being the cool sister and buying it for me on my tenth birthday."

And I thought to myself. Ohhh.

Only there's a small problem.

If you had asked me yesterday, I would have said that I gave that cd to Travis for his birthday.

I hate realizing that my memory is getting fuzzy. Maybe I should stop filling it with useless knowledge and music lyrics.

Or

I could keep a better journal.
I've been been keeping an online journal since 2005. And I've done a really good job of documenting major events, emotions and rants. I have not done a good job of documenting the day to day life. The little things. If I had perhaps there would have been an entry like this:

"Tanner's 10th birthday today. All he does is play basketball and listen to music. So I bought him Weezers Blue Album. I hope he one day appreciates the fact that his first cd isn't Britney Spears."

Then it wouldn't matter if my memory goes fuzzy. Cause it would all be saved. Recorded. For better or worse. So I'm going to try better to capture the little details. All the boring, little details.
Lucky you.

So yesterday's entry:
Woke up at eleven, poked The Boy till he woke up, tried to go sun worship but got tangled in the bedsheets for an hour, finally made it to the pool, worshipped for an hour, went to the gym and tried to convince myself I like to run. Finished running and cursing the gods, then shower, food, errands, finally finishing painting the house, movie, drinks, more drinks and then sleep.

It may not be my most exciting day, but it was MY day. A relaxing day that will probably fade from memory but leave a warm fuzzy spot in my fuzzy memory.

Memories of Ireland

In honor of today I am dredging up pictures from days of old.

So old that I still have looong hair.

I miss this place. And these people.
Someday I'll go back.

But only after I've seen the rest of the world first.

Happy St.Patrick's day!

Lesson from the Boxing Ring

UFC GYM part 2


I was given a compliment at my kickboxing class today that I'm not sure I wanted. We start the class by doing jump rope for 15 minutes, then a 10 minute stretch, then 10 minutes of abs. After that the real class begins. So the other day after we do the warm up the instructor/teacher/coach/guy who scares the shit out of me walked up to me and asked what other sports I did. I responded by sheepishly admitting that I used to dance but it's been a while. He looked confused for a moment at the idea that a dancer was trying to learn how to fight, then shook off the confusion and told me that I looked great, that he could see muscle on me from across the room.

This made me smile for all of about 2 minutes before I started a mini freakout in my brain. See, girls want to be toned. We do not want to be muscular. We want to look like this:

Not this:

So when the instructor/teacher/coach/guy who scares the shit out of me said he could see muscle on me... well it wasn't quite the complement I wanted. The Boy reassures me that I do not look like a body builder but I am now motivated to do cardio until my heart stops.

But putting my insecurities aside....

There are seven girls in the class I attend. There's also about twenty boys, but today (for once) I'm not going to focus on those hot muscular bodies that raise my temperature and imagination. Well, mostly not focus.

ahem.

Seven girls. I've given them all nicknames that will help my readers understand these unique women that have decided to learn how to fight.

Lets start with the Viking Queen. The Viking Queen is blond, tan, 5'8, wears men's boxing gloves and is built like a ship. The women has more muscle then ligaments to be attached too. I've never seen her smile but there's a look of satisfaction in her eyes when her gloves make impact.
The Viking Queen scares me a little bit.

Then there is the Diva. The diva is Latin, 5'8, curvy as a winding road, and wears a push up bra under her sports bra. She also wears sparkly gloves. I suspect she bought them at a stripper store with the rest of her workout outfit. She prances around and is very talented at batting her eyes.
I would like to box the Diva's ears.

The Professional also scares me. She's been attending classes since she left the womb and winning championships a month after that. She's 5'5, thin and lean and has all the anger of the minority class bottled up. Her form is flawless, a thing of beauty. I could watch her fight all day.
I do not want to box The Professional.

Then there is The School Marm. The only way I can describe her is beige. She's super thin, white skin and beige hair. She would look better in a 18th century school house then in boxing gloves. But she shows up day after day. You're eyes would slide right past her except she wears bright green gloves that demand attention. Her form is sloppy and her punches don't hurt yet you can't help but want to pretend they hurt just to see her smile.
I'm glad the School Marm keeps coming back.

A girl I like to call The Mother has only recently started to show up. She started with her husband, and the two of them are both... soft. She has soft blond hair, soft features and a big soft belly. She doesn't have any kids but she's perfect for a welch's juice commercial. I suspect she doesn't really care for fighting but keeps coming back because her husband loves it.
I like to imagine The Mother bringing us all juice boxes after a fight.

Liliʻuokalani (If you don't get the reference Liliʻuokalani was the last queen of Hawaii) has supposedly been fighting for quite a while. She's Hawaiian, close to my size and looks built to fight, but the one day I sparred with her she not only had terrible form but complained about the force of my jabs. The jabs that I was throwing at 50% strength. Like, really whined about it. I hate whiners. Then she proceeded to throw all of her jabs to the left of me, like she was afraid I would get hurt if she actually hit me.
I am not a fan of Liliʻuokalani .

And lastly there is the Princess. The Princess is my height, all of 5'3. She wears spandex shorts and recently installed hair extensions. Her make up is perfect at the beginning of each class and slightly smeared under the eyes by the end of class. I'm not sure how she does it but she manages to shake her ass while she jumps rope. In the spandex, you can't miss it. She also wears pink gloves.
This post is actually about The Princess.


On this particular day The Princess and I were the only girls in attendance. The instructor/teacher/coach/guy who scares the shit out of me paired us up even though she's more advanced. The drill today was a combination of jabs, elbows and knees. I started with the drill and The Princess was on blocking duty. I had barely begun when the instructor/teacher/coach/guy who scares the shit out of me stops me and says "hit her harder. She'll sure as shit hit you harder then that". The Princess only grinned at this. So I started to jab for real. And do my knee kicks for real. Now, granted we do have pads but The Princess just smiled at every elbow I threw and managed to say really encouraging things without sounding condescending. By the end of the round I was exhausted and exhilarated. Sparring with her was kinda fun!

Then it was my turn to hold the pads and block while she went threw the drill. My only word of warning was "I really like knees, so tell me if it's too hard".

And then The princess and her little pink boxing gloves proceeded to kick my ass.

I could distantly hear the instructor/teacher/coach/guy who scares the shit out of me laugh in the background.

By the end of class I had learned my lesson.
Don't judge a boxer by her pink gloves.

Hmm, not under the bed, not in the closet.. Where did I put it?

I need motivation.

I think I accidently threw it out a few weeks ago, cause I can't find it anywhere in my apartment.

Oops

So now I have to find new motivation. And motivation is something you can't just go out and buy. Although if someone figured out how to package motivation they'd make a killing.

So I'm looking for motivation to exercise. I love my UFC gym but the way the classes are set up I can only attend 3 days a week in the middle of the day. Which makes is hard to attend. 3 days a week I work 12 hour days, which makes it extremely hard to work out those days.

It doesn't help that I'm lazy.

Last year I was training for a triathlon with the lovely Racheal. I didn't enjoy the training but I enjoyed to company. And I think that's what I need now, company. But I seriously doubt that I'm going to find someone with a similer work schedule as me.

Why is it so hard to exercise? It's good for you. It makes sleeping easy. Erases stress. Makes you look fabulous...
So why do we hate it so?

I read other peoples blogs. I see their status updates. Wanting to be more fit is a really common theme. So why do we all complain about it but so rarely do anything about it?

Shouldn't the above reasons be enough motivation?

Hell, shouldn't bikini season be enough motivation?

Someone was listening to my prayers

My brother has been in Concepcion Chile for the last two years. This morning we watched the news as information about the earthquake unfolded. We found out Travis was unaccounted for. We made phone calls every 1/2 hour. Each half hour longer than the next. At 2:20pm we got a call from a stranger who let Travis use his cell phone so he could reassure us he is safe. I fell to my knees and talked to God for the first time in three years. Thank you God.

The Waiting Game

I find myself walking on a fence Thanks to this wonderful economy, there is a possibility that I may be laid off. I should know by the 14th of March. Either way I'm planning on drinking lots and lots on St.Patrick's Day, whether it's in celebration or despair. What's worse then being laid off? Not knowing if you will be laid off. I can't make plans. How can I buy a plane ticket to visit my favorite people in D.C. when I don't know if I'll still be in Arizona in a month? How can I plan which concerts I want to see when I don't know if I should be saving every extra dollar? (who am I kidding, I don't know how to save). I can't buy things. I really want a new vehicle. Miss Havisham has a new perfume which smells suspiciously like burning. So a new set of wheels it is. I'm torn between a pretty motorcycle and a pretty jeep. Seriously. I've wanted a motorcycle for so long but I everywhere I look I see jeeps. And I believe in signs. And jeeps. But I don't dare spend the money because WHAT IF I GET LAID OFF! I just need to know. I'm good on my feet, if I lose my job I will find a way to deal. I'm good at dealing. And if I'm going to keep my job (please oh please) then I can move on with my life. But this waiting.... well it's worse then dieting. I would rather give up chocolate then keep waiting. Wait. Do you think the gods would accept me giving up chocolate as a sacrifice? Cause I'll totally burn chocolate on an alter while dancing and chanting in an bastardized version of latin. So here I am, balancing on this fence, unsure which way I'm going to land. Or fall. How did I get on this fence? I want down!

Grumble Grumble Grumble

I'm slightly sick.
Not really sick. No sniffling, no coughing, no daggers in the throat. Just a slight fever, slight sore throat and a very difficult time focusing. On anything.

It's the kind of sick that may be gone in the morning. Or will mostly be worse come morning.

It's also the kind of sick that usually means I mope around the house, incapable of doing anything other then moping. And finding things that annoy me.
For instance. I'm annoyed at the fly that is treating my bathroom like a bachelor pad. For some reason I was under the impression that fly's only lived 24 hours, so I did not bother to go buy a fly swatter when I first noticed said fly. Now it's day three and the damn thing is as perky as ever.
I'm also mildly annoyed at The Boy. The over head light in my kitchen has gone out. Fixing lights is clearly The Boy's job. And when I realized I actually thought that the tiny little bit of feminist in me hung herself. Seriously, where did that thought process come from? I do everything myself and suddenly there is a boy around and all I'm capable of is lounging on the couch and eating chocolates? Then I look around me, realizing I am lounging on the couch eating chocolates.

Dove chocolate to be exact. Yum yum.

But I had to. I needed something to wash down the icky medicine.
icky
icky
medicine.

You know what also helps when I'm sick? Andrea Bocelli. I don't know what he's singing, but I'm sure it's a lullaby mixed with healing magic.

I have to be better by Saturday. Saturday is the Renaissance Festival. And I have a pretty dress to wear.
I'm never growing up.