Workin' on my fitness ... take two

Most of my problem with working out has been finding the energy after working an 8-10 hour day to be motivated. When I get home, I would rather do almost anything than work out; that includes clean, cook, organize the receipts and loose change I find in my pants pockets and  domestic duties that I would also blow off if I had anything better to do. But I don't. That's why working out at home is harder than going to the gym. So, my new plan is to get a pre-work workout at the gym - which means waking up to get there before anyone else does. Because the second most annoying feeling in the world is knowing people might be watching you work out.


Unfortunately, 5:30 a.m. isn’t early enough and neither is 4 a.m. Because there is always that one retired sergeant major that gets up at 3 a.m. just to prove to himself that he can still get it. How frustrating. I thought I could run a really slow two miles and wait him out, but I gotta give it to him, he has some stamina. I guesstimated he was on the stationary bike for at least an hour. But I did find a corner to myself so no one would see how uncoordinated and un-graceful I am when I’m lunging, squatting and lifting my way to better abs, chest, back, arms, ass and legs. That sounds a lot more impressive than it looks right now.

One thing that I noticed right away is that when you work out with real weights, and not taped together Campell soup cans, you will actually break a decent sweat. Feeling your muscles burn, having the feeling that you’re making progress … it’s kind of motivating. A lot of the at-home workouts I was doing were modified pilates and crossfit exercises and there’s only so much you can do in the comfort and privacy of a small, apartment sized living room without bothering the downstairs neighbors or kicking furniture. Having a huge gym is awesome. If I could just get people to stay out until I’m done, it would be perfect.

Speaking of, this was also the week that every woman in the building whose New Year’s resolution was to lose weight, decided to start on that. You know who those people are, too. They are the ones who go straight to the treadmill and the elliptical machines because they don’t want anyone watching them try to figure out the rest of the equipment. They should have gotten up at 3 a.m. like the sergeant major.

Fun fact: Wanna see a bunch of dudes at the gym suddenly stop "working out" and walk aimlessly around each piece of equipment between sets while flexing? Be the first mildly attractive chick to walk into the gym - and actually know what she's doing. I could tell he may have been nervous about not looking ‘cool’ while working out. Seriously, though, if you’re a dude, it doesn’t matter what you think you look like when you’re “pumping iron,” it looks like you know what you’re doing to any chick that walks in. Unless you’re the one old guy who was almost swinging from one of the Nordic Trac looking pieces of equipment. I thought he was going to pull vertebrae. I still can’t figure out what he was trying to do by falling to the ground and swinging back up with the weights, body flinging like a gumby.

For now, I guess a 4 a.m. start will probably be good, we’ll see how long that lasts. I had been splitting my workout between mornings and evenings as two 45 minute workouts, trying to avoid people in the gym. But someone passed the memo around that I had a phobia, so now, no matter how late I go, there is always one person who shows up, mid-workout to ruin my flow.

Maybe if there was someone else doing what I was doing, looking just as awkward and ungraceful, I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious when I’m at the gym. Is that why people have work out buddies? So they don’t look stupid all by themselves? Smart.

Carded for air?

Tonight, I got carded at Walmart - for buying canned air. Seriously. You have to be 18 years old or older to buy canned air because huffing has made it's way into this decade. C'mon, kids, really? "Huffing?" If you're that desperate to die, there are so many other, cooler ways to die besides inhaling aerosol. I can't think of a single thing at the moment because dying isn't really cool to me.

I did learn two things about canned air: it's heavy and it costs a lot of money. Who would have thought canning the stuff you breathe as a cleaning product could be so lucrative? 3M did, that's who. As I was walking the aisles of Walmart, I couldn't help but wonder if I was not using my creativity to its full potential. There has to be another untapped element that costs nothing which I can package, patent and make a zillion dollars off of ...

But I was busy picking things up for my boyfriend and he had requested, among other things, a selection of specialty magazines. Now, I have no problem buying them, but when I can't find the specific title (and he was very specific), I started digging just in case it was buried and anyone walking by probably thought some pretty interesting things about me. Except for the old man who offered to help me look, and even offered advice on which of those particular publications to buy. When he heard I was purchasing them for my boyfriend, he was even more impressed and suggested my man must be someone special and he was lucky to have someone like me willing to supply him with ... material.

Seriously, it was ONE magazine in particular; yes, I am pretty awesome despite the days I freak out over stupid stuff; and my boyfriend is absolutely special all right. Even after I could not find what I was looking for and settled on two sporting mags instead, the old man was still showing me stuff he liked and suggested my boyfriend would like, too.

No, he was not going to like Black Booty. Not that he doesn't like women of color, but he doesn't want any men involved lest it kill the fantasy. Plus, there's a cap on how big a booty can get before it's just not sexy anymore and some of these women had buffet table asses, but surprisingly no cottage cheese. Must be genetics. Anyway, lesson learned: don't start conversations with random old dudes helping you look for ... specialty magazines.

Creeper.

It is getting harder and harder to come up with original stuff to send when you're sending a box a week, though. Especially when you know other people are sending boxes, too. You don't want to send doubles of things like magazines, canned air and chew, but you also want to make sure you're sending stuff in case it hasn't already been sent. At this point, you almost wish you could be in touch with everyone who is mailing out care packages and form a committee with a checklist so you know who is sending what.

But that would be too easy ...

Wardrobe ... realignment

Tonight, I decided to indulge in one of two movies I will be seeing this weekend - "The Change Up." It's not a Family friendly movie, so, folks, if you have kids, don't do as I did by making my 13 year old pull mandatory movie-buddy duty; do as I say and leave your kids at home for date night. There are a lot of swear words, dick jokes, boobies and a very random but necessary pube shaving scene. I knew as soon as the movie started, I wasn't going to be getting any mommy of the year points for this one. However, that doesn't mean the universe wouldn't get me back in some way, shape or form.

This time, it was in the form of an embarrassing wardrobe ... realignment.

So, there I was, racing to the restroom after the movie and a large Root Beer. By the way, my thighs and butt cheeks still hurt from my magic pill aided workout two nights ago so my run was about as graceful as a hunchback living in the towers of Notre Dame. The real one, not the Disney cartoon one. My daughter was in a hurry to get home and back to her Facebook, anime and friends, so I was trying to be fast. Which wasn't a problem. I was out in record time.

We left the theater, walked out to the car which was parked in the back of the parking lot, drove to get gas and then I went to Jack in the Box to cheat on my new lifestyle of healthy eating choices. On the way out, this lady calls out to me:

"Ma'am."

I turn around. "Yes?"

"Your cardigan top is pulled into the back of your pants."

The horror ...

I couldn't even say thank you, I was trying to pull it all out as fast as I could. It wasn't just a small piece of it, either. It was the entire back end. How did I not feel that? I walked all the way through the theater, across the parking lot, pumped gas and walked in and out of Jack in the Box - and not one person said a word. With my newfound pimp-walk, no make-up and my sweater tucked into my pants, maybe they thought I was slightly intoxicated.

And why didn't my daughter say anything?

"I wasn't paying attention, I was talking."

Awesome.

Workin' on my fitness

You know those people who love working out and are super disciplined and cannot get enough of being super fit? Yeah, I am not one of those people.

I dislike working out.

However, God did not bless me with a great set of skinny genes, so if I want to eat and still fit into my skinny jeans, I have to work out.  It’s not the exercising part that I dislike so much, it’s finding the time and energy – there are so many other things I want to be doing, the least of which is sweating in a gym, or my living room, for an hour a day. Plus, for me to stay interested in a routine, I need to see results – fast. For those of you who are die-hard fitness fanatics, you know it’s a gradual process and to stick with it, you need to be motivated which, as long as I fit into a size 3, I am not.

Unfortunately, I found motivation – I’m starting to jiggle in places that shouldn’t be moving and I failed the pencil test. That’s when you place a pencil underneath your ass cheek and if it holds, you got problems (the Boyfriend says that’s not a problem). So, for the past two months, I’ve made more of an effort to work out more. My problem now? Finding enough energy after eight hours of being at work to do any physical activity for an hour so I can have my own abs and buns of steel. So far, willpower has been doing the trick, but the other evening I needed some help.

That help came in the form of two pills.

If you’re 5’3/4” tall and less than 100 lbs, it’s probably not a good idea to take any kind of fat burner or energy pill that you find in your 6’1”, 210 pound boyfriend’s supplement cabinet. And you should definitely not take the required dosage. I was smart enough to figure that part out, but I still took 2/3 of the recommended dose a half-hour before my workout and –

Holy Mary, mother of Jesus I thought my heart was going to jump right out of my chest if I didn’t start moving – and I had to keep moving. It was the best workout ever and I didn’t even feel it. But I couldn’t stop moving, even after my workout. So, I worked out some more. Then I walked around in circles in my apartment. I danced, hopped, jittered and rocked. I couldn’t stop moving.

I was so tired but the effects of the pills were supposed to last for six hours – and at that point, I was only on hour two! Even when I was finally able to sit down for obligatory Facebook and blog time, I had to break for random body spasms, pushups and jogging in place which were immediately followed by hot flashes. And boy was I thirsty – I drank a half-gallon of water that I did not pee out. Taking a shower helped a little and I honestly don’t remember falling asleep, just the sound of my alarm waking me up out of my bed – of which I am not sure how I got into. I suspect my daughter had something to do with that.

Since my body didn’t remember going to sleep, I didn’t feel rested. And when I tried to get out of bed, my legs almost collapsed under me. Apparently, I worked out too hard. My muscles were sore and rebelling against any movement I was trying to make – and now I had to pee … bad. But I couldn’t get my legs to move fast enough, so I barely made it to the bathroom and when I collapsed on the toilet, it felt like someone slammed a cinder block into my ass cheeks. How was I going to sit down for eight hours of layout and design without crying?

Probably the better question would be, how was I going to stay awake and alert for that many hours – in one day?! I was going to need some serious energy …

No, I didn’t take any more pills, but I did drink a s*** ton of coffee which got me through work. Willpower got me through another workout during which my thighs, abs and glutes screamed at me to leave them alone in their serious voices. Yet, willpower prevailed. So, I don’t think I will be experimenting with any more of my boyfriend’s supplements – at least that’s the deal I made with my body.

Procrastination gives a pretty convincing argument against productivity

You know how you think if you have more time, you will accomplish more stuff? Like, for example, I told myself when my boyfriend deployed I would be able to keep myself busy doing all the things that I didn’t do while he was here because I was too busy working and being a girlfriend. A good girlfriend. So, I made this list of things I wanted to get started on that would be finished by the time he came home – in a year.

1. Work out and tone up.
2. Finish writing my scandalous, tell all memoirs.
3. Decorate the apartment somewhat so it looks more like a home.
4. Finish writing my sci-fi script about how the moon is really a vessel from the future, sent back in time to save the human race (don’t ask).
5. Network and start taking more photos.
6. Learn a new language like Italian or Vietnamese (so I can understand the nail tech).
7. Stay on top of my laundry.
8. Prep the naughty bits for a good waxing routine.
9. Get my car legal so I don’t get a ticket.
10. Get a Texas driver’s license so I don’t get a ticket.
11. See more of Texas so I can show my boyfriend around when he gets back.
12. Get rid of the unintentional tan lines.
13. Update my blog more regularly.
14. Write my parents more.
15. Start drawing again.
16. Clean out my closet.
17. Get out at least one night a week.
18. Get a second job.
19. Research vacation to Bali, Indonesia.
20. Keep on top of care packages to the boyfriend.

All of that, plus add in my teenage daughter and giving her the entire Texas experience – in 100+ degree heat. Know how much of that I have actually started doing? With the exception of #20, I haven’t even cracked the bulk of the list. It’s like the more I want to do, the more my ADD kicks in so I end up nothing productive. Don’t get me wrong, each day starts out with a goal of chipping away at my list, but I always end up doing something unproductive like taking a nap after my workout or getting caught up on the sci-fi channel.

Maybe I need to shorten my list so that it doesn’t seem so long, or make a schedule and allot time to do a few things a day or per week. I could also prioritize because now that I look at my list again, numbers nine and 10 seem to be pretty pressing issues. If I had to weed out the important from the lesser, I don’t really need to wax (or worry about any kind of hair removal) for at least a year (it’s not like anyone will see it). My parents are pretty okay with not hearing from me that often – I mean, it’s not like they complain.

A book? Seriously, I don’t even think I have enough experiences to write about to take up an entire book – although my first 150 pages are due in February. Which is where my blog comes in, I haven’t been getting out enough to update my blog to add to the book. And writing takes mental focus and creativity, most of which are taken up by my day job (which I love, by the way). So that leaves out script writing, drawing and personal photography projects, too. 

Texas is so big that to go anywhere and enjoy anything, it’s not just gas, but a hotel and food and a lot of driving for just two days. Besides, trips are no fun by myself, and once my daughter leaves, there’s no traveling buddy. I could just Google research places to go when the boyfriend gets back, including Bali, but hanging out online makes me sleepy. Plus, I broke the AC adapter plug on my laptop so it has to sit on the floor, propped on a box to keep the plug in so it charges and the floor is not comfortable – it’s an expensive fix, too. So, by staying home and milking the last bit of life out of my outdated laptop, I am saving money. I’d say that’s a win and point one for procrastination.

Right now, the apartment looks like a temporary bachelor pad and I’ve wanted to decorate it since I moved in – six months ago. But I eventually want to move into a different apartment, and the more stuff I have, the more work it will be to move. I’m not about creating more work for myself than is necessary. And what if the boyfriend doesn’t like it? Shouldn’t he have some input? Probably not, but it’s an excuse to put it off for a while - at least a year.

So, I guess I’ve effectively reduced my list down to three things: gym, tan, laundry – GTL – and getting out. How Jersey Shore of me, now that I think about it. Definitely shortens the list so it’s less intimidating - now I'm disappointed in how unproductive my days really are.  I’m going to have to re-prioritize my list so I’m doing more than just Jersey Shoring it for a year. I’ll have to get on that – tomorrow.

Dear Porn Industry ... can we talk?

You. Are. Lying. To. My. Boyfriend.

And all men, in general.

The perfect woman is not, in fact, a ridiculously busty, 47” bubble-butt sporting, walking cosmetics counter who can turn her vagina into a super soaker on cue and keep all her orifices open for business 24/7 in any situation and location – regardless of relationship status. And ‘MILFs’ don’t walk around wearing pull-away lingerie, a thong or bikini while doing housework –you can bet if I’m doing any kind of domesticated shit, the offer of a game of poker with a penis isn’t going to deter me from the task at hand until it is finished. The perfect woman is me, and other women like me: working class chicks who have day jobs, kids and responsibilities - but can still maintain a certain amount of sexy.

I watch porn and I have no problem with my boyfriend’s iPorn collection or the fact that he has more photos of Flower Tucci, Druuna, and other big butt honeys in his phone album than he has of me. He recently left for an all expense paid, extended vacation to the FOB resort with about 320gigs of porn and five action flicks. “Backdraft,” “Point Break,” “Smokin’ Aces,” “300,” and “Rock’N’Rolla” were nestled in next to such titles as “The Milfy Way,” “Big Wet Asses volumes 1-23,” “The Hills Have Thighs,” “Missionary Position: Impossible,” “Porn Fidelity,” “American Booty” and “The DaVinci Load.”  Kudos on the title creativity, by the way.

But you’re misrepresenting the housewife, professional, and the MILF by showing us as nymphomaniacal sex-kitties waiting to fulfill our men’s celluloid fantasies. Porn is like the WWF – fake. I think that as an industry, you should be responsible and place a disclaimer at the beginning of all your films. Maybe right after all the legal stuff, you can boldly remind dudes that all the chicks involved were paid a hefty amount of money to ‘like’ getting used like a blow-up doll, allowing things to be not so gently placed where nothing should go and smile when receiving the money shot – in their eye. No one likes that. But maybe we’d take it like a champ, too, if we were getting paid some serious cash – AND we’d even pretend to like it, just like a porn star.

I don’t sleep in a thong and peephole nightie. If I wake up with a penis in my face, my first thought isn’t to fellate it – it’s to roll over and complete my eight hours of sleep so that I can make it through an eight hour workday, come home, cook, clean, rub my man’s aching muscles he flexed in the gym and try to steal five minutes of cuddle time – and that’s before I get a shower. When I wake up in the morning, my hair looks like it’s been through a wind tunnel and my face like I got punched in the eyes. Yes, I see the look of disappointment when my man realizes that no matter which angle he catches me in at 5 a.m., I will not look like one of his iPorn honeys. I won’t even begin to look normal until I’ve had a shower and a meeting with the make-up bag in my bathroom.

Which is another thing. Do you know that I would suffocate the pores on my face wearing the exact amount of special FX make-up that your version of me wears in films? I say special FX because, no matter how rough the sex is, or how sweat drenched the actors are, the make-up doesn’t run. Let me tell you - after that much physical activity, my face looks like I’ve made out with a clown and it’s not sexy.

Another service to me, and all women, would be to put out a ‘porn secrets’ video explaining some of the special effects used in porn that men might not understand in their persistence to have us recreate – like ‘squirting.’  Women don’t squirt, they pee or, as I found out with iGoogle, fill their holy of holies up with water and push it out on cue like a super soaker.

Speaking of all things down there, real women are not all perfectly shaved, they don’t bleach their butt holes and don’t have smooth, pimple free ass cheeks all the time. I have a job, a working class bank account, a kid and responsibilities that I gotta take care of; I don’t have time or energy, to turn myself into a walking sex-doll every night. I shave with my boyfriend’s razor (it works better), exfoliate and moisturize the girly bits, and hope I don’t get razor burn or ingrown hairs right before my boyfriend sees it. I sport a five o’clock vag-shadow most days out of the week because I’m too tired to clean it up. Why don’t you show that in one of your movies? Slightly less glam, huh?

And don’t get me started on size G-for-ginormous, gravity defying boobs and 47-inch buffet table asses. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will never look like a porn star unless I shell out some serious cash or photoshop the hell out of some self-portraits. I’m good with that. Just think that the industry could soften the blow by showing real women some love. I know you already have a section for that – amateur porn – but perhaps take your glamour lighting to some 'amateur' stuff and then I could catch a break and not feel like I’m competing with an ideal I won’t ever have the energy meet.

By the way, one other small request: I watch – and like – porn. But, it’s getting harder and harder (no pun intended) for me to find any videos that interest me. It all starts out somewhat normal enough (for porn), a little cheesy with the set-up and acting (but I fast forward through all that anyway), then it goes from vaginal to - anal? Yeah, so not a turn on. I don’t want to see that and I don’t want to have to check out old-school videos to get what I want because that leads to the other part of my request. Can you please remove Ron Jeremy and the old, skinny Cuban dude from all past, present and future porn? They are not attractive and neither are their manly bits. It’s like you sneak them into the middle of a perfectly good set and you mess up my rhythm. If it’s a fetish, like bondage, GILF porn or bestiality, it should be packaged that way so I don’t accidentally pick it up.

So, give us real women some love, put out a large print disclaimer for dudes, stop it with the over-abundance of anal scenes and take out the gross guys, okay? Thanks.

Yours truly,

Concerned real woman who cleans up nicely

Love bits ...

“My girlfriend - the mother of my children - and I will be together forever. Wanna know why? Because we’re not married.” ~ John Leguizamo, Sex-a-holics


So, I never thought I’d ever consider marriage again. It’s not like I have a great track record with legally binding relationships. Then you have to figure that it’s hard enough to explain one divorce, but two? Well, that just makes you look … well, like you weren’t smart enough to make it work the first time, didn’t learn anything from it and then screwed it up the second time. Especially when you meet someone who’s never been married and you’re dating and they tell you they don’t see themselves getting married or having kids, only having a Goldie/Russell, common-law type marriage where there is no piece of paper, just a verbal agreement to just be together. Kind of romantic, because you know that two people who are not bound by a court document who choose to stay together are willing to work things out because they actually love each other and find the same things important. The point of that is, you will wonder if they just won’t consider marriage and kids with you because of your past, they aren’t ready or because they really just don’t want that. Because we all know when you meet the right person, it all falls together.

I’m not getting any younger, even if people say I keep looking younger. What I look like and the fact of my age is two different realities. There’s a shelf life on how long a chick is considered viable for relationships and I’m sure that I’m getting near that. I’m not single, but I know that if I am ever to find myself there again one day, it will be that much harder to prove myself in a sea of younger, sugar coated models. I know the man I’m in a relationship with may want something more than what we have one day and perhaps we are moving towards that, but what if we’re not? What if he’s still putting himself out there? What if I’m thinking too much? What if I’m self sabotaging this relationship by anticipating failure because none of my previous relationships worked out? And by not working out, I mean finding out one was still married, another was never divorced, still married and cheating and another just preferred Asian women. Which, I don’t blame him they are beautiful and look 12 years old until they are 60, but seriously? He wasn’t getting any younger either, and age works differently for guys. There is no shelf life except for their sperm and whether they want to have babies while they are young enough to keep up with them or old and established enough to afford medical help. But I digress …

Having your heart broken sucks. Having it smashed repeatedly will make a person doubt every relationship they ever get involved in, be it an intimate one or a friendship. You learn not to trust people and to look for things to prove your conspiracy theories and suspicions are "spot on." You become a sort-of Sherlock Holmes. I’m probably the best at that. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve beat a dead horse and called a bastard out for being a douchebag because by the time I reach the confrontational stage, I already know the answer he’s supposed to give me, but he lies about it – and I push for the truth. I learned that saying, “I love you,” is a verbal band-aid to smooth out tensions and make it all better. It used to work on me until I figured that out. It only took a few times. Word to those less wise: if you look for something, you will find it. So, before you start digging, ask yourself if you are prepared for what you might find and if it’s worth it.

So, now I have this dilemma of wondering whether to trust blindly, with some suspicion or just let it all go and start collecting cats in a new life where I just accept that I’m too damaged to be available emotionally to accept that maybe, when someone says, “I love you,” they’ll mean it. Because I keep digging up everything I shouldn't and trying to explain it away so I can try to live in my happy bubble of self-induced ignorance.