The Block

February 28, 2013

For the past few months, every time I sign on to facebook, I feel like my newsfeed is dominated by three distinct and separate subjects: gun control statistics that seem to have no valid sources, pictures of mischievousness kittens, and moms drinking too much wine way too early in the day.

If you know me, you know that precisely none of these things are really my bag. Now don't get me wrong, cats are cute, I actually really want a cat. I just can't believe how many cats are running through my newsfeed. I'm straight up not an internet debater, so the facebook guns are dead to me. And the moms drinking buckets of wine on weekday afternoons? It just makes me think, "I want to see a few dads post some funny sayings about how their kid's dress rehearsal left them with no choice, but to drink 30 beers on Tuesday at 1 while they were solely in charge, and see how many 'likes' that one gets."

When I sign on to facebook, I want to see pictures of my sister's kids, pictures of gross stuff that people are eating to make me feel less bad about the gross stuff that I'm eating, funny status updates from people I used to know, the occasional heart wrenching status update that makes me stop and think; I want good deals on cute boots from zulilly, and I especially want to see super unflattering pictures of my friends before they have the chance to untag themselves.

You probably feel the same way, right? Right.

So. In this modern day of not needing to unfriend people to declutter my homepage, why why WHY am I almost completely unable to block the people who keep posting cats, guns and wine? I mean, I've blocked a few people, and I know that it can absolutely be cause for social blunders. Like the time I was all, "What?! You're having heart surgery, your grandma died, and you're moving?! I can't believe I didn't know!"

Yeahhhh....didn't know because I'd checked that 'unsubscribe' button. De-amn. So I was all, "Right, yeah, I don't go on facebook much. Like ever." Even though I spend 19 hours a day right there.

Maybe that's why. Or maybe, deep down, I think cat humor is hilarious.

What do you think?

A PMS Induced Life Update

February 25, 2013

Yeah, so let's the avoid that old Tap tap..Is this thing on? joke. Because we all know that this (blogging), much like a sale at your local Chevrolet dealership, is a semi-annual event. I'm actually not sure what's making me blog today other than the fact that I honestly--and very accidentally--just took two caffeine pills instead of two Midol.

So don't hang out with me for the next twentyish hours--it's gonna be ugly.

Since I don't have a funny story to tell, I guess I'll just give you the old fashioned life update.

Maggie's just straight up big. See?

She's in preschool and takes dance, and just this morning hacked the tail off the rocking horse my dad made for me in 1983. No big deal. Just a vintage, handcrafted, one of a kind gift from the heart of a loving father. Besides, that horse bastard needed a trim. He let that yarn tail go for waaaayyyy too long and it was out of hand. Right Maggie?

Unfortunately, Maggie stashed the scissors somewhere quite secret. Something else is schedule to be all trimmed up and I'm terrified.

James is good, too. All the sudden, he's just a little man with really sub-par hygiene. See?

....annnnndddd, I'm just realized I haven't taken a photo of that kid since October 27th, 2012. These days, it seems to take a ginormous spiked outfit to get mommy to take your picture. And that's okay. 

James is taking karate, and after sixish months of piano lessons he can play the hell out of a song called The Lame Duck. He says he's taking piano because someday the ladies will love it. I say he needs to expand his repertoire to include at least one song that's not about an injured animal.

He's thinking about it.

Jared's good. He goes to work and to the dog park. He also gave up Coke for seltzer water because he's getting older and that's what older people do?



I'm hanging in.

Biznitch is good. On January 1st, we opened up for shop in a brand new studio that's twice as big and twice as cool. I have a friend coming to take actual studio pictures this week, but in the mean time, I'll post a few that might give you a feel for the place....

This is our new logo, made by my fabulous Texas friend, Beth. She was heavily featured on this blog back in 2006 and 2007. The hardcore among you  might remember, Beth:

The new place does happen to feature a full sized bar, which now looks like a pirate ship. So if you don't mind putting your kids in a play area that still has beer taps, KVC might be your new workout home:

This is the actual workout space in the studio, but we were busy having an Oscar-type award ceremony that night:

Why an awards ceremony, you ask? Because people keep doing shiz like this:

And this:

And this:

Here's me presenting the Size 6 award to a very deserving lady. She used to be a size 18!

I'm still a little turned around by the fact that this has become a legitimate mortgage-paying business. I really never expected any of this, and like any small business, I've learned that the hours are ridiculously long, you have to be willing to do ANY kind of work to make things happen (like math, and insulating tiny crawl spaces, and driving everywhere to pick up equipment), and there are fat months and lean months. 

But I really do love it. I'm trying to space things out so I can keep doing this for the long haul, but who knows? There might be a day where I'm like, "And that was my last jump squat." Hopefully not, but I'm just kind of going with the flow.

My kids spend a lot of time at the studio, so I feel a hefty load of mom guilt. On one hand I'm like, "These kids are learning the value of a hard day of work." On the other hand I all, "I'm the worst mother in the world for not letting these kids sit home and watch TV all morning!" I try to tell myself that it's super similar to the little Italian kids whole grow up plating food in the family restaurant--expect my kid might drop a 35 pound weight on his toe instead of being spattered by some hot pasta water.

See how confused I am right now because I have PMS?

Most recently, the flow led me to order a room full of LeMond RevMaster Classics. So we'll see where that goes.

I do have to say, I teach one helluva spin class.

But honestly, it reminds me of parenting--it can be tiring, and trying, crazy-making. But it's also so incredibly awesome. For now, it's where I'm mean to be. I think. At least that's what my lease says.

In other news, I'm training for The Sugarloaf Marathon in May and I'm pacing a KVC group at The Bay of Fundy International Marathon in June. I'm also trying to lower my body fat percentage, and I ate two cookies before 9 o'clock this morning. Got that?

PMS.

I'm not pregnant (PMS) because I really don't know if a third is in the cards for us. Not that it is, but not that it's not. Three is a very typical number of kids for a modern Mormon family. I'm not sure why, but I think it's because two kids just aren't strong enough to pull your handcart to heaven. But three? Three can do. that. job.

If you have an extremely convincing argument as to why we should or shouldn't have a third kid, go ahead and put that in the comments, too.

I've also been highlighting my hair to almost entirely blond. Because I do believe I'm having a mild to moderate early-midlife-crisis. I think I'm too old to have another baby. I also think I'm too young for this fake blond hair SOMEBODYHELPME.

PMS.

So that's me in a nutshell. What's new with you old friends?

Anyone want to come run a marathon with me?

A Trip...

August 6, 2012

So we went away for our 10th anniversary, and I'm happy to say that it was really good for us. We drove up to Quebec City--about 5 hours by car.We very affectionately call it it The Poor Man's Paris. 

We stayed at this little B&B with all sorts of super cultural people whose language we didn't speak:

 And Jared took my picture with this guy, who was guarding the entrance to a historical fort where something happened one time. A long time ago:

 And Jared carved our initials into a tree:

I wore this obscenely short dress out to an obscenely expensive dinner:

Made Jared take a few pictures since I wan't wearing pajamas:

I ate piglet. And it was more than my weekly grocery budget:

That's cheesecake. Unfortunately not the size of my head:

And that's Jared singing some 90s songs.

10 years, my legs look good, and we're back on the upswing.

Thank you guys. You know who you are.

Miscalculations in Banking

May 31, 2012

I love running around with a jogging stroller, but when I say running around, I literally mean running around.

Running around doing errands with a jogging stroller? Now THAT'S a straight up bed wetting nightmare. And lately, I've been doing a lot of literal running to run my errands.

Does that make any sense?

In other words, thanks to the downtown location of the studio, Maggie and I actually run to the post office, the bank, the pharmacy, the playground (her errand), and Dairy Queen. Actually she rides, I run--lucky little crapper.

So yesterday we ran to the bank--a fancy ass bank with big old heavy freaking doors.

Have you ever tried to get through ANY set of doors with an 8-foot long jogging stroller with bicycle sized wheels? Okay--have you ever tried to get through a set of 900-pounds doors that hate to stay open and want to squash you in their hinges like a hairy little spider?

Yeah, it's tough. And there's only one way in...backwards.

You basically have to throw open the door with every gut you've got, catch it with your ass, and blindly back 'er up with just enough speed and precision to avoid the door from bumping the front tire and tampering with your trajectory and vectors.

So I did it. I threw. I bumped out the backside and made a square catch. And I backed in, in, in...and then DAMN IT...the door slammed right onto my front wheel. And that bastardly thing must have adjusted my angle by at least 45 degrees.

Plus, a little lip on the door was all tangled up with the bolt on my front axle. I was pushing, pulling, spitting, maneuvering, and I'm not even exaggerating, there was a cartoon arrow up above my head that said, FRAZZLED MOM ALERT! And another one that said, CONSTIPATED!

How thoroughly embarrassing.

Dripping sweat, and cursing my existence in this cruel cruel world, I finally backed that thang up all the way into the bank lobby. 

Or so I thought.

When I finished wiping my brow, and my path of vision came into focus, I immediately saw a sign sitting on a desk that said: Matt Dwyer, Vice President.

Nightmare. I'd over corrected my stroller angle and backed all 8 feet of my rig right into the Vice President's office (very nicely decorated, if I do say so myself). 

And then...THEN...I had to open my fat old lips and mispronounce the guy's name.

I looked right at the 'Matt Dwyer' name plate and said, "Oh, hey Matthew Dyer! How'd this happen? You know me and m'little snafus."

Then I RErecorrected my stroller angle, inched my way back, and smacked my front wheel ALL up on his trinket display case. Horror.

So Mr. Dwyer, I'm sorry about the whole thing. But next time I accidentally end up in your office, could you offer me a Tootsie Pop?

Thanks.

Wardrobe Change

You know what's funny about being a public-sector development consultant and a fitness trainer? The uniforms are totally different.

For one job, it's all about the flattering trousers and blouses from the clearance rack at TJ Maxx. For the other job, it's all about full body spandex from the clearance rack at TJ Maxx. Same store, very different looks. And I don't know if you know this, but spandex is a ridiculous b*&^% to put on and take off.

Most days, I'm doing some form of both jobs. Like yesterday, it went like this:

6am-10am: Personal Train 4 people
10:15am-2:15pm: Consult about a bridge project
4pm-5pm: Train an office full of financial advisors
6pm-8pm: Annual Meeting for consulting job

And somewhere in between all that, I was picking up kids, dropping off kids, leaving kids crying on city curbs, getting parking tickets, and eating 3 chocolate chip cookies the size of my face.

Right now my life is like a puzzle with wrinkles and zits. I mean really, is this middle school or middle age? Don't even get me started about zits popping up IN wrinkles because I swear I will cut Mother Nature--I'll cut her with a knife.

So my schedule. It requires all kinds of quick wardrobe changes, and much like SuperMan, I've taken to layering up and ripping off suits in very public places.

A typical outfit is a sports bra, spandex shorts, and a solid colored tee-shirt as the base layer. Black trouser pants, a black suit jacket, and pearls are the preferred over layer--very awkward when a Nike swoosh peeks out near the lapel, but hey, STOP LOOKING AT MY BOOBS!

Runnning shoes and ballet flats. One pair on my feet, the other in my purse. Always barefoot. Yes, it's stinky--but it expedites the switcharoo. And that's the first priority right now--switcharoo expiditation.

So yesterday, as I previously mentioned, I had my annual meeting for the day job. I did a quick wardrobe change in the front seat of my car and walked into the restuarant banquet room with 1 minute to spare. I looked good, I smelled kind of bad, and dang it felt like I had a load in my pants.

But I was late. They funneled me straight to the presenter's podium--no time to investigate.

When I finished my presentation and went back to my chair, my sitting felt kind of lumpy. Well, very lumpy--like maybe I was sitting on a rumpled up cloth napkin. But I wasn't, I checked.

Finally, after the 2 hour meeting wrapped up, I waddled out to my car like Maggie (you know--a toddler with a diaper hanging down to their knees because their mother belongs to a church called The Church of I'll Only Change You for a Poop). There, I was met by a very chatty woman. Who only likes to chat about work related issues. And I had a TV waiting for me at home. You know how this goes.

Only 2 minutes into the chat, I kept picturing myself punching her in the face. I played out the scene through like a slo-mo movie, then like a loony toon, and then like I was Jackie Chan--actually opting to round house kick her in the face rather than a plain old punch.

Finally, when I could stand no more, I lost my judgement. I reached my hand down my pants, pulled out the culprit--a single brown sock, looked her right in the eye and asked, "Do you ever find stray socks in your underpants? I JUST did!" Then I held it up so she could see.

She did that awkward howamisupposedtolaughrightnow laugh, excused herself and drove away.

And I finally got home to my dear, sweet TV.

Then I wore pajamas.