Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I’m happy to report that I am I am gainfully and happily employed – and I love it. And the new gig comes with a guilty pleasure: a laptop. Heh heh – I’m in heaven! I will even admit – I like it better than my iPhone. Upside: my thumbs aren’t feeling like they are going to fall off; I can watch Big Bang Theory and work on a mail merge; lacrosse camp? Boredom is not a problem! Confession: I am in bed right now and just happily typing away. It makes the snoring animals and husband a little easier to tolerate.
Downside: can’t think of anything. I will defer to the snoring things. But clearly they aren’t bothered.
FYI – I did accomplish a few things while out on what will now lovingly refer to as The Sabbatical. I don’t want ya’ll to think I sat on my toosh and cried (though I did do that more than once). Mind you it’s a short list, but short is better than total depression. I revamped my website. I got a tan. I totally reconstructed my workout routine – almost obsessively. Downloaded lots of new music (think: new workout routine) Kidnapped G-nome (where the hell is he??) I moped. I thought a lot. And here’s the list of things that I should have done but really didn’t give one crap about and therefore never got to while on The Sabbatical: clean (anything); paint bathroom; work diligently on photography; organize closets; clip dogs’ nails; steam clean carpet; clean out cupboards; clean baseboards; read; weed; mulch; wrestle.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
But back to reality. Today, I had the unpleasant experience of being let go from a position that I dearly loved. Basically, what I do – did, rather – is work in a community connecting people from all kinds of backgrounds who never knew the other existed. Pure bliss and incredibly gratifying since I am happiest when embedded in and connecting people in communities of any kind: gym rats, urban Cincy folks, bird nerds; it pretty much doesn’t matter who, what or where.
When talking to people today about what happened, the question I kept hearing was – Well, I’ll keep my ears open – so, what are you looking for? Huh. Stumped. I’m 38-years-old – aren’t I supposed to know this by now? But – I haven’t really thought about it from my own perspective lately, instead of CareerBuilder's. What am I looking for? It’s sort of refreshing to stop and think about it like that: In a perfect world, what would I do if I could create my own job?
Let’s see: I love to write. I am crazy cuckoo for editing. I adore grammar. I love photography. I am a communicator. I love to help. I want to help. I value humor and honesty. I like asking questions so that I can understand the way things work. I like responsibility (to a fault). I like direction. My family always comes first.
There! My resume in a nutshell: Zealous, experienced potential employee seeks long-term relationship with employer searching for an articulate, inquisitive and creative editor and/or blogger to write about and take pictures of people in communities, and pontificate about the value family and friends. Any takers out there??
So, though I am devastated that I am no longer going to be an integral part of a community that I love, I’m determined to make lemonade from this bunch of really tart lemons. And, to make that lemonade just a little sweeter, I have some extra time to spend with my son, do some real spring cleaning, stalk that elusive Pileated Woodpecker, and blog. It’s the upside to the downsize: time to myself to figure out my place in the world and get a few things checked off my list.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
I have officially become a bird nerd. Apparently, I am not along in this. As soon as I started mixing my photography with birds, I started getting all sorts of private confessions from friends through email. You’re a bird nerd, too? Oh my gosh – so am I! And it felt kind of good! So I am now a frequent customer of Baker Feed and Seed down in Old Milford (this place is great – best seed variety at the best prices) and when I walk in, the old man who runs the place just sort of smiles at me and asks how many pounds I want this week. I am ashamed to admit I don’t know his name because he kind of intimidates me. He’s one of those old country folk types. I know he knows everything there is about country life, birds, and livestock, and I’m sure he looks at me in my skirts and thinks to himself: Amateur. Reminds me of Curly in City Slickers (RIP Jack Palance).
So to all the secret bird nerds out there, I encourage you to come out of the closet. It’s really fun out here! I can’t tell you how many iPhone apps there are for bird songs, bird identification, how to attract birds (Birds USA is my favorite) – you name it. And when you are lazing on the deck in your skivvies, you can pass it off as bird watching. Honey, can you get me another Diet Pepsi? I’m watching this Northern Flicker and I don’t want to make any sudden movements.
Some day, I will confess about my obsession with tea pots. They are not as interesting to photograph, but beautiful nonetheless.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
I have a sinus issue. Ugh. I hate it. It’s one of the miseries of living in the lavish Ohio valley. I’m on perma-pills for my allergies, and I think sometimes that gives me this false hope that someday, I’ll be cured of my ailment. I read somewhere that every seven years, your body adjusts and things that you were once allergic to suddenly aren’t, well, what’s the word? Allergiable? Whatever. That hasn’t happened to me yet – but I remain hopeful.
But I digress. Back to sinuses. I hate how it all starts – the drippy crap in the throat that makes me sound like I’m a two-pack-a-day lounge singer. Then the stuffy headache. The cough. And this is my favorite part – people call, and then they casually say, good lord, what the hell is wrong with you? You sound awful. That a frog in your throat? Gee. Huh. No – that would be SNOT, thank you very much. And they say - Well, I’m just saying, you sound husky. And, just to add to my humiliation, my husband assures me that when the sinus gods have their way with me, I snore. Apparently, like the Pugs. Oh, gawd. This is my worst nightmare.
I try not to give this much thought, given my years in therapy overcoming anxieties that are surely far worse then this. Money well-spent. Right?
Um, maybe not. I’m thumbing through my photo folders, trying (not very successfully) to organize them differently. And I find this photo in a folder marked MSC. Oh, heavens. I have a flashback of fourth grade when Tina Davidson used to pick on me by holding her nose up with her thumb: PUG NOSE! You have a PUG nose!
Thumb back to folders (dozens of them) marked DOGS. O.M.G. Pug nose! Snoring! I think Tina (that little snot!) must have given a prophecy of some kind – it must have been. The sinus gods are having a hardy laugh right now. They were living for this moment when I discovered that there is a reason I snore like a Pug. Come on – you know you see them resemblance…
Monday, March 22, 2010
Anyway, this is another of my classic ADHD issues – the one where I start looking for something, only to end up finding another, far more interesting something that I wasn’t looking for, but non-the-less am happy to have found. Or – the “I’m going to put the laundry in the dryer” scenario, when my intentions are good, but I never actually make it to the dryer because something along the way has taken priority in my brain and redirected my path – unbeknownst to me, of course. I cannot claim responsibility for when my brain shifts into autopilot.
So - this morning I was late for the gym, the unfortunate victim of my snooze button. And though I always pack my bag the night before, invariably I forget something – this morning it was my gym shoes. They had disappeared, only to be found right where I left them. Duh. (Don’t you love those moments when you find what you’ve been searching and searching for, only to remember why you put it there in the first place? It’s all perfectly logical!)
I tossed all my stuff into the car. Then remembered I needed breakfast. Split back up the stairs to grab a banana. Got it! Then – oh yah! – I need to grab a straw (don’t ask). Back down stairs to the car – and there is my husband watching the drama – I think he finds it charming sometimes. Phew – got breakfast – but oh crap, I forgot my lunch.
Hi honey, I forgot my ham…. Zoom past husband and back up the stairs – and HEY! There’s my banana – how did that get there? Oh yah – the straw – must have put the banana down to get the straw. Grab banana – back down the stairs. And there is my husband, patiently waiting to tell me goodbye. Hi honey – geez I’m late. But I got my banana!
Um, weren’t you forgetting your ham?
Back up the stairs….
Sunday, March 21, 2010
I’d never been, but seen the billboards posted along the highway. A real working farm where kids can learn about connecting to the natural world. Gotta admit - didn’t care about that. But only one little phrase caught my attention: spring babies are arriving!
Yah – taking photos was great. It’s my love. But when we got to the barn to milk the goats, there was Tina, the potbellied piglet. And I melted. She squealed when I picked her up, but she settled into my arms, warm piglet breath puffing in the chilly air. And I looked at my husband, who rolled his eyes – he knew exactly what I was thinking: Can I pleeeaasssse have a pig? NO. But I want a pig. No. But they’re clean….NO. They can be housebroken. Nope. Why not?? NO. But I want a PIGLET! No. No. Double no, nope, sorry Charlie, no can do, fuh-get about it, get it out of your head, absolutely not.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Let me point out the context of the humor: He’s an EOD Tech in the US Army – Explosive Ordinance Disposal. Now – for a long time, I couldn’t remember that, so I just called him a “bomb guy,” or, “you know, the guy who deactivates the bomb thinga-ma-jiggys.” Funny – people always seemed to know want I meant. But, this from the woman who called him PVC, instead of PFC. Huh. Maybe they didn’t know what I meant but just nodded their heads and smiled because they understand that I am slightly deficient…
Anyway, “whenever im gettin stressed at work” just seems like kind of an understatement. Whenever? Really? If I were a bomb exploder chick, I would always be stressed. Is it the red wire, or the blue wire? But – I guess it really doesn’t work that way anymore, and he assures me it’s much more dangerous now. Great.
Anyway, I’ve had one heck of a week with loads of work stress (certainly my stress can’t compare). His comment has been stuck in my head, but I can’t get 10 minutes to myself to write about it. Shut my door, someone knocks. Turn off the phone, I get 20 messages. How can I get people to just leave me alone so I can get my work done? But today, it dawned on me. I have the perfect way to make folks get the hint that I’m stressed and to please leave me alone. I’m taking my cue from my nephew and buying myself an official United States Army, military-issue bomb disposal suit (see above!). How funny would it be to wear that to my office? Knock, knock. Come in!! Door opens. (Insert facial expression here.) And that thought, my friends, brightens my day!
(ps - lower case letters and lack of punctuation provided by my nephew, PVC Ruwe)
Friday, February 26, 2010
I always thought that being hyper-responsible was going to give me a leg-up in life. For the past 20 years (give or take…), I've kind of reveled in that because it was easier to define myself by things I thought made me somehow seem more grown-up. But what I found out was that defining myself by things I thought other people wanted me to be can make a person pretty unhappy.
This past year has been so defining for me! I've learned that I spent so much time trying to be perfect, I missed out on some great stuff. I was once offered the opportunity to be a guide on the Gaully River in West Virginia. I turned it down because I thought it was too irresponsible. Full-time climber? Nope - I had a career to pursue! Music? Only classical, jazz and American Musical Theatre. The rest of that stuff makes a racket! Pop music?? I only listen to NPR. I could go on - but why?
But I'm happy to report that I'm making up for all the years I spent being hyper-responsible. No - I'm not going sell my house and hit the road, but I am going to try to loosen up a bit. Here are a few things I figured out this year.
- Top 40 music is fun – damn that Beyonce got some pipes!
- NPR is boring. Seriously. Boring. And if I ever hear Daniel Shore give another drab dissertation, I am going to happily roll my eyes and yell BOOOOORING.
- It’s ok to read the entertainment section before the real news.
- It's ok to be late every so often. The world won’t end.
- I don't HAVE to work 60 hour weeks. Really. I don't.
- It's ok - even good - to let other people be responsible for the important things like bills.
- I don't have to finish Anna Karenina if I don't want to. Damn, I don’t even need to read ANY Russian authors if I don’t want to! Woo hoo – what a relief!
This year, that list is going to grown. And I am going to be a happier, healthier me and get a life!
Friday, February 19, 2010
But, this morning, I was in a hurry. I dumped my big gym bag into the passenger seat, and, not thinking about the safety of my iPhone, I put it on top of my bag. I was zipping along to work and a light changed faster than I anticipated. I stepped on the brake a bit hard, and then it happened: I did the "arm-swing-to the-side-in-vain-attempt-to-hold-back-person-in-passenger-seat" thing. (We've all done it to our kids and spouses, yes?) I actually had a vision about my iPhone cracking open on my windshield. Phone innards everywhere. Eeeew. But luckily my superhuman adrenaline-induced strength was able to hold back the entire pound and a half. Phew. That was a close call. I think I'm going to get that child seat. Because that's what good parents do. iLove.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
On Monday, just before White Death Part Three took over Cincy, Midge and I went for our third visit to the steam room. And guess who was chatting it up? ME. Yup. Uh-huh. Oh yah. And, I even stood up to get to the hotter air (I know what you are all thinking – don’t go there….). And we’re sitting there chatting when Midge says to me, “Wow I can’t believe how far you’ve come.” And I laugh and said, “Yah, I’ve come a long way, baby! Ooooo – that’s my next blog.” So here it is. And it’s uncharacteristically short.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Now I'm going to confess my biggest reason for my lack of blogginess: the iPhone keyboard has no directional arrows. Do you know it took me and entire week to discover the little magnifyer thingy? How am I supposed to arrow back to a word I want to change? And I still haven't figured out how to select mutiple words (no shift and scroll??). Another thing - everytime I type "L" I accidentily hit backspace, resulting in interesting iSuggestions from the supposed smart speller. This little touch keyboard has me all flustered! Forget writer's block!
Ohhh - But now I'm addicted to these little apps! Gotta say those apple geeks must have taken classes and learned all about addictive personalities. They nailed it. News, word games, photo apps - yah -I've become a nerd nightmare! And I love making pages and photos bigger and smaller - cool! How did I not have this before?? So iPeeps, yah, I'm totally sucked in. Hopelessly addicted to my new gadget. But now I have to change my signature to read: Sent from my iAddiction. Please excuse iTypos as I no longer have no directional arrows. But look what I can do with my photo apps! How cute is that photo?? Can't do that with a BlackBerry....
Sent from my iPhone, iAddiction thingy
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
But little Maggie here has him all a twitter. Picture this manly man fixing Maggie's dress when it got a little rumpled. And yell at her?? Are you serious? All he has to do is wrinkle up his face and glare at her, and she rolls over on her back and looks up at him with liquid brown eyes. Add familiar Pug head tilt: "Please, daddy, I didn't mean to eat the 6 cupcakes left on the table," or "oh, daddy daddy, the cat poo is just so yummy I can't resist!" And he melts. Yah - it's just all wrong.
When he vacuums, she barks and barks. She wants her dinner? Bark. She wants scraps? Bark bark bark!! Add in the typical Pug antics: walking all over you with no regard for you privates, your boobs, your face, their butts. They lick everything. EVERYTHING. Legs, bald heads, other dogs' ears, butts, walls, windows, and sometimes nothing at all - just lick, lick lick into the air. It's a Pug thing.
And Jackson just adores her. And I admit, she's pretty darling most of the time. (But I draw the line at the incessant yipping, which apparently Jackson is immune from hearing.) Just look at the photo - like he is daring you to pick on her: "Come on, I dare ya! I'll break your neck with my pinky!" And Maggie clearly understands this. That's a Smug Pug if I ever saw one. She sees right through that macho exterior, and she seems him for what he really is: her pillow. And she's not givin' it up for anything.
Sent from my BlackBerry device from Cincinnati Bell Wireless
Friday, January 22, 2010
About 10 miles from our house is one of the few historic covered bridges in Ohio. It sits along Stone Creek, and just up the creek from a beautiful old Catholic Church - St. Philumena. It's a historic landmark in the county, and it's said to be haunted.
The air was cool and damp this evening - matching my mood - but I decided to get out of the car and stroll over to the cemetery that sits on a steep hill next to the church. I expected the grave stones to be old and crumbling, but to my surprise, there were many modern stones mixed in among the well cared for historic markers. Some ornate - lavish even - but some I noticed were plain, with words noting only that person's role was in life: "Sister of Charlotte." "Brother of Barbara." But even these stones were larger - a foot high, 2 feet across. Then my foot slipped on what I thought was wet grass, and I looked down to see. I was standing on this tiny grave marker - maybe 8-9 inches across. And I quickly sucked in my breath.
My reaction was one of sadness. I wondered who would ever mark their mother's grave with this little and insignificant piece of rock? But then - when I bent down to look at it and take a quick snapshot, I thought it was beautiful. Simple. Peaceful. "Mom."
I've been struggling lately with my own role as a mom - a working mom - and feelings of inadequacy - am I doing everything I can to provide my son with the things he will need to be a sensitive and caring human being? A good man? A good father? I fear the worst - that I need to keep improving, get him a better education, better things, access to sports and gadgets. Even though I know these won't make him a better person, I fool myself into comparing myself to what others are doing. And I'll be honest - I want to measure up, and sometimes it hurts that I can't do what some other moms do - financially, emotionally - sometimes I feel like I am out of my league.
But maybe it's much simpler than I am making it. When I pass away, what will I want my grave stone to say about me? Do I want it to tout my achievements, my roles, my loves, my beliefs, or even the educational choices I made for my son?
I know that if I had to pick one word, unpretentious, yet filled with the greatest achievement I could ever dream, what better word could I choose than this: Mom. All those other things don't matter. When I die, the thing I would be most honored for my son to say about me is, "She was my Mom."
And let's be honest - there's a distinction between "Mom" and "Mother." Anyone can be a mother, but not everyone can be a Mom. Sure, nature says I'm made for birthin' babies. But nurture says - hey lady, you need to make some improvements! So I'm going to keep this little snapshot of the "Mom" grave stone; it's simple and beautiful, and it will remind me that there are things in life that I need to teach my son, not just give him. My son doesn't need "things" as much as he needs his Mom.
Sent from my BlackBerry device from Cincinnati Bell Wireless
Look at him. Sick, isn't it? In his element, taking delight in other people's misery! But, I guess I can't fault him too much. We do actually pay him to torture us three times a week. And we keep coming back. That parts still a mystery to me. Though I will admit, I might be getting a tiny bit stronger. Today I managed to do "real" push-ups instead of doing them on my knees. Granted, I only did them like that for one and half sets out of the 4. But that's progress, right?
So if the price of progress is getting up at 4:30am just to see Nigel giggle with delight every time I writhe in pain, I guess I'll pay it. I'm 38, after all, and progress in this class is about all I have going right now. The only thing I have control over in my life is my health, and that's only until it decides to take revenge on me for letting Nigel beat me up in Boot(y) camp class. Geez - I can't win!
Sent from my BlackBerry device from Cincinnati Bell Wireless
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
But I digress. Above - photo of the torture chamber. Just look at Nigel in all his glory, givin' Midge the what for on how to go over the top of the step board. Mmmm - don't tell Midge this - but I think she was at the end of the line when god was passing out the coordination gene. Now before you think I'm all mean and everything, blogging 'bout folks who can't defend themselves, let's get one thing straight: I would tell this to Midge right to her face. Because I love her to pieces and she's my BFF. Plus, it's about the ONLY thing I have on her. She can seriously kick my arse when it comes to strength, and she runs marathons. Eeeew. Yuck. Mentally unstable. But, me - I'm all about the coordination thing. Just sayin'.
But where was I?? Ah - torture chamber. Yes - I think Nigel maybe went a little easier on us today. But, I might have been high on my peppermint tea. It's hard to say.
Check back on Friday when I plan to post the best quotes of the 2010 Boot(y) Camp class. Preview quote: "I got a lot 'a booty to lift." Yup. It's just good stuff.
Sent from my BlackBerry device from Cincinnati Bell Wireless
Monday, January 18, 2010
Midge and I are a great team. We’re fun, we’re silly, and sometimes less than lady-like. We sling mud at the boys and drop the occasional trashy joke. Boo-ya! All is great! But then one day, Midge suggests we check out the steam room. Ummm. Ok. Sure, I’m game – we’re a team, right?
And today is the day. Ready? Set? Read note on the door: STEAM ROOM AND SAUNA ARE CO-ED. PLEASE WEAR SOME CLOTHING AND/OR TOWEL. And/or? Co-WHAT? I throw up in my mouth a little. Anxiety and panic creep in. But Midge doesn’t think twice.
She throws open the door to the steam room while waving me in and looks back at me with these huge eyes that say, “Get ready – brace yourself!” I’m straggling about 7 steps behind her, whispering to myself, oh shit, oh shit… at the last second, I slink in. Gulp. Co-ed? Try NO-ed. Just guys. Jokes flying, old, practically see-through swim trunks, flabby, hairy bellies, sitting there like Romans in all their glory. I can’t even look up, though I am in a swimsuit with a towel completely wrapped around me. But there’s Midge, already yukking it up: “So – do you guys come here often?” This gets a big laugh. “Wow – I could sit here for hours…” She’s as chummy as can be!
Me? I’m totally mortified. Can’t get a word out. On top of which, I can’t breath. Then the steam pipe (or whatever it’s called) kicks in, and I am sure I am going to die, asphyxiate, writhing on the hot tile floor which surely must be covered in - eeew, gawd - I can’t even think about it! (Note to self: bring Crocs.) Some of the guys exit – see you ladies tomorrow! – leaving one old guy, who does some little magic number on the steam thingy, and it starts belching out more hot, stuffy stuff. Then – the unthinkable – he walks over and sits next to me, and he just starts talking. At this point I’m frozen, staring at my feet, heart rate about 210, and I’m positive this old fart is going to hit on me. I’m sure of it. It’s a steam room nightmare. But there’s Midge – just as relaxed as relaxed can be – like she’s sipping a Corona on the coast of Tahiti. She looks at me: “Isn’t this great?!”
Long story short, I made it out alive and un-hit-on by old man. Midge says I’m just glowing: “You look great! You know, we could work this right into our morning schedule.” I think I’ve slightly overestimated familiarity.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
So today I was doing just that: Oh, look how funny it is when Maggie (our girly Pug) licks the Cool Whip bowl and you can’t see her head! Funny to me? Hilarious! Funny to everyone else? Umm, probably not. But I have high hopes for all of you. But back to the story.
So I click a few shots of her with Cool Whip on her eyebrows, whiskers, ears (very cute, if you ask me), I click a couple of buttons on the Blackberry, and WHOA! What is that? I notice something in the menu that I have never seen before in my facebook app: Send Message to Self. I smile. Why didn’t I think of that? And this gives me an idea. Yah, baby!!
Now – if you have ever worked with me, you know that I am like a pit bull when it comes to email. Here’s a scenario: Write email, click send, get up, walk down the hall, dramatically poke head into someone else’s office, “Hey there! Did you get my email yet? What did you think?” Here’s another: receive funny email, laugh hysterically out loud till I have tears in my eyes, click forward, re-write clever subject line, send, run down the hall…well, you get it.
Scenario three. I sit down at my desk, log in, get back up, do the morning ritual: Diet Pepsi into the fridge, use the restroom, cheerfully walk around to say hello to everyone, sit back down, open Outlook. (Sound of skidding, braking car) What?! I have no email? This makes me panic a little. Is the email server down? Did all those people not get my messages? Does nobody like me?
So now, my little problem has been solved. I’ll just start sending messages to me! Think of all the fun I’ll have sending myself funny little messages, forwarding funny videos, clever photos that I’ve taken! And better yet – my Inbox will be stuffed! And I won’t have to worry about that ever again because I can reply as fast as I want – to myself! And I can relish in the fact that it doesn’t matter if anyone else likes me – because I like me, and I can make myself laugh. And in life, it really all comes down to that, doesn’t it?
If you agree, forward this blog entry to 10 of your bestest friends, but make sure to include me in the reply…
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Who is bigger? Mrs. Bigger, or Mrs. Bigger’s baby?
Before I give the answer, (and do not scroll down because you know it’s at the end) I have to give you the story behind this shot. That’s Big Boy. At least I think it is. But this is not the Big Boy I have known and come to love – the icon of the Big Boy enterprise across the USA. There are a bazillion Big Boy’s in our town, and they are all graced with the Big Boy, impish grin, freakishly out of proportion, pompadour hair style, a-la Adam Lambert. In general, they are creepy. The stuff of nightmares, really. Worse then clowns. But, I can tolerate them in the name of nostalgia.
Now is it just me, or is this particular Big Boy a little bit “off?” Legs? Umm, no not really. Belly? Appears to be the third trimester. Chest? See Belly. Head? Excessive. Expression? Uber-creepy. Burger? Huh. Just what is that oozing out of the burger? Across the river here in Ohio (I hope that doesn't completely give away where I took this), there’s red ketchup and sometimes yellow mustard. In the newer, healthier versions of Big Boy, you might even see some oozing green, which I presume represents lettuce, or some other type of green, and therefore vitamin-packed, vegetable.
Somehow, I get the feeling this is no Big Boy. He’s supposed to look like a fun little kid with checkered pants and a slingshot in his back pocket. This guy? He’s no boy. Just look at that come hither expression and his poochy little body. That just ain’t right. There is something about him that screams Deliverance. “Mister, I sure love the way you wear that hat.” Heh heh heh. And that's all I have to say about that.
Oh - the answer to the joke? Mrs. Bigger’s baby, cuz he’s just a lil’ Bigger. One of my all-time favorite jokes…
Thursday, January 7, 2010
A few months ago, I got a crazy hankering to increase my workout intensity. I work out at the Blue Ash YMCA with the zaniest group of morning folks you’ll ever meet. I was yammering on, complaining that the current offerings for Boot Camp class were all for the moms who didn’t have to work – 9:00 class?? Seriously? I’m 63 emails into work by then! “Nigel, come on, offer the class to those of us who really work out! We’re crazy! We come in here at 5am (most of the time…)! We’re hardcore!”
Lesson learned? Be careful what you ask for. So I have been getting the crap kicked out of me for about a week now (Monday, Wednesday and Friday, 6am sharp), asking, red-faced and pleading, “Bear crawls? What the…again? How many times?” I am not much the praying type by any stretch of the means, but I tell you what – I’ve prayed quite a bit between the hours of six and seven lately. Please God, don’t let me puke. Please God, don’t let me be humiliated (again). Please God, when I do the 435th squat, don’t let me fart.
Which brings me to booty. Nigel’s answer to our pleading? “Do you want a tight butt, or not?” Ugh – yah – I guess I do. And so I have dubbed this little adventure "Booty Camp," where working girls like me go in hopes of (painfully) gaining that tight little, J-Lo, you-can-bounce-a-ball-off-it buttocks. Now, let me get in a quick little prayer before tomorrow morning: “May the Lord bless us and keep us safe from the wrath of Nigel…and please God, don’t let me fart.”