Thursday, April 30, 2009
Anyway, last week I chose to box for my workout. True it was only Wii boxing, but I get really into it. After the first knock out I had to go change into shorts. Not only did it make me incredibly sore, but I raised my score considerably. However (here is where I get mad), on my last match I didn't get a KO. I won the match in the 3rd round, you would think my score would go up by a smaller amount, but no. It actually went down 4 points! So on Monday I started boxing again, anxious to bring my score back up I got a KO in round 2. Imagine my surprise when my score when down another 4 points! With no explanation, no reasoning, nothing. I'm pretty sure the game is rigged so that my score isn't higher then Mason's. Needless to say, I haven't boxed since. I've focused my workouts in other areas. On the plus side, I'm getting the Wii Fit for my birthday. Although, I'm making it harder to forget about it by telling everyone.
I think my next goal on stickk.com should be to eat healthier. Because so far today, I've had only crap. Wonderful sugary crap. For breakfast, I tested one of the blueberry cheesecake cups that I will be serving this afternoon, puppy chow when I got to work (that wonderful powdered sugar covered, chocolate dipped cereal) that was left over from Stephanie's trivia team from yesterday, and a krispy kreme doughnut in my last meeting (thanks a lot HP Reps). Add to that the fact that I have a baby shower this afternoon where I will more then likely eat another blueberry cheesecake cup, as well as other equally bad for me foods. And although I did not eat this bad yesterday, I still didn't eat good. Might as well just pull out the chocolate doughnuts and a glass of milk for dinner, today is already shot.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Second, I should revise my last post to include that I really don't mind waking up at the crack of dawn on a sleep in day, driving an hour and working around someone else's schedule to get my hair cut. I mean, after all, it's not like I trust anyone else to come near my hair with a pair of scissors. It's one thing to have a good stylist. But it is a completely different thing to have a good stylist who not only knows what your hair does but also knows your personality. Last time I went to a Custom Cuts for a trim and a few measly layers, the lady rolled her eyes and complained to her co-workers about having to cut my hair before she could go home. And if I walked in to an extremely upscale salon and told them I was sick of fighting with the do-rag and tangles from riding, they would look at me as if I were crazy. Peggy on the other hand gets this. My spunky, red-headed, biker b**** of an Aunt understands me. I can tell her to cut my hair however she wants to, and it always looks great. And while she usually likes to keep my hair long, she had no problems hacking away at the yards of hair. Although, I'm pretty sure I look even more like my mother now. I haven't taken any pictures of the new do yet, but as soon as I do, I will share them with all of you.
As a side note: I was walking around Wal-greens last Wednesday with a migraine looking for a special kind of medicine for Mason's cold. I don't know why he can't live off of Day-quill like the rest of the household (me). But I stumbled across the hair remover that promises that you will never need a razor, toxic creams, or wax again. You just rub off the hair with this special As Seen On TV thing (for the record, they have an entire aisle dedicated to As Seen On TV products). And I have to admit, I am insanely curious about this. Does it actually work? Does it take less time then a razor? These are the things that I NEED to know.
Steph- We may not beat your CSI theme or the Octo-mom theme, but I am confident that dressing like the floor of the movie theater will beat out Angie and Matt's team (Nerds), Loony Toons, Luau and Mexican themes. And no, I'm not supposed to know all of those, but the people around here can NOT keep a secret. Just curious, anyone who reads this one, out of these choices who would you choose to win best theme? Stephanie, you are not allowed to vote for your own team!
Night at the Movies (dressed as the floor)
Friday, April 24, 2009
So I'm sitting here at my desk, not inclined to do anything even remotely related to work. My mini heater is on full blast to counter the effects of the air conditioner and my spring wardrobe. My legs are tucked up under me, and I reach down and touch what skin is left bare by my capris, and I realize, horror of all horrors, I forgot to shave my legs! But it gets worse, my shirt is sleeveless! And to add injury to insult, my back is in serious need of an adjustment.
Mason's attempt to kneed the knots out of the muscles surrounding my spine last night, just led to blinking back tears and shooting pain. At least until my back went numb from that great gel he literally poured on (why do men always think they need an entire handful of whatever they squeeze out of a bottle?). In other news, I am not getting my hair cut today after all. This is the problem with not booking an appointment in an ACTUAL salon. So now, I must wake up early on Sunday, drive all the way out to the middle of nowhere, and have my lovely locks sheared off all before 10 am. I happen to be a HUGE fan of sleeping in, so do not expect me to get out of bed tomorrow. No thank you.
And let's not even get into all the Trivia Team Theme drama. I had to make the executive decision because everyone else was to afraid to insult anyone. Apparently, that is not a fear of mine. But if I didn't speak up, we were going to one jumbled miss matched theme of gibberish. Gibberish wins no prizes, and I am a winner!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Aside from letting Mason get a new gun and being double (possibly triple) booked for the same weekend, my life is pleasantly boring. Still crazy busy, but all-together uneventful, at least for blogging purposes. Still addicted to Super Mario Galaxy, and still helping Mason beat Zelda. Still swamped with the amount of thank you's that have yet to be written, and still determined to make Mason write half. (sigh) If only our friends and family weren't so generous. The highlight of this week should be happening tomorrow when I go to get my hair chopped off. And I do mean chopped, at least 8 inches, gone, snipped off, bagged up, and shipped off to whichever charity I have enough hair to send it to. I'll let you know how it goes and be sure to post pictures, especially since I'm letting my hair dresser have complete control. If she wasn't my Aunt, I'd be terrified.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Ever since I was a child I have wanted a bike, in fact I can't remember ever not wanting one. Which is surprising since no one in my family had one at the time. It was just always something I had said I wanted. By the time I learned that money didn't magically reproduce in Mom and Dad's wallet, I knew that I wanted my bike to be a Harley. Riding in the back of Dad's '34 Ford Roadster, I would check out every single Harley that drove by. As I got older, I realized that the bikers sometimes thought I was checking them out. And to be fair, I was, to some degree. But it was the bike I was interested in.
My Uncle got a Fat Boy for his 50th birthday, and for some reason I didn't want to be a burden to him, so I didn't ask for a ride. Not quite understanding that a biker will generally look for any excuse to ride. When my sister meet her now husband, I was thrilled to find out that he had a bike. But it wasn't a Harley, so I found myself debating with him, over which bike was better every chance I got. Eventually I got a ride out of the deal. Well, showing off for his future sister in law attracted a cop, cutting our ride short. Providing a story for years to come on how I got him out of five tickets. That was our one and only ride.
Somehow, my Dad got a minibike and he let me drive it. Big mistake. I almost made it to the neighbors driveway before falling over. Not for one second did I have control over that bike. Being a firm believer in getting back in the saddle, I figured I just needed a bigger horse. However, the childhood confidence that I was born to ride was shattered. I didn't tell anyone though, because the moment I voiced my new fear, it would be real.
Just before Mother's Day, my Father found an excuse to get his own Softtail Custom. I got the first ride. It was heaven on earth. The itch that had been there since I was a child was digging in deep, especially since I had fallen in love with a Sportster 883 Low. I had put my name on the list for the Riders Edge course and I could hardly wait to begin, but I couldn't help thinking that I might not pass. I might forever be a back seat rider, so on my birthday I wished for my own bike to ride, and the ability to ride it.
It's easy to forget about fears when you are sitting there picking out new pipes for the bike you just declared as yours. I don't think you could have slapped the smile off of my face that day. The next week was the hardest, waiting for the bike to come home. Even though I still didn't know how to ride, if the bike were home I could at least sit on it. The day it was ready, my Dad got to be the first to drive it, and when some guy shouted out "nice bike" I wanted to stick my head out the window and shout that it was mine. But there was no need to admit to the rest of the world that I don't know how to ride my very own brand new Harley. I was too scared and nervous the first night to ride it. So I waited, after all, what's one more day? I was content to sit, listen to the rumble and smile for the camera phones. Knowing this is a hurtle I must eventually jump, (otherwise this was an incredibly expensive paper weight) I chose the next day to ride.
Dad and I took the bike to the nearest high school and practiced in the parking lot. I tried rolling it to find my balance, but the hills weren't steep enough to get the right speed. Remembering the mini bike incident, I strapped on my helmet, started her up, took a deep breath and drove off. Incident free, I circled the lot at least a dozen times. The next free evening I had, we went straight to the park to practice roads, turns and third gear. Dad followed in my car as I cautiously took turns and tried to relax my shoulders. But going 15 miles an hour on the straights and 5 on the turns with my shoulders hunched up to my ears was no way to ride. Thankfully a cancellation on the hottest weekend of the year allowed me to get into the Riders Edge class sooner then later.
The group I was in was very green. My laps in the parking lot, and slow drive through the park made me the most experienced rider. The class gave me the basics I needed to ride and a sunburn on the bottom of my chin from the reflective surface of the parking lot. Knowing I could do a small figure eight without falling over built up my confidence, but the hundred degree weather still didn't distract me from my nerves when it was time to take the test. Did I mention I was a bad test taker? Thankfully I was one of the two in the class to pass the course. But taking it to the road was another thing.
I didn't want to do it, I wanted to go back to the safety of the parking lot. I needed Dad's encouragement to advance to the next level. He practically forced me to go for a ride with him. I believe the direct quote was, "Wanna go for a ride?" I couldn't admit my fear to Dad, so I had no choice but to say yes. After a pit stop at Hallmark (yes that's right, Hallmark, the perfect place for two doo-raged, fingerless gloved bikers) we traveled the back roads with the most curves and hills. After I was able to relax my shoulders enough to really experience the ride, I was in heaven. Heaven on wheels. Aside from the tangles I later had to rip out of my hair, I loved every min of it.
Friday, April 10, 2009
I have no idea what I was thinking when I got ready this morning. I must have still been asleep until about 15 minuets ago. I put on a little black sweater shrug thing over a short sleeved shirt, but that's not the odd part. Then I sat there and debated which brown shoes to wear. I decided to go with the dark brown snake skin over the light brown suede. What's worse, I even had to move the classic black pumps to get to the brown. As I'm walking out the door, I think I should take a jacket since it is only 35 degrees outside. Well, my black one is dirty and a little too thin for this chilly morning. So I figured I would just wear the one I have in the car, which is brown. I kid you not, I had to debate that for a moment because the brown wouldn't go with the black shrug. Apparently, I had completely forgotten about my BROWN shoes. To make matters worse, the brown coat left white fuzz all over the black shrug. I swear I'm normally better at dressing myself then this.
As I'm sitting here at my desk, wearing my second choice footwear, I'm left wondering why Koby always goes for the black shoes, the same ones I didn't wear yesterday. I have two pairs of black casual dress shoes that are not designated for a certain season. Simple black pumps, and a slightly more fancy sling. These are literally the only "plain" black heels I own. I used to have a cute little pair of black kitten heels, but a little puppy ate the inside out of those, and they haven't been fixed yet. So the slings are the ones I am wearing today, which have some nice gouges in the heel from that little fur ball we call a dog. Which is also why they were the second choice. The black pumps I was going to wear today took a detour to the trash. These poor shoes have been through so much in their little sample shoe lives.
Before Koby was even born, Sheeba decided to scratch out what tiny bit of cushion there was and then convinced Charlie that the whole shoe was a toy. Charlie has only chewed on one shoe when he was still a puppy, and this self punishing dog saw how upset I was and never chewed on a shoe again. In fact I only know it was in Charlie's mouth this time because Mason caught him. But at this point in time, Mason and I were never at the house at the same time. So when I got home and saw the shoe, I investigated and found scratch marks and teeth marks way to small for my 120 pound dog to make. Sheeba was then in trouble with me, and Charlie once again put himself in time out. I went without these pumps for some time, and was unable to find black pumps I liked enough to replace them. So I bought some insoles instead. Once Koby entered our lives and I caught him sniffing around those pointed heels, I made sure to put every single pair of shoes in the closet. This morning the little snot ignored the two pairs of brown heels I had left laying out, and figured out how to get in the closed closet so he could run off with my black pump. The heel is mangled, the side is scratched, and the toe is chewed through, beyond repair. (sniff)
Mason's birthday is today, and since he has to spend all of it at work and school, I made him breakfast in bed. I let Koby outside while I was making it so he wouldn't make to much noise and wake up Mason. Now you know, something is bound to happen, why else would I be telling you all this? Just as we are finishing our wonderful blueberry apple pancakes, the doorbell rings. And there is our neighbor holding our little puppy in her arms. Since Koby can no longer fit through the fence and Sheeba taught him how to dig, he put two and two together and dig under two fences just so he could go play with the Huskies next door. Because of Charlie, Koby doesn't know that big dogs can eat him in two bites. Especially those sweet ferocious Huskies, who happen to think that Koby is a rather large squirrel. In an effort to defend himself, Koby caused one of the Huskies to yelp, which sent Angie the neighbor to investigate. Koby forced poor Angie to walk outside in her robe to deliver a mud covered puppy to us at 6:30 in the morning. And even though their dogs helped Koby dig the hole, I'm pretty sure I owe them some cookies.
Since my attempt to wear my black shrug on Monday bombed so badly that I took it off after an hour, I decided to try it again. Only this time, with new black shoes. Normally I make it a point to not wear things twice in two weeks, especially not twice in one week. But I figured that since the one person who would notice was working from home today, that I would be okay. So I grabbed a shirt, threw myself together and ran out the door. Half way to work, I realize that I'm pretty sure that I wore this EXACT same outfit on Monday, except the shoes. How sad is that? And to make matters worse, the security tag is still in the sweater. I can never find any scissors when I'm getting ready in the morning. I'm really kinda worried about what tomorrow will bring.
Except for the fact that I had to help Mason get dressed this morning (since he hurt his back last night and could hardly move), it was fairly mild. No mangled shoes, no half eaten puppies, and a fresh outfit. Seriously, the highlight of my morning was trying to put Mason's shoes on his feet without untying the laces. Well that, and trying to dry off Koby with the hair dryer. Which is officially one of his favorite toys, I turn it on and he comes running. I'm confident that he will one day catch that blowing air and claim his rightful place as top dog. As for the weekend, I'm still hoping that Mason's back will feel better so we can go on the Katy Trail as planned.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The breading on my chicken was somewhat chewy and it just tasted funny. Chalking it up to being an off day, I didn't complain. I just filled up on rice and Stephanie's crab. Not being one of those people who can toss out uneaten food, I boxed it up to eat for dinner or lunch the next day. So today, as I'm sitting at my desk with Hell's Kitchen playing on my computer and leftovers in front of me, I truly examine my chicken for the first time. It's better after the sauce has fully soaked into the breading. But it still tastes funny, and it's not white like chicken should be. After testing a few more pieces and actually cutting them open to investigate further, I discovered that I was not eating orange chicken at all. I was eating orange pork!
I'm all about pork, usually I really enjoy it. But Chinese places like this one, are notorious for having the fattiest pork that ever waddled across the farm. And for the record, pig fat does not taste good with orange sauce. If I could, I would march into the bathroom and toss my pork flavored cookies. But I can't, and I certainly wouldn't want to do it at work either. I would love to sit here and tell you that I will never go back to that place again, but odds are, I will. I will just examine my meat a little more closely from now on.
I knew I should have gone with the cashew chicken instead.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I'm a blogger. Crap. I never thought I would see this day.
Yes, that's right. The girl who once ran from anything looking like commitment, just committed to writing and posting a blog for anyone to read. Is my head on straight? Or have my two weeks of insomnia completely fried my brain? Or perhaps this is just some sad attempt to clear my mind before attempting to sleep. Knowing my luck, this will just be one more thing to think about instead of sleeping. What will my next blog be about??? Sleep, exit stage left. Enter, crabby k, center stage. And for the record, no one likes crabby k, least of all me. Although Eric gets credit for agreeing to go out with crabby k in an effort to cheer her up. Not many people are that brave. I guess that's what you get from the fine men in blue. And a special thanks to all those fine men and women in blue... Thank you for not giving me any tickets for the three months my plates were expired. I really appreciate it.