Rock Out(side of my personal space)

My inner 90 year old woman is a real crank when it comes to concert etiquette. Having been a small town girl, I wasn’t a legit concert goer until my adult years. I totally support the youths attending musical events, but I don’t support idiot youths under any circumstance, so… therein lies the problem of attending large music festivals.

YOUTHS. Youths...everywhere.

Since I love me a good list (with a story or two tied in), here are my top SIX rules of concert etiquette (for festivals, without any assigned seating, not regular concerts):

1) If you want to be up front, show up early and hold your ground

Do NOT show up twenty minutes before the show and drunkenly shove your way through the crowd. I don’t care if you “have a friend up there” that you’re “trying to get back to.” Everyone “has a friend up front.” Shouting a random name doesn’t help. And if there really is someone up there, then too bad, you shouldn’t have left that friend; you can’t go back, just accept it. Also, if you do start trying to push your way closer, people are squeezing together to let you through usually. When you stop because you realize you can’t get closer, you have just pissed off EVERYONE around you who is now sandwiched awkwardly together. Don’t be jovial about it; just back the fuck out to where you came from because there is no space here (in the inner circles of hell). Stack on and add a new layer to the outside edges, like a proper person. This is especially true for TALL people. Don’t stop in front of me and say, “This looks good enough.” Because I’ll head butt you in the small of your back until you move, you giant.

2) Keep your sins to yourself

• If you want to drink up a storm, cool, I support it. Just don’t spill your beer on me when you’re trying to bust a drunken move, please. And if you’re severely underaged, that counts double. 
• If you want to smoke some illegal drugs, that’s your thing, boo. Just don’t blow smoke on me or light up so often that everyone within 20 yards has a contact high (also: it’s still illegal in this state, so maybe hit it beforehand and not in public during the show?). 
• If you want to get it on with some cute thang you found at the show, get a room. I don’t want to look up/over and realize that I’m the accidental love child of two people hooked up while basically on top of me. Or have my ass grabbed on accident (several times) by some stoned guy reaching for someone else’s lovely lady lumps

3) Do not engage

If there’s a fight, someone provoking you, or you get shoved/pushed… just don’t engage. You’ll likely make it worse and possibly end up shanked in a crowd, where no ambulance (aka medi golf cart) can get to you and you’ll quietly just get trampled to death due to your weakened state.

Cue my sister at the Third Eye Blind concert. When a scrawny Gen-Xer fell on her while dancing with his spacy blond girlfriend, she shoved him right back. Most men, when you push them, will not move/will hold their ground. However, not being fully cognizant of where he was even, he instead went flying. I promptly opted to remove us from that concert, for fear of retaliation, but we departed to general applause from onlookers. One gent even proclaimed her as his hero, saying he wished he could have a t-shirt with her face on it, because that was badass. Don’t bank on this support from the crowd; assume that retaliation leads to getting shanked. Don’t be a hero. NOTE: this largely depends on the show as well (see #4).

4) Know your audience

Adjust your actions depending on the show. Jumping around like crazy and head-banging the whole concert is slightly less appropriate when you’re at Hall and Oates. If you’re going to retaliate when someone runs into you, the Third Eye Blind concert is a better place to do it than at the Slayer concert – Gen Xer’s are too jaded to fight back.

5) Don’t crowd surf (period)

Just don’t. If you really want to get violated by strangers, do it on your own time, don’t do it when I’m trying to watch a show. Especially if you’re trying to surf TOWARDS the stage, because no one can see you coming, so you end up risking injury to yourself and others.

At the very packed Walk the Moon show (why they got put on a small/free stage, I’ll never know), after hours of getting my ass kicked by the ever pressing crowd, getting nearly choked by my own necklace, getting stepped on, pushed about, spilled on, etc. by all the youths, I was pretty well at my wit’s end. That’s when the highest white chick you ever saw came and surfed her foot right into my head. Her friends were shouting words of encouragement, urging the crowd to pass her forward. But the second she hit me, I was done. I hulked out as she came above me and wrenched her down, saying, “No effin’ way, sweetheart, you’re done, you’re coming down.” I was like a mom lifting a car off of her child: pure adrenaline and rage. I held and safely lowered to the ground a girl who was at least of equal body weight, and about as mobile as a sack of potatoes. AKA I was awesome.

NOTE: the exception to this rule is if you’re with the band. The Flaming Lips literally put their lead singer in a hamster ball and he rolled over the crowd while singing. That is not only the awesomest thing ever; it’s also the only acceptable form of crowd surfing.

6) Wear deodorant, please

When there are so many people packed into a small space, in the summertime, for hours, all dancing around and drunk… sweat happens. Please put on your deo. Because otherwise, every time you put your hands up, because they’re playing your song, the butterflies will not fly away…. they’ll just die… because you stink.

So go get your groove on, friends, and enjoy the summer festival season. Just follow the rules, and don’t get to the point where you become THAT guy / girl…

Note that most of these stem from the events of this past Saturday night at the our-music-fest-is-better-than-yours event of the year: Summerfest.

Discontinued Identity

If there is one thing that consumerism has taught me over the years, it’s this simple fact: if you love something, buy it in multiples. Finally find that pair of jeans that fit just right? Buy two pairs. That t-shirt with the perfect cut that makes your boobs look great but is also “work appropriate?” Yeah, get it in every color. Buy the rainbow. Why? Because the capitalist wheel keeps on spinning and that thing you love will be replaced by something newer and shinier tomorrow. And you'll find yourself waiting six years to buy jeans that aren't "skinny" or "jegging" cut. 

If you love something, don't let it go... stockpile it.
And guard it with a shark.

That being said, deodorant companies have only worsened my hoarding instinct over the years. As was the case of religion, politics, and music, I held the same views on deodorant as my mother until my teen years. She used the purple deodorant, so I used the purple deodorant. Nothing simpler than that: if it was good enough for my mama, it was alright by me. During my age of decisiveness, I opted to switch to a sweet strawberry scented teen brand of deo. My pits were a strawberry patch. I literally smelled of Teen Spirit. I was invincible. This continued (sorry, world) well into my college years.

Then one day, I went to the store, and it seemed they were out of stock. No worries, I had a second stick in my gym bag, that’d be fine till I could get to another store. A week later, a different store, no sign of it. It was then the horror struck: it had been discontinued. Panic set in as I ransacked store after store, gathering up the last precious sticks. Two. Two to last me a lifetime. I thought I could ration, but I knew it was no good and eventually switched back to the purple stick. My mom’s trusted brand that smelled like her, not me.

Resigned to having lackluster pits, smelling of “fresh scent” and not of strawberry fields forever, I instead found my identity in my body spray. Boys of that age were crisscrossing themselves with gallons of Axe, and girls made a point to only crush on gents who sported the scent of their favorite colored can.  Being too young for proper perfume, I turned to the vast collection at Bath and Body works and found my signature. A simple scent: Black Raspberry Vanilla. Anyone who knows me and has any inkling of what I smell like knows that my natural body scent is now actually this spray. I cross myself more times with this scent than my grandma does at church on Sundays (spritzing in the name of the Bath, the Body, and the Works). Needless to say, I go through it fairly swiftly.

I should’ve known that couldn’t last. And one day I found it lacking on the shelves at B&BW. Panicked, the lady explained it was temporary replaced with some new line. NEW LINE?? This scent was a SIMPLE classic. It’s like discontinuing apple! Or pear – which they should actually discontinue because it smells atrocious. But no, they took it out on my scent instead.

The next time I found it, I bought three bottles. The time after that, three more. The bottle kept changing, but I had a quiet little stockpile going. I saw they brought it back and I figured I was safe. But a recent trip back, with a coupon in hand, found that it was once again gone. Several attempts at other stores and it’s still lacking. Despite my dislike of ordering things online, I may soon turn to the internets, as it is apparently still in abundance in some hidden warehouse somewhere, slowly expiring, and if I don’t get my hands on it, it will be past the point of perfection and I will once again have to wander the world without my scent. Smelling of no one. A wisp of nothingness lingering about me.

Sigh.  I know I can’t BE forever young, but couldn’t the world at least let me smell like my youth for a little bit longer? Is that so much to ask?

Laissez les bons temps roulez... while you still can!
For the end is nigh.

A Drop in the Bucket

I have always been a firm believer that life can be broken down into three main parts: childhood, adulthood, and second childhood. Sure, there are lovely gray areas in between, but largely life is just one jolly bell curve, with the early years mimicking the later years in many ways. A person rises up out of the dependence in their youth, to being strong and independent, and then slides back down and out into dependence again.  

As a child and as an elderly person, naps and mushy food are totally acceptable. As is saying whatever it is on your mind – although sometimes that can be less endearing and more so bitter with age, your years on this earth can still serve as a passable excuse to be as vocal as you want. The depth perception of a child is that of a tiny drunkard, and as eyesight begins to wane, older people also find themselves in strange battles with objects that are closer than they appear. Just ask my grandma. Lucky thing we built her garage with a doggie-door style back wall so when she decided to go through it with her car it just opened right up for her to go off-roading in the back yard. No harm done. Just like the little kid who runs into the glass patio door.

Certain things that might be okay on either side of the bell curve, however, fall into the “frowned upon” category for the middle “adulthood” section and its surrounding gray zones. Like having someone else make your appointments for you (thanks, mom) or not wearing pants in public. Negative adult points.

Other things you just never really expect to happen in the middle zone. Like getting shampoo in your eyes. Remember the “no tear” baby shampoo and how somehow not getting soap in your eyeballs was a huge struggle? And then suddenly it wasn’t anymore? I’ve gotten shampoo in my eyes maybe twice in the past ten years. Both times were absolutely awful, entirely unexpected, and followed by great distress. We all take pain-free shampooing for granted. Just like the other key thing you never expect to happen in the middle zone… peeing your pants.

Yeah, it's kind of like that. Ominous. 

A particularly jovial happy hour filled with obnoxious cry-laughing with the lady-pals can of course bring a gal to jokingly blurt out how she may just pee her pants, but the odds of it actually happening are slim. You’re a g’damn lady, and will have none of that nonsense. Lest alone in public and in front of friends who would hold that over your head till the grave.

Then one day as you’re leaving work, you think, “Hm, maybe I should use the restroom before I drive home.” Naw. You’ll be fine. But as you leave, your co-workers kidnap you to happy hour. Distracted, you throw back a few diet cokes and some gossip and then head out, bladder forgotten. Walk to your car, hit the road. It’s only after the first pothole that you realize. You might not make it. Every pothole after is excruciating. You accelerate, silently praying that you don’t hit any red lights. But you do. You hit every single one. And end up behind that vehicle that is inexplicably going 26 in a 30 zone. 30 MEANS 35, you soulless monster! They are obviously doing it on purpose. This is all some sort of penance.

Thirty blocks from home, you concede and pull off in the ghetto to stop at a gas station. The kind of gas station with bullet-proof glass around the cashiers and with no rolly hot dog machine.  Where you wish you could bring your car into the bathroom with you so it doesn’t get scared being left alone in this neighborhood. This is a place you’ve never even thought to stop at before. You hit the bullet-proof wall, an uncanny desperation in your voice, and quickly ask for the location of the restroom. Employees only, they say. Only. Employees. After a fruitless exchange in which you kindly plea for them to make an exception, you threateningly throw it out there that it’s actually illegal to withhold the use of a restroom from someone with certain medical conditions. They ask what condition you have. You scoff/shriek and sprint out of the gas station. This argument through the glass is wasting precious time.

That thirty blocks turns into a waking nightmare. You finally arrive home, now walking slowly so as not to jostle the contents of your overly pissed off bladder. Go to open the door. The keys fall from your hand. Looking down at them on the ground, you want to shed a single tear. How could you possibly bend over to get them? There is NO way that could end well. 

This is the point of no return. 

A deep breath and a moment of decision later and you have rapidly dropped, grabbed the keys, thrown open the door and begun sprinting like the devil up your stairs, down the hall and into the bathroom. You and your dignity made it. This time…

Hostess with the Mostest

Nothing screams “adult” more than hosting an event or having a house guest. In doing so, you’re saying, “Look, I have my own space, which constitutes a home, and I wish to invite you into my fabulously adult dwelling and show you how neat my adult life is.” It’s a power move. And usually fun as hell to boot.

Having hosted a fancy Wine and Cheese Party, more than one pyramid scheme sales event, and a wedding-centerpiece-making Glue Gun and Cocktails night, I feel as though I sufficiently have the event hosting bit down. Nailed it. Hosting a guest for an extended period of time is a whole ‘nother ballgame.

First off, you’ve got the prep. This entirely depends on the guest coming.

Dust elephants, you're not invited to the party.

If it’s my mom or someone who’s never been to my place before, it’s a week-long scrub down event, culminating in a last minute scramble the day of. Side A of my Neil Diamond Classics (the early years) album played in looped until every detail is settled – it’s approximately 15 minutes long, which helps with timing things. This scrubbing also involves organizing the freshly purchased "healthy" snacks in the fridge (a far cry from the dozen takeout boxes that you just emptied the contents of - into your belly, no wasting). Upon their arrival, I casually apologize that my place is such a mess, and act as though it’s typically more spotless than this even and right now is in total disarray. It’s all about perception.

If it’s someone who’s been to my place previously (an old college pal, my sister, etc.) then it really comes down to the wire. I spend about a week evaluating how much cleaning I have to do before they arrive, while lazily doing nothing. Maybe laundry so I have towels for them. Then it all comes down to the hours before their arrival, a total frantic scramble. No Neil Diamond. All club music with a beat to match my pace. Sometimes there’s a cocktail involved. Hide all the things and hope they don’t open any drawers or doors. Do all this scrambling in a tank and shorts, because you’ll be sweating if you’re doing it right. Quick shower and show up at the door looking like you’ve just been lounging about, awaiting their arrival. Cool as a cucumber at Lambeau. Apologize for the mess. Normally it’s (more) spotless.

In both circumstances, there’s a list to be made. Must check things off the list. Check them off even if you didn’t do them, but actually do at least half the things. This list again varies drastically depending on who is being hosted.

Note how the "Mom" list is meticulous, room-by-room cleaning, and is several pages long.
The "Friend" list involves hydrating, stocking the fridge and stretching out "party pants."
The owl notebook judges no one.

With old friends especially, or frequent guests, the key to hosting is simple: snacks, drinks, sheets, towels and TP. The rest falls into place as needed.  You’ve got this. Best host ever.

AND. On the bright side, no matter how on point you are with getting everything ready as quickly as possible before their arrival… they’ll still show up late anyways. So sit back, have a cocktail (and/or write a quick blog post) and get ready to host the hell out of them once they mosey on in. Because you’re a g’damn adult. This is what you were born to do.

We All Scream for Ice Cream

It’s a known fact that if I eat chocolate, of any variety, I will end up with chocolate on some odd spot on my body. All over my face, on my elbow, on my foot: it’s bound to end up somewhere. This is my curse. And this contributes directly to my adventure of the night. My fate was already sealed.

In case you’ve forgotten, physical exertion (other than actual manual labor, which I relish) and I don’t necessarily get along. But, plagued with my walrus complex, I’ve been continuing to attempt to sneak in exercise. Tonight’s plan: walk to get froyo at the local home of my delicious obsession. It’s only a mile walk to get there, so seemed plenty reasonable. Plus, there would be froyo for dinner. Worth it.

Donned the workout garb (so the world would take my efforts seriously as I marched down the sidewalk) and popped in the ear buds. Hit the streets, my little drawstring backpack jingling as my keys collided with my wallet. A dozen strides into my jolly stroll to victory and I suddenly felt the humidity, noticed the ominous dark clouds, saw the wind jostle the trees around me… a storm was coming. I knew I should just turn back, but got hit with a freakish determination instead. There was no way I was going home empty-handed.

Halfway to my destination, I knew I wasn’t going to be the storm and instead opted to duck into a grocery store. It may not be as magical as picking between twenty flavors and adding on any topping imaginable, but I figured a half gallon of ice cream might do the trick. Might make me feel better about the lack of froyo, freeze my sorrows, etc. Not one to waste a trip to the grocery store, I also grabbed a grapefruit, two yogurts, a pack of gum and some waffles. Seriously, it didn’t make sense to me either, but I’m compulsive so it happened. And it all got rapidly stuffed into my tiny drawstring backpack at the checkout, in my frantic race against time.

Back outside, the sky was eerily dark, with rays of sun attempting to break the clouds on the horizon. The wind was gale force. And I was screwed.

I slung the bag over my shoulders and took off at a fast pace, hoping for the best. At the intersection, I stood impatiently, getting knocked about by the wind, sweating buckets in the humidity. And then, something worse… I had been so distracted in getting home that I didn’t realize. Despite the heat, my back was FREEZING. The ice cream was pressed squarely into my back, and by the sound of it, was melting rapidly. The signal changed.

The situation was now desperate. I broke into a jog, but the drawstring bag jumped around too much. I pulled the strings close to me so it wouldn’t bounce, but that just pulled the ice cream closer into my body heat. Attempting to arch my back so it wouldn’t melt the ice cream, I went into a half jog, half gallop. Realizing that I probably resembled a drunken Quasimodo staggering his way home, I decided to hell with it and just started running.

And that’s when the grapefruit exploded.

It had decided to give up on life, just like me. So I let out my now standard “why me?!” exasperated howl (somewhere between a sigh, a King Kong holler and a yodel)  and continued my sprint home as the grapefruit juice and ice cream soup pooled up on my back and dripped its way down my side. There was no way in hell I wasn’t going to make it home before it started raining, after all that.

Sweaty and beaten, my drawstring backpack leaking on my leg, in a total huff, I arrived back to my apartment. My neighbors were unpacking their kids from their after-school activities. The small ginger girl child who always wears a rainbow tutu glared at me, a bottle of water in her hand. I judged her drinking bottled water almost as much as she judged my disheveled appearance. Politeness was exchanged with the parents. And I ducked past my birds and into my home, putting an end to the madness.

I’d also like to point out that at the time of posting this, it still has not rained. And the ice cream soup, it was delicious. Sigh.

You can't see from this angle where the chocolate ended up,
but I assure you, the curse remains stubbornly intact.

Poo-tee-weet?

So, I accidentally electrocuted a bird last summer. 

But not on purpose, I assure you.

Last summer I came home from work, and walking up my steps to my front door I saw something hanging down from my over-door light. A slight believer in bad omens, I shrieked and jumped back. There was definitely something dangling there, and I was almost certain it was a bat. But a bat hanging around in broad daylight?? Probably had rabies, or was actually a vampire or something. CLEARLY couldn't be trusted, whatever it was.

After shaking my keys at it (and then frantically moving to protect my face) and yelling and trying to get it to move, it was still there. So I took out my trusty camera (yes, no smart phone here) and took a photo of it. Then made the mad dash inside (yelling profanities all the way) and sent the pic out to the Internets to tell me what it was. Several suggestions arose. Probably a bat. Maybe a vampire. Couldn't be trusted, whatever it was. A vampire bat in broad daylight like that. AKA No one knew.

Returned downstairs to the peephole and tried to see. That was no good, the light was directly above and the peephole has the peripheral vision of my grandma. So I creaked open the door and dared to pop my head out and check. And there it was… it was a frickin' bird. A stone-cold, dead hanging bird.

The bird and its bird family had moved in several weeks prior and built itself a big old nest up inside my over-door light. It had been a welcomed change from when the birds would nest and mate on top of my in-window A/C unit in my bedroom. They got far too rowdy far too early for my liking when they were there. The over-door was much less noisy. Of course, I was always scared to leave that light on, lest I fry up their eggs, so I often had to key my way in in the dark if it was late. And they also liked to leave twigs and bird shit all over my stoop. But overall I had no qualms.

The nest. Before the incident.

Until the little bastard decided to die above my threshold. That was just plain rude. And I couldn't just LEAVE it dangling there. It would start to get weird and decayed, and no one would ever want to come visit me. So I knew it needed to go.

Called pest control. Explained that I had a dead, probably rabid, bird hanging and needed it removed. “Is it on private property?… then we can’t help you.” Fine.

Called the DNR. Explained the festering, probably diseased bird that was going to plague all the other animals and asked if they could come remove it. But apparently I didn't live in the right county to merit them coming.

Several other calls to every other wildlife agency I could find online and excuse after excuse until finally, exasperated, I blurted out to one of them, “WHO am I supposed to call then? I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO COME HELP ME WITH MY DEAD BIRD!” Their suggestion: call the police. Flustered, I told the lady there was no way I was going to call the POLICE about a dead frickin' bird. That was ridiculous.

Several hours later, I called the police.

They couldn't help me either but the nice officer I had on the line gave me what he surely thought were very detailed instructions on how to get rid of the bird myself. Pretty standard: knock it down, pick it up with rubber gloves and double bag that badboy before you throw it away. Now, I’m from “up north,” so nothing about this was too alarming to me. It was more that I had expected that, now that I live IN a CITY, there was someone who took care of this sort of thing. Someone other than me.

So I donned my rubber gloves and sunglasses, grabbed a broom and two garbage bags, and headed outside. After a deep breath, I raised up the broom and nudged at the bird to make it drop down. Nothing. It didn't fall. I poked at it a little harder, kind of swept at it like you would a cobweb in a corner. Nada. Didn't move. Just swayed a bit. The bird was stuck. The foot from which it was dangling was somehow twisted up in the janky wiring system around the light which had been its demise. It wasn't going to budge. It quickly became clear that this was about to be a showdown between me and my dead bird. The winner kept the house.

Panic stricken, I more or less just started wailing and swinging at it like some sort of pinata. It was mortifying. And I’m terribly sorry to say that it took SEVERAL minutes of this madness (note: I live on a main thoroughfare, so I can’t imagine what the passersby were thinking as they witnessed this) before my poor dead bird came loose. With an AWFUL thud/crunch, it hit the ground right at my feet. Babbling nonsense and completely hysterical at this point, I quickly double bagged him and tossed him in the trash. It was horrid. Scarring at best.

Shortly thereafter, I had my landlady clear out the nest and told her we needed to block off that light so it wasn't such an appealing nest basket. I didn't explain my ordeal, and she seemed to think it’d be fine. Needless to say, this spring another family of birds moved in. I pleaded with them. Asked why they didn't understand that they had just moved into a death trap. Didn't they remember their fallen comrade from last summer?? Were they really willing to risk orphaning their baby birds by surrounding a hot bulb with flammable twigs?

Why did you come back, birds? WHY? Save yourselves and go!
(And "Is that really what my hair looks like from the back?")

But they’re just birds. They didn't get my point and just built their nest anyway. They dive bomb me as I get my mail and they shit on my stoop. And some day, another one of those birds is going to meet its maker, and this time they can’t say I didn't warn them...

If I had legs like that, I wouldn't be carrying this watermelon…

A funny thing happens as you get older. A funny thing that I like to call “walrusing.”

When you’re young, with the metabolism of a hummingbird and hobbies such as “playing” and “running around in circles babbling for no reason,” it’s not that hard to stay fit. Even with a diet of mostly mac and cheese (Dear delicious neon orange powder, I love you) and candy. Then one day your metabolism runs off to Vegas with your finance after cleaning out your bank account and there you sit. Next thing you know, you look in the mirror and you’re the main asshat from that “Walrus and the Carpenter” scene in the classic cartoon horror Alice in Wonderland. A big, old walrus wearing a shoddy top hat, smoking a cigar and manipulating innocent oysters into getting in your belly, with the rest of the food. And you think, “Where did I even GET this cigar from? And how did I get to this point?” People see you and think things like, “Why’s that walrus wearing an Ellen vest?” and “Who let that walrus on the dance floor?”

Then you scrape your self-esteem up and pretend to get your act together. Adults eat right and exercise. Those are tops on the daily to-do list of adult things. Right next to doing taxes, dishes and laundry. Or in my case, it’s on the to-do list for a bit and then I get lazy, but then eventually it comes back around.  Of course, with summer coming, it’s time. Because the only options for ladies shorts are daisy dukes or weird knee length ones that make me look creepy and disproportionately short.

After all my walrus talk, the beau suggested a 5k this summer. We’d get in shape together once it got warmer out. But in the meantime, I determined I’d sneak off to the gym and get in shape first, so by the time we were “getting in shape together” I wouldn’t totally embarrass myself by being a wheezy hot mess after half a mile, curled up on the ground with my inhaler. I want to make it very clear: I don’t run unless being chased, or it’s Black Friday. And then I’m a sprinter at best. So, I started with short runs at the gym and outside as it got warmer. Even though I looked mostly insane.

Channeling her inner Garth hair poof...
If she were a president, she would be Baberaham Lincoln.

Then, after accidentally watching MOST of Raiders of the Lost Ark at the gym while running/biking, my knee blew out, puffed up, tweaked, etc. I let it rest and got one of those back Velcro brace things to stabilize my wonky knee. But, to quote the doc, “Some people just aren’t meant to be runners, sweetie.” AKA that running thing is on hold.

So, I decided to try eating healthier. Stop going out to eat at restaurants all the time. Limit the booze. And quickly thereafter, I decided that one out of three ain’t bad. Went to the grocery store and hit the produce. Decided to go big or go home, so I grabbed a giant watermelon and a basket of rainbow rabbit food. Needless to say, it took about five minutes of Jennifer Greying that watermelon around to give up on that crap. Instead of watermelon, I figured an increase of water INTAKE would be close enough. Read somewhere that you should try to drink half your body weight in ounces daily. Still attempting this one and it has lead to several VERY uncomfortably long conference calls at work as her tiny bladder pleads with her. Very H2-Oh-No, if you will… Oooh, I’ve always wanted to make a bad bladder joke! #CuzIm90

Finally, came back around to the “I’ll workout at home” thing. I can look as silly as I want. I can laugh during yoga without getting asked to leave the class, and sing along to my club music instead of just awkwardly mumble lip syncing and hoping no one sees. And of course, I can bust out the Richard Simmons. There is no workout quite like an Oldies Sweating workout! Working out at home is really all about enthusiasm. 

Stretching, not napping, she swears.

Since I play favorites, after watching a hodgepodge of workout videos, I’ve collected up the best and started incorporating them into what I call my “Lazy Girl Upstairs” workout. Since I live above a crazy old lady, all jumping and noise making moves are no good. I opt to only do ninja moves. Also, I try to incorporate them into the rest of my daily doings because I usually have to trick myself into working out. Those will start creeping up on this blog at some point I’m certain…. Because what’s the point of working out if other people don’t know you’re doing it?? If I don’t get credit, then I may as well be the walrus.

(Note: I really don't have a horrid body image of myself. My snarky body image just helps keep my ego in check. Always room for improvement, and tops that don't have muffins.)