Contractual Obligations

I make a point of entering into very few contracts, or situations whereby I'm somewhat obligated to perform.  I find that I manage to keep most folks happy and my "free time" maximized by moving through the world with soft expectations and so far everyone seems fine with that. 

I have made a few exceptions, and they continue to remind me that if something seems too good to be true, it really probably is. and it'll probably end up causing me pain in the end...

My first major contract began when I was 12 years old and in negotiations with my father for my first pony.  Mind you I was a horse-crazy, pony-obsessed girl and only now do I realize what a strong negotiating position my dad held.  My 12 year old self would have easily agreed to a life of servitude, household chores and any other distasteful compensation if he would just give me that god damn adorable pony.

In exchange for the pony, Dad required only three promises in exchange for the pony and none of them had anything to do with me ending up like Cinderella... I was convinced that my father had foolishly squandered his opportunity and that I was basically getting my pony for free. 

All I had to swear to was:

1) No French kissing until high school.
2) No sex until College
3) Grandchildren by 30.

I'm not sure that they have clocks capable of recording the nearly nonexistent amount of time that passed before I shouted "YES!" and fetched my promised pony, but as far as I was concerned, I hit the jackpot.  Big time.

For one thing, boys were gross (and even if they weren't I had no intention of french kissing anything. ever).
Secondly, who needs sex when you have a pony (I consider this statement to still be relevant).
And lastly, who turns THIRTY.  I mean really, I'm pretty sure that at the time, I considered 30 to be the age at which you have one foot in the grave... so who cares if I'm popping out kids by then anyway.

The moral of the story is that, my dad is a sneaky, sneaky man and only now am I realizing the consequences of such an agreement - as I am now nearing 30, do not feel as though one foot is in the grave yet, and definitely haven't produced any of the required grandchildren.  I give my dad a lot of credit for his long term planning and general cunning nature, and also blame him for my skepticism in making contractual agreements.

Flash forward several years and I unwittingly entered into another one.  The Boy has an obnoxious ability to maintain serious amounts of lean muscle mass on not much more than whiskey, chewy sprees, cheddar, ramen and pepperoni.  Every once in a while I get on a soap box and bitch that its not fair, but I usually muzzle myself fairly quickly since his good fortune does me no harm and who am I to complain if he stays pretty and useful for lifting things without hours and hours in a gym?

Realistically, my only worry is that at some unforeseen point The Boy's magic metabolism will slam to a stop, and the mysteriously prominent abs will fade away...

Enter Contract #2 - The Boy promises to maintain his stomach definition if I promise to never let that pretty line on my leg (you know the one between your quad and hamstring that makes you look shapely and athletic?) fade away under triple-cream cheeses and cured meat plates.

EASY.  even at my worst (freshman 15.. err. 30..) my legs looked great.  My body has proven that it will find REALLY odd places to stick excess cheese/fat/grease before it attaches it to my legs.  Its resulted in some strange shapes, and difficultly buying jeans, but ultimately the leg-line has always survived.

Until now.

A few weeks ago I crossed my legs while out for drinks (not helping the situation, I know) only to realize that the leg crossing, which usually exaggerates the leg-line, failed to produce even a hint of quad, or hamstring underneath my (mostly) tan and (somewhat) smooth skin. 

CRAP.

Further inspection later revealed that some cellulite is beginning to show itself which has NEVER, EVER EVER even thought to show its ugly dimply head anywhere near my (relatively) skinny stick legs.

CRAP CRAP CRAP.

so its been lots of cardio and lots of lunges and lots of sprints on the bike.  I will tolerate a squishy stomach, I will even tolerate losing nicely defined arms, but I REFUSE to lose my leg-line, it not for my self esteem then definitely as my collateral regarding The Boy's lovely stomach.

So the legs are getting attacked.  They hurtt, there is pain, and once again these stupid effing contracts are turning out to be more work on my part than I would have ever thought....

                                                   

The stick legs --------------------->

(Pictured here in an early 2007 heyday)

 They will return.

'Tis the season...

To get wasted with your coworkers. This will begin in approximately 20 minutes when I crack a beer at the office. It will most likely quickly disintegrate into Jameson (yes that is actually my office)

I used to try and stay mostly sober, preserve my dignity, reputation, etc. But with time and job security one tends to let her guard down. It's been one hell of a week and I am ready for it to be over. Well over. As in, let's not remember this week over.

Happy Holidays!


p.s. speaking of jobs, I took this photo when I was out in the field yesterday. Let's just say I was deep in the field. If anyone has any explanations, I'd be excited to know what the hell is going on here...

(I can't help but think of the Lion King when Simba and Nala go to the elephant graveyard)

Oh Dear.

So, you know that point when you're watching TV late at night (or at 11am on a weekday) usually in sweats and looking nothing short of disheveled when you see ads or infomercials or whatever and you find yourself watching them for WAY longer than you should? 
Well I've decided that as body dysmorphia increases, willingness to entertain gadegets/crash diets/fat absorbing pills increases exponentially. I'm sure there's a quadradic formula to be solved somewhere in there, but I don't care.

Basically, in my current mental state I am very susceptible to anything that may (however minimally) contribute to any sort of fitness or weight loss.  Combine this with a hungover trip to Nordstrom on Sunday with the girls and you've got a desperate girl in the women's shoe section eyeballing those new walking shoes that promise to lift your ass, tone your thighs and make you generally smarter with every step you take in them.  Obviously I purchased them, and although I know that I wasn't thinking totally clearly (other purchases include gray suede pumps made by FERGIE, really?!) I'm confident that these new ass toning-thigh tightening-smarter making shoes are significantly less retarded looking than the ones on the market a few years ago (let's hope).  I chose the darling option of silver/gold in the hopes that I might actually wear them and not just throw them in the back of my closet...

As with most new things I've been wearing them almost exclusively (still haven't rocked the Fergie pumps.. but I'm sure that has nothing to do with their soft, shiny trashy selves, I'm just waiting for the right "occasion"... maybe stripping?). Anyway, I was brave enough to wear them to the gym yesterday with The Trainer, which was a bit of a risk.  Mostly because The Trainer has a total shoe fetish and is a little judgey-judgey when it comes to athletic footwear and these shoes, while an improvement might still look a little ridiculous.  Fortunately they passed the test (I think it was the metallic sheen that saved me..).  UNfortunately, while they are really super comfy to walk in and feel like normal shoes with a little extra squish, they are HELL to workout in.  I guess I mean "hell" in a good way, because whatever "balance ball technology" is on the bottom of these god damn shoes make weight lifting and any other balance exercise 20x more difficult. 

One leg deadlifts are somewhat painful on my best days, but in these things I almost died.  My poor calf muscles nearly melted off trying to keep my big fat legs upright and not rolling off to one side or the other. The Trainer was remarkably unapologetic, but I think I got back at him when we did "pull ups" because I"m fairly certain that I forced him to support 95% of my body weight while I struggled with the last 20lbs or so.. take that big strong black guy, YOU can support my expanding self for 4 sets of 8 pathetic attempts to lift myself up.... 

These days I usually leave hte gym in a significant amount of pain, but yesterday was a new low/high depending on how you look at it.  I literally could not stand up straight for the rest of the day, and this morning was no improvement. 

As of now the shoes are off and I'm plotting my next meal, but I must say that I'm somewhat surprised that this particular gadget kicked my ass so hard.  Maybe I should explore other products that appear to over promise and under deliver?  So far I've only been wearing the shoes, but maybe they'll still work if I just snuggle with them like this girl..

Can't hurt, right?

Bring it back

It's interesting.  The weekend was a wonderful one.  Filled with endless champagne, food and friends, yet everyone seems a bit worse for the wear on the flipside.

And I don't mean in the "oops I ate and drank all weekend and now I feel like crap" way - I mean, in the "oops my life as I know it seems to be exploding and now I have to deal with it" way. Which, all things considered is less desirable than the food/booze hangover which always resolves itself in 36 hours MAX.

let's start with the good:

Friday - lovely ladies arrive and we immediately sprint back to the Eastside for a suburban retreat complete with pizza (DELICIOUS) and wine. I call this "the introduction" (which is similar to that sleezey guy, "the situation" but this is better).  "The Introduction" means that we basically have an unwind time. No makeup, no getting dressed, no going out, just food and good red wine and crappy television.  "The Introduction" is critical for setting up the tone and camaraderie of a girls weekend.  Also, this is the all important time when you catch up on drama, upset, intrigue and any juicy details that will need to be joked about/referenced/fixed during the rest of the weekend.  Basically "The Introduction" always rocks.

Saturday - Awake, caffeinate, walk suburban roads to DELICIOUS cafe and eat delicious things.  well, mostly delicious things.  McCloud and I experimented with "Eggs Rodolfo" which aside from sounding a little dirty involved plantains in our scrambled eggs.  It was AWFUL.  Thank god everything at the aforementioned cafe comes with a full bagel, cream cheese and jam.  We did not go hungry.

 Big breakfasts warrant "walking them off" so walk we did.  Right down the block to our favorite boutiques.  We successfully navigated the totally drool inducing show store without any damage, but fell face first at the ever lovely "La Ree" and managed to walk out with jeans, sweaters, vests and other delicious things. Kudos us. Apparently, whenever we aren't eating we're consuming in another manner...

Since the walk home was mostly uphill and we had precious loot in tow, a "ride" seemed prudent so we popped into a brunch spot for some champagne while we waited for our chariot (read: my dad) to show up.  Once home it was two more bottles of bubbles, a hot tub overlooking the water and for McCloud and one brave guest a polar bear dip in the lake (thank YOU champagne..).  So ended our relaxed suburban retreat, and we headed to the city for a night at the W, food, shots, and dancing.



It's important to note that one of the best parts of a girls weekend is the opportunity to "get dressed" as a group.  I say "get dressed" because getting dressed is a minor part of it. there's much more dancing, jumping, clothes swapping, drinking (bubbles - POP) and shenanigans than there is actually getting ready to go.  I think this instance clocked in at around 3 hours.  it was great.  Two MORE bottled of bubbles, one makeshift flask of gin, and an emergency nail file later we were (mostly) ready to go, and for the most part everyone was in borrowed clothing (another massive benefit of multiple-girl-dressing-events).

First it was steak and shots at a local grill where we know the bartender all too well (she has an uncanny ability to make a shot out of whatever food or drink you're craving.. its sort of like Willy Wonka, and I know it sounds gross, but its a GREAT talent).  We ended up dancing the night away at a local dive and dealing with big drunk dudes all night.  Sometimes that's fun, sometimes it not.  Also, I almost punched a lesbian.  I'm considering it a victory that I did not.  About the time the DJ started playing songs from the Grease soundtrack, we took our leave.

Sunday required lots of recovery.  Thankfully for us, McCloud had purchased tickets to Dina Martina's Christmas Show.  Because if there's anything that cures a hangover, its a drag queen singing carols and lil' smokies in your bloody mary.

I need to pause on this for a moment: LIL SMOKIES + vodka. WHO KNEW.  It's terrifying at first, but then delicious and genius.  AND ultimately it fulfills the need for a street dog later on!.   I can't even count how many birds I just killed with that stone, but I'm sure that it constitutes a small flock. 

After our matinee entertainment, attention turned to preparing for YET ANOTHER big dinner out (back to our local foodie hotspot) and another opportunity for a multiple-girls-dressing-event.  This time the prep happened back at my condo, and the boy (who is still sick, though mostly better) commented that the place looked like a "Lady Bomb" had gone off.  Apparently a "Lady Bomb" means that there are at least three pairs of shoes, 2 skirts, 1 dress, 4 tops and 3 pairs of jeans (or "jaeggings if you're boldly embracing the stretch pants comeback) strewn about my 850sf space for every "lady" who is getting ready.

I'm fairly certain that we all looked stunning, and I wish I took a picture of the damage done in the process but my camera was apparently buried under the aforementioned Lady Bomb.

The next several hours were comprised of delicious cocktails, treats and multiple courses and it looked something like this -

Holy crap we ate a lot, and just as before, it was always delicious.  Apparently it's also good that we ate a lot since this was about the point in the weekend when things started to unravel.  I'm less concerned with the details as this point, but do know that another went according to plan after oooh, let's say the second course and it resulted in the girls weekend disseminating across a 10 block radius.  Oops. oh well, it was good while it lasted?


Flash forward to the cold hard week.  Everyone's home safe and sound but unfortunately the good vibes of the weekend haven't lasted.  One of us returned to a strained (estranged?) relationship, the other is currently preparing for her spouse to undergo invasive facial surgery, another is currently receiving legal threats from an ex, and i'm bumbling along trying to figure out what the hell I do to help (from afar? close? why is everyone sad!?)

My only recourse is to keep my wine supply stocked, cookies in the cabinet and wrap up some god damn Christmas cheer before something else happens.

Oh Holidays.

It's Hard.

To stick to my mantra of Own Your Actions when I can't seem to remember my actions.

I can't seem to remember my actions due to the first line in the mantra which is: Live in the Moment. Shit, my mantra is in a fight with itself.


What's a girl to do?!?

Quit drinking delicious bourbon? Quit drinking my emotions? (seems better than eating them...until you try and kiss with your married friend: Oreos, Ice Cream, hell, even straight bacon fat no longer sound so detrimental)

I give myself a week of abstaining 'til I get bored and immediately goldfish it and forget the lessons of this week...which my therapist is trying to convince me are not actually "failures." (read: line 3 of the mantra).

xoxo,

broken McCloud.

Ditto.

Two out of the past three meals have been spinach salads. This is impressive. I feel one hell of a bender fast approaching. YAY for out-of-town guests.

Ouch. (round II)

I'm trying to think of something witty, but I can't because everything on my body hurts.  Abs, legs, arms, eyeballs... they are all sore.  Which is good, I think.  Though I can't be certain. 

So far the workouts are going ok.  I'm currently be wrecked by literally HALF the weight that I used to lift, which is a sad sad statement on how bad 'the situation' has gotten. 

McCloud is indulging me by joining the morning workouts which is great, because even though we aren't actually eating or drinking, we still talk about it, which makes the time pass faster.  Is that a red flag? I can't even figure THAT out right now....  ow.

Good thing all this good behavior is about to slam to a stop.  In exactly 7 hours our long lost friend (currently lost in Kansas) is flying in for a much needed weekend of debauchery.  So far the itinerary has nothing but restaurants, wine, spa-ing and a drag show on it.   what more can a girl ask for?

So, if we're on radio silence for a few days its because the three of us are busy either causing a ruckus, or resting up for the next round of ruckus-ness (a la the scene to the left). 


Happy Weekend!