At the same time, folks who are interested in reading about CrossFit may not give a crap about my cooking mishaps or disastrous love life.

So!

I’ve created a tumblr called Fat CrossFitter. (Twitter feed here. Facebook page here.) I’ll link to some of my old CrossFit posts but also tell new stories about when I’m up in the gym just workin on my fitness. And I’ll make sure to update everybody with PRs on my HSPU and my new 1RM on HBBS, and OMG, WTF? LOL, I kid you!

Anyway, if you want to hear about the trials and tiny victories of this Fat CrossFitter, well, there you go.

And I’m not slender. I’m not about average. One could argue that I’m athletic, but fuck if I’m toned. I have a lot of jiggly bits.

And I just give up.

Fuck everything.

My public inner monologue about sperm donation started two years ago. If you attended the Monti GrandSLAM last month, you got an update. Stay tuned for more on that topic.

A year ago, I went on a date with “Mike“. It was terrible. (I feel like I should make a “major weenie” joke here… something about what could’ve salvaged the date, but… nope. I got nothin.)

It’s not going much better now. The prospects on Match are 0% higher quality than on OKCupid (“PS NO LIBERALS” read a recent profile), and the algorithm—that I’m paying actual US dollars for—notified me that it had matched me with jls1969 because we had the same birth month.

The same. Birth. Month.

They tried to make it sound better by saying he didn’t smoke either. OH GOOD GOLLY GOSH, a Virgo or maybe a Libra who is also a non-smoker?! Thank you, match.com—it’s everything I ever dreamed! When I was a tiny girl, I used to say, “One day I want to marry a non-smoker who is a Virgo. Or maybe a Libra.”

I mustn’t lose faith. There’s always this guy:

What do I think about him, match.com?

I think him’s a her.

Looks like she thinks him’s a her too.

Of course, the pic looks like a stock photo plucked from a Google Image search for “straight white teeth”, and the profile is almost too perfectly generic. My guess is it’s a new angle on the old Nigerian bank scam.

But! Him/her is not a smoker!

There’s that!!

!!!!

I can’t for the life of me understand why people think I’m jaded.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

I point. “Wow, look at those azaleas! Gorgeous!”

“Yeah,” Dad says appreciatively, “they have all that floral shit over here.”

Eventually, we get an outside table at Tallula’s, a Turkish place I used to go to back in the day. Dad asks for the lamb kebab. I order the sea bass special.

“Whoa, it looks like somebody drove over your fish,” Dad says.

I eat it quickly. Dad looks at my empty plate. “Must’ve been good, run-over or not.”

“It was delicious,” I say. “How’s your kebab?

“Adequate.”

He keeps eating.

“I’ve had worse.”

A few more bites.

“In England, at a Cypriot restaurant. Tasted like braised donkey butt.”

Five more forkfuls.

“This just might’ve been left over from last night.”

He finishes it.

The check comes. Dad looks at the total. “That’s not bad. The bread was good. So was your crushed fish.”

On the way home, Dad narrates all the changes in the landscape over the last 30-odd years.

“How long has that Red Roof Inn been there?!…

I remember when they were building I-40 through here…

That place used to be a small Volkswagen dealership…

(and then waving his hand toward a sea of headstones) They‘ve been there a while, I guess.”

Rarely does my dad laugh at the things that make me laugh because they’re not jokes to him—they’re just his thoughts. But that last one. That last one made us both crack up.

(That’s not true. I got my sense of humor and ability to generate ear wax from my dad.)

Two years ago, I put on my big girl panties and bought a gas-powered mower. I learned so many lessons that day.

One year later and I’m still not in feelings. Pout. Stomp stomp stomp. Wah. Boo-hoo.

Oh yeah. Thanks, post-it.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Mostly it’s just boring prospects like goodchilde [all handles have been changed by the Avid Bruxist, as per uzh], whose last read was Unlimited Power by Anthony Robbins. (He gave it 5 stars.)

Or mlc1973 who enjoys “simple things like meals out, day trips, DVDs, and conversations”. (He’s “quite involved with Conservative activism”.)

Or RaleighComedian, who supposedly performs stand-up but said not one funny thing in his profile. Seriously, not one. But he thought it was important to include this: “I really love fun conversations and I really hate awkward silences.” Hm, yeah. That sets him apart from… exactly zero people in the whole wide world. Right? I mean, do you guys know people who hate fun conversations? ”This conversation is so fun! I’M OUT. FUCK ALL Y’ALL.”

I don’t require that he’s Shakespeare, just that he include one tiny thing in his profile that distinguishes him from the rest.

But aye, there’s the rub: the non-boring ones are only non-boring because of their gigantic red flags.

I appreciate your optimism and support your endeavors, but 2009? Dude. TAKE  A NEW PICTURE. It’s not like you have to go sit for a daguerreotype or something. I bet a THOUSAND DOLLARS you have a camera IN YOUR PHONE. Bathroom mirror, phone–voilà! Selfie. Full disclosure or not, the only reason you posted this photo is because you want women to think you still look/could look like this. And you could! I’m not saying you couldn’t! BUT YOU DON’T. You said it yourself.

Then there’s the dude with a duckface profile pic who says, “i am a good guy” (and later, “Honestly I am a good guy”), but another of his photos is a bathroom mirror selfie (See? He can do it!)… in which he’s wearing a Spiderman costume (no mask) and a baseball cap…  and sporting a half-chub.

Do you believe that? No. You don’t.

I got off OKCupid because of this shit.

To top it off, there’s this:

Yes, Match.com tells me to REPLY… BACK. Not Reply. Reply back. HOW THE FUCK ELSE WOULD I REPLY? ‘REPLY’ ALREADY MEANS ‘WRITE BACK‘. Match.com is grammar-trolling me, and I don’t appreciate it.

And you guys still don’t believe me about Duckface Boner Spiderman. Fine.

FINE.

Happy now? He is.

A couple weeks ago, I was out with some friends, one of whom is also a teacher, and we got to talking about the rubric. For shits and giggles, I suggested we use it to rate ourselves in other aspects of our lives.

Honestly, I can’t remember much—we were a couple cocktails in—except that Meg rated herself Distinguished in both Being Alone and Handling Her Shit (a super-accurate self-assessment), but I’ve been thinking about it lately, and here’s my self-evaluation.

Developing

1. Dressing myself. I still don’t know what looks good, what to buy, or how to put it together. It takes a ton of emotional effort for me to dress up. All I want to wear is jeans, my Obama hoodie, and

these guys.

But I’m getting better. I wore skinny jeans, for Christ’s sake.

2. Dating/being in a relationship. You know how everybody’s always like, “Gahd, another Taylor Swift break-up song?! When is she gonna realize that the only constant in all these situations is her?”?

Yeah, I realize it’s me. I do. I’ve done a lot of work and put myself out there, but clearly I need more practice/support/guidance.

To that end, two things:

(1) In a maneuver I’m calling Amy’s Last-Ditch Campaign to Get Inseminated by a Dude She’d Like to Chill with for Awhile/Maybe Forever (ALDCGIDSLCAMF, for short), I joined Match Fucking Dot Com. For one month. ONE MONTH, and end scene—I shall forever abandon my Sisyphean online dating endeavors.

And (2) to quote Homeland Security: If You See Something, Say Something™. Friends, you have to tell me when you see the metaphorical spinach in my teeth, OK? If there’s some invisible-to-myself road block I’m throwing up, let your girl know. For real.

Proficient

1. You know, as recently as a few months ago, I would’ve put cooking in the Developing category, but I’ve had some pretty consistent victories lately. ‘Member those carnitas? <licks chops>

Also, I marinated chicken. (Me, out on the town with friends: “You guys, I’m marinating chicken right now.” Friend: (pause) “Is it… is it in the fridge?” Hahaha. I couldn’t blame her for checking—I’ve made some questionable judgment calls in the past.)

I made Chinese chicken salad with it.

There’s marinated chicken up in there somewhere, swear to god.

That sludgy business in the jelly jar? Homemade sesame-ginger motherfucking salad dressing. Booyah.

I mean, every once in a while, mistakes are made.

In hindsight, there were a number of points at which a different decision could have rendered a more desirable outcome.

But for the most part, I’m feeding myself yummy, healthy things, so I’m gonna go ahead and declare myself Proficient in the cooking department.

Hubris? Probably.

2. CrossFit. Listen, I’m never going to be competitive. That’s OK. But I’ve been lifting heavy objects for nearly three years, and I’ve got pretty skrong, y’all (265-lb deadlift last night—what what!). And my form on most things is solid. Coach Rich watched me doing snatches the other day, and he said, “God, you’re so good at that.” :)

3. Storytelling/hosting storytelling events. If you’ve seen me at the Monti, I think you’d agree I’m getting better and better.

Accomplished

1. Teaching. I’m a good teacher. I’m not an exceptional teacher. I don’t take work home with me, and I don’t blaze any pedagogical trails, but I try to do cool things with my students, and I work hard to improve my practice every year.

2. Fostering dogs/getting them adopted. Git yer dogs here at Amy’s House o’ Pit Bulls!

3. Blogging. I have a readership. It’s small but, based on a pie chart I only sort of understand, I believe very loyal. (Thanks, guys!)

Distinguished

1. Jackshit.

Except one thing that I won’t share here because this is a family show. ;)

**********

Now you go. Don’t be shy. This is not about judgment. It’s about personal growth.

About this time, two years ago, I posted my first vlogs! I was trying to do food reviews at the time. I was not good at it.

A year ago, I made a list of things I find highly satisfying. Here are a few more:

1. Writing “Rx” in my workout notebook. (In the year 2011, I did five WODs Rx. So far, in 2013, I’ve done five Rx each month. Raaaaaaaaaawr!)

2. Listening to a well-crafted story at the Monti.

3. Seeing all my breakfasts and lunches for the week fixed n’ stacked in the fridge on Sunday afternoon.

4. Staying out too late on a Saturday night with my friends.

5. Shit my dad says. (Dad, a definitively not rich man, recently: “You need any money? You got any dogs that need operating on or anything?”)

You have things to add to your list?

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

And I felt all right, you know. They’re Calvin Klein (thus reasonable quality, I guess? I don’t know these things) and made of stretchy fabric, so they’re comfortable. And the way they felt, the way they fit, I kind of found myself strutting around like Sandy at the end of Grease, when she’s got all that skin-tight business on.

But looking in the mirror/at the picture…

my torso sits atop twin ice cream cones.

I just don’t dig the shape—so very narrow at the ankles, and so very expansive at the child-birthers. It looks like, if I put my feet together, everything would get wicked precarious wicked fast. The tiniest tectonic movement, and I’d be supine. (Especially in my super-cute, red leather wedge sandals [that, like every other pair of heels, make my feet lose all feeling for 2-5 days].)

This fayshun stuff is hard. (My first-world problems are so hard.)

But the important thing is I’m making progress, right?

I think so. There seems to be another side effect now.

Klima: our deodorant is so strong, it’ll eat your bathrobe.

And white Ts. And one hoodie.

I looked online and couldn’t find any reviews about Klima shredding the armpits of your clothes. All the same, maaaaaaybe gonna lay off for awhile.