Today I arm-wrestled the boys in my first period class. Only one of them beat me. (Yes, they’re 12 years old; what’s your point?) The one that beat me is hella strong—at least three inches taller than me and wide as a high school football player. We might actually have a 21 Jump Street situation on our hands.
Two years ago, I was trying to come to terms with the fact that the Universe didn’t want me to make any money. The Universe still doesn’t want me to make any money. I’m starting to think maybe this teaching thing is not where the big bucks are. Jobs where I’ll make more money and still have at least 10 weeks off per year, go! (Nota bene: U.S. Congress is out. [See: this blog.])
I rediscovered a year ago that I can’t have Girl Scout Cookies in my house. I also rediscovered that same exact thing two weeks ago. I imagine I’ll rediscover it every year until they put me in the goddamn ground.
I already put my two cents in the comments on his page, but I present them here for you: one penny plus one penny plus maybe a few more haypennies, on the world’s most ridiculous list of “tips” for women’s strength training by über-glute, Bret Contreras. (He admits that “many aren’t really tips, just observations”. Uh duh.)
11. Women absolutely love it when they perform their first legitimate push-up and chin-up, and many love doing “masculine” things in the gym such as pushing sleds
Guess what else I absolutely love: everything that’s difficult that I work toward and then accomplish. So masculine! Gosh, between getting a Master’s, fostering pit bulls, and walking two marathons, it’s remarkable I haven’t grown a penis.
65. Some women make sexual-sounding grunts when lifting; men grunt but it doesn’t sound sexual
Here we have a classic case of Auditory Hallucinations for the Heterosexual-Heteronormative Male.
55. A small percentage of women possess what I call “Tasmanian devil syndrome,” characterized by a barrel chest with two chicken legs – this is the hardest body type to improve!
Because that body type is wrong—WRONG. If you’re apple-shaped, your genes are WRONG. And hard to improve! (Your body needs to be improved!)
64. Women don’t tend to care as much about science and research – anecdotes are often sufficient for evidence
and
18. Certain female sexual positions might contribute to women possessing good hip mobility and pelvic control (ex: ones that have the woman in a deep squat position, ones that have the woman in a bridge position, ones that have the woman rocking their hips back and forth, etc.)
LOL-ing at this juxtaposition. Studies upon studies, so much of the scientific evidence proving that Reverse Cowgirl helps my front squat.
But it is true that my vagina makes me hate research, so what do I know?
52. Where women store fat varies dramatically between women – typical problematic areas for fat storage are the inner thighs, buttocks, and back of the arms, however some struggle in the lower abdominal and lower back regions too
LOL-ing again. Absolutely no awareness—not even a synapse in the general direction—that “problematic areas for fat storage” is a social/cultural construct.
61. Women sometimes dress very sexy for the gym and are then annoyed when males show interest while they’re training, which on the surface doesn’t make the best of sense.
7. Many women have unhealthy attitudes about their body images
Couldn’t be because some bonehead said they look like a Tasmanian Devil, could it?
56. Most women have well-intentioned male friends who give them horrendous advice pertaining to their goals
No. NO. Like who? Who might do that?! I can’t think of anybody who, for example, would make a list of 120 “tips” for women’s strength training, many of which are misogynistic/moronic.
What complete and utter bullshit—except WAIT.
9. Some women have “coregasms” when training, and the hanging leg raise is the primary culprit (these orgasms usually aren’t welcomed as they’re inconvenient)
Um. Can this be taught? Two birds, you know?
(Unwelcome orgasm? That’s like an undelicious s’more.)
When I was in Italy, my host sister washed her hair on Saturday evenings. That was it. Once a week. So did most of my friends. Everybody thought I was bananas for washing my hair every day.
And they were right. So much work. Washing, conditioning, drying. Drying’s the worst.
I’ve been semi-obsessed with going No Poo (grossest/most red-herringy name for a thing ever?—yes), or at least Less Poo, for over a decade. Aside from not having to dry it and avoiding rubbing chemicals directly into my scalp underneath which sits my brain just begging for cancer of itself, think how much money I’d save over the course of a lifetime if I didn’t buy shampoo or conditioner. Let’s be conservative and say five bucks a month, times twelve months, times (let me go ahead and give myself another) 50 years… that’s three grand! That’s a trip somewhere cool!
The internets say that, as a super-cheap option, you can wash your hair with baking soda and condition it with vinegar. (And if you do them at the same time, woohoo—science project!) I’ve used them. I thought rinsing with vinegar would make me smell like salad dressing all day, but no, it was fine. However, baking soda is a mite harsh on the old strands, especially when you dye the crap out of them like I do.
And it was cheap, but I still had to wash it. And dry it UGH MY LIFE IS SO HARD.
People say you can just “train” your hair not to need any shampoo whatsoever by—get this—not washing it.
[Don’t be greasy! Good hair. *treat* Who’s a good hair? Who’s the best hair?]
In 2003, to train it, I started washing my hair every other day instead of every day. Those “people” I mentioned, the supposed professional hair whisperers: liars. I wore head scarves on non-wash days for two years because that shit was like the Deepwater Horizons spill. A decade later, it still gets greasy on the second day. Now on non-wash days, I’ll apply dry shampoo like
a little of this
or maybe
a little summa this
but they’re probably both full of chemicals, and I doubt I’m saving any money. The Psssssst! is only six bucks but provides maybe four applications, and the Alterna lasts a while but put me out $22 at Sephora.
So anyway, one thing we know about me is that I like to take somebody else’s system and fuck it up (see: cooking posts). One time, I decided that since one could wash one’s hair with baking soda, one could probably use baking soda as a dry shampoo. I sprinkled some on my scalp, tossed it through, and voila! It totally worked. Absorbed the oils, and I was on my way.
Except it was raining that day. Maybe you’ve used baking soda as a kitchen or bathroom cleanser, and you know that all you have to do is add a little water and it becomes a viscous paste. Maybe you can conclude that I walked around that day with a white sludge covering my scalp all day. Maybe you understand that I’m an idiot.
I have good intentions. That counts for something, right?
Student: Have you seen a book around?
Me: …Yes. I’ve seen lots of books around. Student: … Me: (gesturing) There are all those on the shelves over there. There’s a textbook underneath each desk.
Student: …
Me: Were you looking for a specific book?
Student: Yeah.
Me: …
Student: …
Me: Which one?
Student: Escape from something.
Me: Was it one of the Escape from Furnace series?
Student: Iono. Me: I feel good about our chances here.
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 4)
Day 1
We do three miles. I attempt to orchestrate another play date with Redford afterward, but he’s drinking at the water bowl and curls his lip when she approaches.
NOPE. NOT OK WITH ME. I holler at him to cut it out. End of play date.
Monday snuggles.
Day 2
Another short play date with Redford after our walk. Both dogs run. Both dogs rrrr. ‘Nita starts to snap a bit, and I put her on the ground. Tell her no and hold her down there for a minute so she knows I’m boss. She wags and tries to kiss me.
A woman expresses interest in adopting ‘Nita! I ask her for her location. Arkansas.
Tuesday snuggles.
Day 3
Another woman wants to meet ‘Nita; she lives near Charlotte. Not close, but not Arkansas. Her car’s in the shop, but we make plans to meet halfway for a meet and greet when she has transportation again.
As a Zen exercise, I hand over admin rights to Tulip’s page to her adoptive mom and practice letting go. She does a good job with Tulip’s voice, but it’s still hard because I’m a control freak.
Humpday snuggles.
Day 4
After four and a half weeks of rope burns on my hands, I realize that walking ‘Nita on the side of me that doesn’t have the traffic cuts down her crazed lunges at cars by about 50%. I am S-M-R-T.
I didn’t get a picture of Fursday snuggles, but they happened.
Day 5
Two and a half miles and this play date made for excellent Friday snuggles.
Day 6
Friends come over to meet ‘Nita. She loves ’em down.
She loves ’em down good.
It’s icky outside, and for the first time in forever, we don’t walk. Regardless, there are snuggles.
Seventy-two people Liked this photo within 16 hours.
I wish people liked my blog as much as they like ‘Nita’s Facebook page.
Day 7
I try to have Redford and ‘Nita play in the morning, but there’s been no walk for 36 hours and ‘Nita is just too wiggly. Redford looks perturbed so I call it off. We try again after the walk, and it’s fine. Lesson learned.
I love how ‘Nita looks like a white dog from the front, a black dog from the side, and a tricolor dog from the back; a blue-eyed dog on the left, a brown-eyed dog on the right; Everydog.
Were there snuggles? OF COURSE THERE WERE SNUGGLES; IT WAS SUNDOG.
Hello, dear readers! So, there’s been a dearth of words lately. I don’t know… there’s a lot going on in my life and in my head, but it appears I’m incapable of pressing a bunch of keys in an order which would make those things interesting and/or entertaining enough to inflict on you.
Every time this happens, I automatically go to “Well, this whole bloggy blog thing was a good ride… too bad it’s over” because I think I’ll never ever be able to compose a post again. And that’s possible, I guess. Good(?) thing I have three years of archives!
My gay husband Paul, who will soon be opening CrossFit Surmount, and I competed in the Valentine’s Day Smackdowntwo years ago. (If you live near Gaypex [Paul says the G is silent], you should join his gym! Read my testimonial, which Paul edited for profane content, here.)
This post from a year ago just reminded me what a fantastic life decision NOT getting back on OKCupid is.
Earn more sessions by sleeving! I mean, Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
Since it’s pretty clear that I don’t know nuffing about no romantic love (see: every post I’ve ever written about dating), a special guest-blog post on this day of St. Valentine by Beatrice:
Valentine’s Day this year falls the day after Ash Wednesday. For me, that means 2 things: (1) No chocolate for me; I gave it up for Lent. (2) I have just listened to a reading of 2 Corinthians 5:20b-610.
I know what you are thinking: “I love 2 Corinthians 5:20b-610. I read that every day.” Honestly, I don’t know if I have ever heard it before and there is no way I would have remembered what it was on my own. I stuck the church pamphlet in my jacket and just referred back to it.
The gist of the reading is do not be showy with your relationship with God. I found this to be a relief because I always wipe off the ashes right after the service. It saves friends the embarrassment of telling you that you have shmootz on your forehead.
I realized today that I feel the same way about relationships. Love isn’t about Valentine’s Day flowers and chocolate at the office so everyone can see it. Love is when he insists that he come with you when you walk the dogs at night because you just watched a scary movie. Love is installing fog lights on your car when the wild fires around your house have made it hard to see. It is easy to forget this but after 19 years of being together it is important that I remember.
Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. Love is… what?
Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: Bonita, Week 3)
Day 1
On our loop, I notice two loose dogs, a brown pit bull and a brown fluffy mutt, romping behind a house. I pick up the pace, hoping to get by before they notice, but the mutt sprints toward us. My three start agitating, and I know how this will go down. Redford will redirect on Violet; Violet will snap at him and then duck behind me, causing ‘Nita to pounce on the opportunity to play with her, which will make Violet put her stankface on. I’ll probably get bit and maybe break a few fingers in the knot of leashes.
Ain’t nobody got time for that, so I toss Redford’s leash.
He and the mutt wrestle. The mutt takes off, and Redford bolts after him. I keep walking and call Redford back, and at 20 paces—what do you know—he bounds up to me, I pick up his leash, and we all go on our merry way. I give myself a little pat on the back.
Back at the house, I put ‘Nita on an extra-long leash and try to get Redford to play with her. He does laps by himself, but he’s not really interacting with ‘Nita, so I let him on the deck with Violet. Then when my neighbor stops by, ‘Nita gets so excited, she jumps the gate onto the deck.
NOPE. NOT OK WITH ME.
Semi-panicked, I drag her back and toss her through the gate. She tries to jump twice more, and I have to push her back.
You know, other than fun and companionship and emotional intimacy and sex and sharing of household chores, an extra pair of hands for dog-wrangling is another reason I could really use a boyfriend.
Day 2
Whenever I sit down—at my computer, on the couch, in the easy chair—‘Nita gets all up in my lap.
After work, I sit down to pee. She jumps up. I move my legs. Her front feet fall off my knees onto the floor. And for a moment, we’re both wearing my underpants.
Day 3
My sister, nieces, and nephew are at the park near my house. We head over to say hi.
By the time we get home, I have rope burns on my hand from ‘Nita’s leash.
Day 4
Day 5
The loose brown pit I saw on Monday, the one playing with the gregarious mutt, is out again, but in a different spot. I tense, preparing myself for drama, but the pit keeps his distance.
When we get home, the little muppet-dog across the street is helping his person rake leaves.
I have to stop ‘Nita from jumping the fence six times.
While lying on the couch before I head out for the night, I have an epiphany of sorts.
*snore snore snore*
Shiv posits that it’s like a Thundershirt for me. Hahahaha—exactly.
I manage, with no help from ‘Nita, to wrest myself out from underneath her and go see a play. Seriously, you know how some dogs, if you shift, will jump down or roll over or acknowledge with a raising of eyebrows at least that you’re attempting to move? Not ‘Nita. She’s like, “I’M ON YOU BEIN YOUR THUNDERSHIRT WHAT.”
Day 6
Surprise, we’re walking. A neighbor stops her car and asks if I know someone who’s missing a brown pit bull. I tell her no but that I saw him yesterday. She tells me she’s been feeding him. The closest he’s come to her is 20 feet. She doesn’t want to call Animal Control because he’s not agressive, but she can’t keep him because she runs an in-home day care. I look for him for the rest of the loop. Not saying I’d take him home or anything.
No, really, justlooking.
Honest.
I don’t see him. Rats.
At home, I try something new. I keep ‘Nita on the leash, and we all go in the house together. She and Redford wag at each other. Violet is standoffish. Two minutes, and then I segregate everybody.
I just want another person around in case.
Day 7
After some pretty spectacular
Sundog morning snuggles,
I haul my exhausted, bleedy carcass to the gym, hit Geer Street Garden for brunch, and then—shocker—walk the dogs two-and-a-half miles. Again, no sign of the brown pit. :(
I plan to try ‘Nita and Redford together and see how it goes, but first I’m going to scoop poop. (SO MUCH POOP.) I put Violet inside, Redford on the deck, and ‘Nita in the yard with me. When I head to the trashcan, ‘Nita jumps the gate and is on the deck with Redford. I worry that they’ll be claustrophobic on the deck, so I scurry back and let the gate to the yard open and…
it goes swimmingly! Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
I let them play for a minute or two and then call it a day. I’m going to take this real slow.
The other day my friend Dori posted a recipe for chorizo and kale soup on Facebook. I looked at the ingredients and was like, “Yes. Yes. Um, yes. Oh hell yes.”
Tonight when I went to the grocery store, I looked for the meat but couldn’t find it, so I eventually went to the meat guy and asked where he kept his linguiça. (No, I didn’t really ask like that! I learned my lesson about crafting one’s requests of the grocer.) He stopped what he was doing, walked out from the behind the meat counter and down the aisle to show me, so then when I remembered I was actually supposed to be getting chorizo, not linguiça, I was too embarrassed to go back and ask again. Didn’t matter didn’t matter SO DIDN’T MATTER ONE BIT.
Linguiça and kale soup!!
Nom nom f-bomb.
You guys, make it. Make this çoup. I’m pretty sure this çoup is one of the reasons why we’re here on this earth.
