Favorite Moment #182

From time to time, I will document some of my favorite moments in Sitka. Some will be quick little stories to quotes like the one I’m about to post.

A little background: C-money and I were lounging in layers during a cold day. We were both wearing long-johns with wool socks pulled up over them. As we’re lounging, this is the conversation that unfolded:

C-money: “Look, we’re matching.”

Me: “I don’t have a penis pouch.” (Referring to the easy access in the front of his long-johns.)

C-money: “I don’t have a camel toe.”

Me: Cue uncontrollable laughter with an inevitable “snort” thrown in.

(This may have been one of the funniest moments I’ve experienced yet. Maybe you had to be there to experience the full hilarity.)

But seriously, why are women’s long-johns so unflattering? Hmpf, maybe I have a new business idea. Better fitting women’s long underwear.

A Hairy Situation.

This post doesn’t require a picture. By the end, you’ll have plenty of visuals dancing in your head.

The other day, I was at the “gym.” I use that term loosely because it is pretty ghe-tto. I shouldn’t complain because it gets me out of the house on shitty days. There is nothing fancy about it. The locker room reminds me of high school away games at C schools with less funding than SV (which doesn’t take much) and the locker rooms we had to endure. Rackety old lockers with the smell of soiled gym shorts from 1992, open showers with immanent foot fungus growing in the corners, 1-ply toilet paper that is thinner than the ozone. The equipment is pretty dated, but it works. They have 3 treadmills, 3 row machines, 3 bikes, 3 ellipticals, free weights, and weight machines. They have 1 stretching area with mats, exercise balls, and medicine balls. The fitness area overlooks the gymnasium. There are scheduled times for certain activities: basketball, open gym, volleyball (I’ve shown up twice and no one ever comes to play), and **drumroll, please** pickleball. It is absolutely amazing how many people come to play pickleball. I haven’t played since Lubke’s gym class in high school. They just installed a climbing wall on one end of the gym and a couple of times I’ve seen tape on the gym floor in oval shapes (more like amoebas) for roller derby. They’re moving on up!

It is a volunteer based gym. All equipment is funded by donations. Currently they are raising money for a stair climber. There are no TV’s, no music stations built into the machines, no juice bar, and no pool. Absolutely nothing glamorous about it, but it gets the job done.

So, the other day, I started my workout like I always do. I usually start on the treadmill. I tend to go a little A.D.D. and soon after I start, I get extremely bored…which is why I don’t last long on the treadmill. I start jogging, then I start kicking up the speed and by the time I hit a mile, I’m sprinting. By the end, I’m sweating like a whore in church and I’m done. Sometimes I’ll run a mile like above, then take a breather; run another mile, take a breather; and then run another mile. Stupid. After 3 miles, I’m ready to curl up in the fetal position and cry. My legs are dead, my lungs are burning, my pitiful excuse for cleavage has a waterfall of sweat rolling down it, my back is soaked, and my head is pounding. Why the FUCK does anyone want to run 26.2 miles?

Time to stretch. I make my way over to the stretching mats and start stretching my legs. I pull my right leg in to stretch one side, then the next. Fuck, my legs are dead. It is hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock. I continue to sweat. I pull both legs in. Ouch. Mother fucker. Why do people run marathons? I can barely do 3 miles.

After stretching my legs, I start to do some floor exercises. I roll over and get into the plank position. As I’m steadying my breathing, focusing on my core, listening to my iPod, I look down. Big mistake. A few inches under my face is a hair. Not just any hair. A pube. A FUCKING PUBE! I am so horrified that I freeze. 1. I don’t want to panic, lose my balance and face-plant. 2. I hold my breath, because God forbid it moves or gets sucked in my nose or even worse, my mouth. 3. I don’t want to screech and run around in disgust because the last thing I need is people in this small town referring to me as the “schizo girl at the gym.” I start to go cross-eyed and focus on keeping calm, and slowly come out of the plank. I stand up and I’m shivering with disgust. GROSS!!

I start to do what you’re not supposed to….imagine how it got there. Was a guy going commando and lose a soldier out the bottom of his gym shorts? Maybe he was wearing boxers. Maybe some lady forgot to get a bikini wax….8 years ago. Ewwww. So gross. Whatever happened to people sanitizing after they work out?! That’s why there are rags and disinfectant spray.

Word to the wise: Check the mat before you stretch. Oh, and get a bikini wax for Christ’s sake.

L.O.V.E.

ImageE-card brought to you by the one and only Sarah B.

I chose today to write a new post because Valentine’s Day is a time that the sarcasm and disgust is seeping out of my pores. I can’t help but gag at every jewelry commercial on TV. Every kiss doesn’t start with Kay…Bitch, please. A first kiss starts with anything but. Usually it’s because you have that animalistic urge and you want what’s in their pants, not what’s in a velvet box. If he went to Jared, run away. Nobody wants that shit. Every time I see Jane Seymore (or should I say, Kitty Kat) promoting her ugly heart necklace, I think of Wedding Crashers. I can’t help but picture her topless.

I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day. Some of you may be curious as to why I don’t like Valentine’s, while others probably don’t give a donkey shit. If you’re reading this pathetic blog, you’re probably at least curious, right?

Reasons why I don’t like Valentine’s Day:

1. It’s stupid.

2. Too many expectations. There is WAY too much pressure on people (men) to find the perfect gift and WAY too many expectations (women).

3. Why spend ONE day of the year expressing your love for your sweetie? Can’t it be some random day when they’re not expecting anything? I would much rather get flowers, candy, or sparkly shit on a completely random day.

4. It’s stupid.

I’ve never been one to celebrate. In grade school, we used to go all out. We would make our little Valentine’s bags that we would attach to our desks for people to deposit their Valentine’s in. We would use brown paper lunch bags and decorate them with construction paper hearts, doilies, and glitter. Across the top of our bags would be our name written in big, bold red marker. They would be filled with candy, hand-made cards with mounds of Elmer’s Glue and cliche phrases like, “Be Mine” and pre-made Valentine’s with the perforated edges with Looney Tunes characters. (I miss the Looney Tunes.)

When I became of dating age, I was either single or I dated unthoughtful douchebags. I can remember in high school, sitting in the car, outside of a gas station, the DAY BEFORE Valentine’s Day, and I could see my boyfriend at the time looking for a Valentine’s Day card. Romantic.

Since then, I guess I never had a reason to be excited about Vday. Even after getting married, I still didn’t feel the urge to celebrate. I like the idea of making it a surprise and celebrating on random days. When C-money brings home flowers, JUST BECAUSE, or when he makes dinner, JUST BECAUSE, or when he brings me a sweet treat, JUST BECAUSE. THOSE moments are better than anything on Vday. The best part, they’re not expected and he’s not obligated. But, I guess if he came home with a Looney Tunes Valentine, I’d accept.

Namaste, Bitches.

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Photo By: Yours Truly

“You know, carrot sticks are like natures candy…..My hips are soooo open right now….Let’s do wheatgrass shots after this….I lost my voice from om-ing too much.”  By the way, if you haven’t seen Shit Yogis Say on YouTube, you’re missing out. I wouldn’t consider myself a yogi by any means. I took a yoga class in college as an elective (which was a great way to spend Mom & Dad’s tuition money) and absolutely loved it. Dad wasn’t too excited when he heard I signed up for a yoga class. Namaste, Dad. That semester I was signed up for 16 credits and worked part-time (20+ hrs) at a shit job. My yoga class was on Wednesdays which was PERFECT to break up the week. That semester was in much need of some namaste time.

Since college, I’ve taken a class here and there but never got into a yoga routine. I signed up for a yoga class this past Saturday with a friend to see if I wanted to get back into yoga. I also thought it would be a good way to meet people. I got up that Saturday morning, got dressed, ate an avocado for breakfast, grabbed my yoga mat and headed down to the yoga studio. The studio was the size of a living room or large bedroom, which only allowed 7 or 8 people to practice. We each got our blocks, bolster, blankets, strap and mat all set up, found our spot and sat there waiting for the class to begin. Some people stretched, some people just sat there staring ahead, and some talked to their neighbor. I did a little stretching and then sat on my mat, cross legged, taking in everything. The light was very dim. Some lamps were surrounded by curtains to dim the light, while the lights among the ceiling tiles you would see in a hospital room were covered with blankets. Very meditative sounding music played in the background; all except for the one song I recognized from the Garden State soundtrack, which was an interesting music choice for a yoga class. The decor was very random. A large photo of a waterfall hung on the front wall, next to anatomy charts showing the different muscles in the human body. There was a cot set up in front of me with a salt rock/night light on the side table. I could smell hints of patchouli, sandalwood, and jasmine. The facility wasn’t ideal, but that didn’t stop me from relaxing. We hadn’t even started the class yet and all I wanted to do was curl up like a cat and fall asleep. Already relaxed? Check.

You may have begun to start to feel the sensations and relaxation by picturing yourself in this experience, yes? Before you do, just realize that I’m about to take it to an inappropriate place where you may or may not want to continue reading…Before I go on, especially for those who don’t really know me well, there are some things that you may need to know. Nothing is considered off-topic. I have no filter and have no problem speaking my mind or talking about things that some people tend to get uncomfortable around. If you are one of those people who get uncomfortable talking about sex, farting in public, menstrual cycles, the human anatomy, or anything about poop, I suggest you stop reading my blog completely. Inevitably, I will write about one or all of these things.

The class begins by sitting cross legged, hands on the knees in a meditative pose, inhaling, exhaling, eyes closed, focusing the mind on relaxing each part of your body; taking out the furrow in your brow, relaxing your forehead down to your chin, relaxing through your shoulders to your stomach, grounding your sits bone into the floor. It’s that moment where you are in full relaxation where you feel your spirit lift, your body settle, and your state of mind in absolute tranquility, that you begin to feel your stomach shift and then feel the fart coming on. Relaxation is out the window. At this point, all you’re focusing on is controlling your stomach and intestines from letting out a huge fart. You can’t just let it go with the possibility of it being either: A. Loud  B. Smelly  C. Offensive or D. All of the Above. You feel your butt cheeks clench and your brow starts to furrow. Goddamn it. This is supposed to be an hour and a half of relaxation, meditation, and stretching. Ah, hell no. Your chakras start to fall out of alignment as you fight the urge to fart.

There is a definite correlation with relaxation and farting. Emotional Relaxation and Physical Relaxation. Emotionally: When you get to that stage of a new relationship where you are comfortable around each other, accept each other for everything, love each other no matter what, and can talk about anything and also do anything around each other. Including butt rockets. I can remember when C-money and I started dating and we were getting closer to that point in our relationship when we were comfortable enough to literally let ourselves go. Before, you could hear each other’s stomachs going crazy and you knew that person had to fart. It wasn’t long until we were farting around each other like it was nothing. Laughing at each other, looking at each other with disgust, or gagging from the wretched smells was a new element of our relationship. I can actually remember calling him after an epic fart while driving to class just to share my amazement. Now after almost 5 years of marriage, I’m totally comfortable taking a dump with the door wide open. Everybody poops. Physically: Relaxing your mind and body, letting go of everything, your body relaxes even further by expelling toxins from your body. (Not sure if that’s scientifically true, but it sounds legit.) Elliott is the queen of all dog farting. She’ll stretch or lay down to relax, almost instantly she farts. You’ll know by the audible sound or by the awful smell. She farts more than any dog I know. Sometime she’ll be laying down, fart really loud, and turn around looking at her butt like, “what the hell was that?!” Sometimes she’ll find herself so offensive that she will get up and leave after farting. The other day she farted really loud and got all embarrassed. C-money and I stood there laughing until we had tears in our eyes while she shifted her weight back and forth, wagged her tail, and got this ashamed look in her eyes.

I looked over at the big clock on the wall and only 20 minutes had gone by. Shit. An hour and 10 more minutes of this until I can leave and fart in peace. I may be crude, but I’m not crude enough to fart in a small space with a bunch of strangers. I at least wait until I’m outside and have the opportunity to crop dust like a lady. 😉

We got up on all fours to begin the next pose. She had us rock our hips back towards our heels into child’s pose. Ideal farting position. Again, I couldn’t concentrate on the pose or relaxing my body and pelvis. All I could think of was not farting in the face of the poor girl behind me. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Time to come out of the pose and go back into all fours. I honestly can’t remember the rest of the series of poses because I had a mission: not to fart in class. It’s not like the feeling crept up on me every 30 seconds. I actually did get some relaxation in. It just so happened that those moments of relaxation were interrupted by the urge to fart. I’m almost positive someone in the class wasn’t able to hold one in. There was a moment where I thought I could smell butt-pourri. At that moment I was glad I wasn’t the only one struggling.

That was the longest hour and a half I’ve ever had to endure. I can proudly say that I made it the whole class without farting. Success. Maybe next time I’ll watch what I eat or take Beano before class.

50 Shades of Grey.

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Illustration courtesy of Google Images.

Don’t let the title of this blog post fool you. I am not going to write about bondage, sexual domination, or multiple orgasms. I have not read the E.L. James book, but should I? I’m always open for new book recommendations, so I welcome them. (Just don’t recommend any Harry Potter or Twilight shit. Not interested.)

Quite the tangent from what I was intending on writing about. ANYWAY…..

It’s pretty depressing when you look at the 10-day forecast and all 10 days have little grey clouds, no sun. Some have chances of rain or snow, and some are just sad little grey clouds. *sigh* I’m getting pretty sick of the cold, rainy, gloomy days. Can’t a girl get some sun around here?! A couple days ago, we got a few inches of snow. Halle-frickin-laujiah. It felt like home. I thought I’d appreciate the change in weather and enjoy the rain, but I was completely delusional. I miss the snow.

Life has been pretty uneventful. I’ve taken up a new activity during said rainy days….sewing. (Getting back to my Asian roots.) I started yesterday by mending some clothes that have been in the “to mend” pile for 2+ years. No joke. I also fixed some of Fin & El’s dog toys that have been sitting in the surgical ward for a LONG time. They’re now happy as their toy baskets are overflowing with nostalgia and dried dog slobber.

Ah, the riveting life of a fucking housewife. It was that moment where I was sitting on the couch, fixing dog toys, where I was sewing what would be the butthole of a stuffed zebra, that I realized my low point. I need to find a job…

Cookie Monster.

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True story. (Courtesy of Pinterest)

Generally to pass the time on rainy, shitty days, I tend to distract myself with playing fetch (in the long hallway in our house) with the dogs, cleaning, laundry, cooking, baking, writing in the ol’ blog, playing on the computer (i.e. Pinterest, Facebook, etc.), reading, TV, and good ol’ Super Nintendo. (I will dominate you in a game of Super Mario Brothers. No joke.)

Lately, rainy and shitty days have been pretty prevalent, which is why the house is spotless, all laundry is done, and C-money is well fed. I used to love the sound of rain, but now I’m getting to the point where I hate the sound of rain. When I hear the tinkering of rain against the windows, or the outburst of rain on the roof, my eyes roll back into my head and curse words start spouting off. I have what you would call, Precipitation Tourettes. #RainCockShitTwatBallsMotherFucker (Please tell me you got the “Deuce Bigelow” reference…) I honestly can’t remember the last day we’ve been here that we haven’t had rain. Ri-damn-diculous.

Thank goodness for Pinterest. Granted, I will never try every recipe, I won’t make all the crafty things, I will never look like those fashionable bitches because I will never be able to afford YSL and Jimmy Choo… but damn is it addicting! I tend to go completely A.D.D. EVERY time I’m on there. One minute I’m pinning fashion, then the next I’m pinning a “how to” on washing fruits and veggies.

Just so you know, I have a love affair…with red velvet. I don’t give a shit if it’s in the form of cake, cupcakes, cookies, icecream…..whatever. I. Love. Red. Velvet. Bonus? Sprinkle powdered sugar over anything and I’m a sugar coma away from pure bliss. I’ve always craved more salt than sweet, but for some reason, being here I’ve turned into a complete sweet tooth. (Before you go and make an “ass” out of “u” and “me” (i.e. “assume” — keep up), I am 100% NOT pregnant. Currently I have what feels like a bowling ball resting on my pelvis. So no, my eggo is NOT prego.) Maybe a lack of vitamin D and a mini depression will bring on the cravings for sweets, no?

Because of Pinterest, I came across this little gem of a recipe. For all you lovers of Red Velvet and especially for those bitches who can’t bake, here is a recipe for you.

Red Velvet Crinkles
Courtesy of Pinterest, no less.
(I didn’t get a chance to document them since we ate them all. You win some, you lose some. I chose to eat…and lost.)
Red Velvet Crinkle Cookies
6 T Butter (melted and cooled)
2 Large Eggs
1 Box Red Velvet Cake Mix
1/2 Cup Powdered Sugar
STEP 1:
Cut a hole in a box. Oh, wait. Wrong tutorial. Damn you, Andy & Justin.
Preheat Oven to 375, place parchment on baking sheets, and put powdered sugar in bowl and set aside.
Step 2:
In a bowl, combine butter, eggs, and cake mix.
When mixing, it may seem like it isn’t moist enough (That’s what she said.)
Keep stirring. It will bind.
Step 3:
Use a spoon or a cookie scoop to make 1 inch balls and coat in powdered sugar.
Leave the balls whole. (No castrating.)
Step 4:
Place the balls a couple inches apart.
Bake for 8-10 minutes
(I only baked for 8, which resulted in a perfect crisp outside and fudge texture inside. Delish.)
Step 5:
It says to wait 5 minutes for them to cool.
If you can wait that long, good luck.
The recipe says they can stay in an air tight container up to 5 days. Pshh. They won’t last that long. Trust me.

Damn it, Elliott.

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Welp, this is it. Home sweet home.

Photo Credit: Yours Truly

Greetings, fellow readers! I’ve been a little MIA with the whole writing thing. I guess you could say I haven’t been super inspired to write about anything. There were a few days where nothing really exciting happened, other than the typical trip to the grocery store. Riveting life of a housewife. I guess when you get to the point where you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen the sun, or when the last time it DIDN’T rain, you fall into a mini-depression. Don’t worry, I’m not in need of any Zoloft….yet. I will do my best to get in the habit of writing more frequently. Here is the review of “life in Sitka” the last couple weeks:

After a painful (almost) two weeks, we FINALLY received our stuff from Douchebags of the Sea. We were told that we would be able to pick up our things between 4pm and 5pm on Monday, January 14th….or so they said. Finally at 6:45p, they were JUST unloading our cargo trailer. Efficient. Timely. Awesome. By the time we actually got home, we were dying to unpack. Our main mission: Unload the bed. We couldn’t possibly spend one more night on an air mattress with a slow leak. But in order to get said bed, we had to sift through 75% of the cargo trailer before we even got to where the bed was stored. What’s better than unpacking a trailer after dark? Unpacking a trailer after dark in the rain. Box after box, plastic tub after tub, we finally got it. Halle-fucking-leujiah. Finally, a good night’s rest….not quite.

I went into full nesting mode. I stayed up until 2am unpacking and putting things away. I spent the next 3 days cleaning, unpacking, organizing and “making a home.” I absolutely detest packing and moving, but I’m one of the weird ones who loves to put things away and organize. I have NEVER in my life been happier to have a vacuum and a Swiffer sweeper. Can you say OCD?

The rest of the week was pretty uneventful…until Saturday rolled around. We took the dogs for a walk. Fin and El were doing their normal exploring. Fin was searching for sticks to play fetch with while El was running a million miles an hour, back and forth, up the hill, down the hill, jumping and bounding over everything. We walked for a while and started to head back because it was too cold. As we were heading back to the car, C-money (We’ll call the hubs that to keep the anonymity.) thought he saw blood, so he called El over. Sure as shit, she was bleeding profusely on the bottom of her front right paw.

{Insert Irony: We had JUST discussed the following prior to the injury — C-money was trying to keep the dogs contained and kept calling El back to us because he was worried she would get hurt again. (A month and a half ago, she had to get multiple staples in her leg due to a large cut she got exploring in the woods. She was in a cone for 2 weeks. It’s all fun and games until someone ends up in a cone…) I told him, “dogs will be dogs” and to let her go explore. Yep, I’m the asshole.}

He picked her up and carried her for the remainder of the walk. By the time we got back to the car, we took a bottle of water to flush the wound to see how big of a puncture it was. No matter how much water we poured on it, we could not see the wound because it was bleeding so bad. We wrapped her poor little foot in a towel, held it tightly to keep pressure on it, put her on my lap, and we hauled ass to the vet.

First off, we’ve only been here for less than 3 weeks. We don’t know any vets. Shit. We don’t even know where the vets are located. Double shit. We then remembered seeing a vet’s office on one of the main roads through town. Coming to a screeching halt in their parking lot, C-money jumped out while I stayed in the car with Tiny Girl. We called all the numbers they had listed. Nada. At this point, we didn’t know what to do because we couldn’t get a hold of anyone because it was SATURDAY. Triple shit.

We headed back home to see if we could bandage it ourselves to keep the pressure on it. We laid some towels on the island in the kitchen and propped Little up and started to bandage her foot. We looked in the phone book and called the ONLY other vet in town. VICTORY. We got a hold of someone and they said they could meet us at the vet’s office in 30 minutes. PERFECT.

By the time we got there and got into the “exam room” I was a nervous wreck. Seeing all the medical equipment, etc. and hearing the person talk about sedation, opening up her wound to locate the bleeding, saying things like, “I’m trying to find the bleeding…”, “I can’t get the bleeding to stop…”, “Wow, I’ve never seen a bleeder like this…” made me a big ball of disaster. I couldn’t stop crying. C-money was getting dizzy and needed to step outside so he didn’t pass out. He went and checked on Fin in the car and then came back in and sat next to El. I stood there with my head buried in the blanket on top of her, with my hand on her chest to make sure her heart was still beating and she was still breathing. It took the lady a while just to stop the bleeding. The actual puncture was pretty small (only about 1/2 inch), but ended up being almost 2 inches long because she had to open it up to locate the bleeding.

When she finished getting El all stitched up and bandaged, it was time to do the reverse and wake El up. She injected the drug and after a couple minutes, she was more alert and started to wag her tail….then she starts to whine and yelp with pain. The lady didn’t give her any pain medication because it can slow down the wake up time. At this point, I’m freaking out because she needs some pain medication. She’s flailing, whining, and yelping in pain. I start crying again. She gives her the pain meds and after a few minutes, the flailing stops and she starts to calm down a little more. Jesus H. Christ, I can’t take this shit anymore.

Time to go home. We loaded Gimpy up in the car on my lap and headed home. It seemed like an eternity at the vet’s office. By the time we got home, we were exhausted. I fell asleep on the floor next to Elliott on her dog bed and C-money fell asleep on the couch. At 7pm, no less.

That night, I laid our Tempurpedic mattress pad from the guest room on the floor next to our bed with the dog bed right next to me. I slept on the floor for the next two nights to make sure she didn’t get up in the middle of the night. Fin was a great big sister and kept checking on El to make sure she was ok. She would lean in and smell her or give her a lick.

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Photo from my BlackBerry

Warms my heart…

That makes TWO visits to the vet for El in the past TWO months. Let’s hope the rest of 2013 is vet free for the both of our sweet girls because one thing is for sure, Momma Bear can’t handle any more traumatic vet visits.