Tae Bo! Let’s go!

Hello, chickadees! My calendar has informed me that it is September 29th, and you know what that means–the countdown to HALLOWEEN has begun! Seriously, have you thought about your costume? I’ve thought about mine. I won’t reveal it here yet, but I will let you know it involves a leotard.

Yeah.

And since (as I heard a pageant coach explain it so neatly) you can’t put 10 pounds of sugar in a 5 pound bag, I decided to turn to my old friend, Billy Blanks.

You remember Billy Blanks of Tae Bo fame, right?

tae bo

Aw yeah.

Of course you do.

I bought Billy’s Tae Bo box set on VHS before I left for my first year of college, determined to fend off the freshman 15.  Little did I know I’d be so disappointed at my tiny women’s college that I’d survive on a diet of saltines and vodka-and-cranberry juice and end up losing 15+ pounds.

What was once a 4-tape set has been whittled down by time to one VHS tape, but luckily it is the basic workout, rather than the instructional video or (heaven forbid!) the advanced workout.  Baby steps.

The only VCR in my house is in my bedroom, so I kicked the dog beds out to clear a space between my bed and my dresser for jabs and uppercuts.  Unfortunately I didn’t sweep up my gym space and I ended up slipping on all the accumulated dog dirt and hair during a stretch.  At least it wasn’t during a back kick.  Another snag was when Ernie came bounding in the bedroom, excited by my enthusiastic answer to Billy’s, “how are you feeling?!?” (answer: “All right!” *fist pump*) and tackled me onto the bed.

ernie vs. billy

Dammit, Ernie, mommy needs to get rid of 5 pounds of sugar.

All in all, it is a good workout.  An especially good ab workout, since Billy’s nipple keeps escaping his unitard? leotard? spandex coveralls? and peeking out at me.  My friend Cory and I used to sit on my couch, drinks in hand, clutching our sides and laughing at each appearance of the “renegade nipple.”  A good drinking game AND a good ab workout.

Advertisements

TMI Thursday: Are you going to eat that?

TMI Thursday

My TMI’s have been pretty lame lately; maybe I need to go get waxed again or poop my pants. *Sigh* pooping my pants…I haven’t done that since I was in diapers. Not that I’m bragging, but I’ve got that shit under control. Literally. I hope God doesn’t bitch slap me now with the swine flu H1N1 virus, leaving me curled up in my bathtub in a puddle of my own vomit and feces. Now there’s a lovely image…

h1n1

When I was younger, I had a real problem with food. Not that I had an eating disorder (I don’t possess the ability to deny myself anything for too long), but I had very definite likes and dislikes; actual food was kind of disgusting. I could notwash dishes because the thought of touching someone else’s crusty plate made me dry heave. My sister put ketchup on a bologna sandwich once and I threw up. Mayonnaise? Forget about it. I ate my sandwiches turkey sandwiches with mustard or nothing at all(well, after I got out of the peanut butter and butter sandwich phase), and my salads without dressing. And you can forget about cheese. The only foods that were allowed to touch were rice and corn (a delicious mixture–try it sometime!) and the meat/mashed potato/gravy trifecta of awesomeness. Outside of these exceptions–where the fuck do you think you’re going, broccoli? Don’t even think about touching the scalloped potatoes. You don’t want to make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry…

My mother is a saint.

College life changed all of that. I was never a fan of cafeteria food, but a poor college student cannot live on saltines and cranberry juice alone! Well, at least this one couldn’t. Gradually my food repertoire expanded to include all manner of food produced for the masses: I even ate cafeteria fish sticks, which is pretty much the lowest of the low. After watching my suite-mate shamelessly collecting and finishing off other people’s pizza “bones” (crusts), I overcame my aversion to other people’s food and was hard pressed to find anything I couldn’t imagine as edible, given the right condiment.

Fast forward a year; I was living in Wilmington, working as a waitress at a barbecue joint. My mom and her new boyfriend (now husband) were in town on a date, and stopped in my restaurant to have dinner see me. I hadn’t yet met my mom’s boyfriend, Brian, so I was excited to see him and size him up. They came in the door looking like two twin drowned rats, having purchased matching sweat shirts from Bald Head Island after getting rained on. Desperate to impress Brian, I tried to be as jovial and friendly as possible. I walked them through the menu, brought them their food, and made sure they were enjoying everything, all the while running my mouth (probably about stupid and inappropriate things, like how Hemo’s poop had really been stinky lately, or how my neighbors ripped off our balconey railing).

My mom and Brian were slowing down, and Brian still had half a rack of ribs in front of him. “I’d hate for these to go to waste,” he mourned, “but there isn’t any way I could take these with me.”

“Oh they won’t go to waste,” I assured him. “I’ll take them to the back and we’ll eat them. I’m starving!”

“‘We’?” he asked.

“Yeah, you know…myself and the other servers. Technically, they are mine, because you guys are my table, but I don’t mind sharing.” I then went into a long disertation about the complex rules of what food was considered “safe” to eat, and what food we just dumped.

“You know, like if you could imagine yourself making out with that person, you could totally eat their leftovers. Not that I would make out with you [insert nervous laughter], but you know, you look pretty disease-free, so maybe even if I didn’t know you I’d eat these ribs. If you had, like, sores all over your lips or chewed with your mouth open–no way. That’s gross. But especially if you know the person…we have a couple of regulars, and they always leave one or two wings on a plate. We fight over them!”

It wasn’t until I saw the look on his face–a mixture of shock and disgust–that I realized that I had said too much. I had managed to gross out a man who had 3 teenage sons at home.

Confession

bsb3
click to see that shit in all of it’s geocities.com glory

Yes, I used to have a Backstreet Boys Fan page.  I’m not proud of it.  It was 1998 and I was KTBSPA* like whoa.  The view counter is now defunct, but I think it retired at about 500 page views, 475 of which were me checking to see if I’d uploaded the HTML right, 24 were views I directly solicited from friends, and 1 was my friend Cory who logged in to sign the guest book as Howie D. 

Note the title: “Sarah and Lauren’s awesomely cool Backstreet Boys Page!” (the exclamation mark really sells it).  While other teens were chronicling their angst on LiveJournal, I was up all night on ICQ, stealing pictures from other BSB websites, reposting interviews, and thumbing through my copy of ‘HTML for Dummies’.

Some high low lights:

  • My sister Lauren and I’s crowning achievement was “The K Files.”  Combining our two great loves, the X Files and the BSB, we set up a mock investigation into the oppression of Kevin Richardson (Lauren’s favorite BSB).
  • Fan fiction.  OMFG I just threw up in my mouth reading my disgusting attempt at fan fiction.
  • Distracting background images For The Win!

The fact that I was 16 is no excuse.  That time in my life is a blur of TRL and sleep overs.  Also that one time I made a video of me fake marrying my AP History teacher, Mr. Tucker (who, unfortunately, was unable to attend the ceremony but my stuffed Little Foot was kind enough to stand in for him).

Thank goodness for my friend S, who took the BSB pins off of my purse and threw them in a puddle of Mt. Dew in the trash can during senior portraits, and then later took me to my first “barn party” where I consumed my first beer and attempted to impress him by smoking my first cigarette.  I’m not sure if he was impressed**, but the BSB curse was lifted and I moved on to the next phase in my life: a Ben Harper loving, Natty Light swilling, college freshman who hates her women’s college and escapes to Wake Forest to binge drink.

Thankfully I out grew that phase, too.

———————————————-
*Keeping The BackStreet Pride Alive.
**He left the party early, leaving me making out with my asshat of an ex boyfriend on the hood of ex-bf’s Camaro (barf), after which I passed out in the backseat of another friend’s car and woke up the next morning with my very first Hangover From Hell

You may be right. I may be crazy.

The small women’s college I attended my freshman year bragged about the extensive screening and matching process the recruitment officers go through to determine which two incoming freshmen would be best suited for each other as roommates. I was pumped, although apparently I didn’t convey my true personality, because my roommate and I were no match at all and had nothing in common other than a shared major (Biology, which she promptly changed to Business after our first dissection lab). I should have suspected my roomie wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs when she contacted me shortly before move-in day to coordinate which twin extra long comforter sets we were going to purchase, “so we’ll match.”

“Jenny” was a huge dork who went home every weekend and had a small desktop zen garden. I blasted Ben Harper, dyed my hair purple, and snuck beer into my mini fridge that my friends at nearby Wake Forest had provided for me. I raked the sand in her zen garden into what I hoped were disruptive patterns in her absence and blamed it on our neighbor, who we both couldn’t stand but was always stopping by. It was during this time I developed the habit of talking out loud to inanimate objects, as I had the room to myself 98% of the time.

Oh, Papa John’s Pizza with ham and pineapple, you are so delicious.

Screw you, printer! Don’t you know I have a paper due in 45 minutes?!?

When I left Salem College and moved to Wilmington, waiting tables didn’t help. I cursed my pens for exploding in my apron, gave the tea urns the finger when they overflowed, and begged my car to start for me in the morning. Mop bucket! How about not tipping over and drenching my shoes for once?

All bets were off, however when I got Hemo. She is the talking-est cat I know. She’ll have a full on conversation.

Me: Hey Hemo, did you have a good day?

Hemo: No.

Me: How about some dinner?

Hemo: Now!

Me: There you go.

Hemo: Fuck you.

Ok then.