With so much sadness, that Seattle trip never did pan out.
I declared my weight loss goal to the world three people listening and then I did not make it. Shocked, you are? The move completely uprooted my routine and I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen but I did. The stress and sadness and relief plus good dose of blood, sweat & tears that comes with a move from the city you’ve adjusted to after three years back to your hometown took precedence over the evening workouts and inspired more than a few not-so-healthy but oh-so-quick-and-delicious meals. I checked last night and found that I put back on two pounds, which is most definitely better than putting it all back on which I was pretty sure had happened. My brain does not allow for much hope. Ditto: optimism.
Josh and I picked up some gym passes at the nearby big name workout spot. It’s been about a week and we’ve logged a few sweaty hours. For now, and this may quickly pass, it seems like time flies at the gym. (It is note worthy that my brother pronounces it ‘the guy-m’ and that is how I find myself saying it as I type.) I was pushing for twenty minute workouts and then twenty-two and then twenty-seven, up to thirty when I would work out at home. I don’t know why they went up in those intervals, just roll with it. At the gym, an hour flies by so quickly, I almost don’t want to get off the treadmill because I’m so close to figuring out the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. (The TV options are pretty dismal at the gym. I stick to podcasts until I see BEFORE & AFTER on the screen. It’s the best category.)
I recently upgraded from a fat little Verizon phone to my very first smart phone, courtesy of Ree, who will always have the latest of the greatest in phone technology. I must say that this thing is beyond smart. It is brilliant. I am so, so in love. (Before I even had a period on that sentence the thing froze in the middle of a text to my sister.) Okay, it’s not perfect but neither am I. And this little first generation Droid accepts me for who I am and doesn’t judge my application choices. What do I need to know about fun and useful apps? I found some snazzy photo ones that I like so far and I’m obsessed with Words With Friends. Which debuted on Facebook and inspired some word-happy dance moves all up in the living room. I got Calamity Mom playing too and posted this message on her wall:
‘Wall’ is a really stupid word for that space. May I suggest: table top.
-CJ
I locked the door behind me at 2B for the last time. Even if you put the packing aside, the process of moving is so, so awful. Changing the address on your bills, submitting a change of address to the post office, returning internet and cable equipment, letting your food supply dwindle down so as to not have to pack an ice chest that you left in your friend’s backyard anyway… Motherfather, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. (I’d wish far worse, natch.) But it’s over, officially and totally. Kiddo and I are jam packed TO THE GILLS, SON (sorry, Joe Rogan’s lexicon makes its way into my own sometimes) in my parents’ spare bedroom. The men in our life (Josh, Furby and Mo) have temporarily relocated to Josh’s family’s house about an hour away. Absence is making us quite fond and the like but I would give up some seriously sacred shit to wake up next to him every morning again.
It’s all for the better. To get caught up and to get ahead. We were rocking the hand-me-down chic with pride for a while but it’s high time we bought ourselves some furnishings we love and are proud of. I was mentally and emotionally finished with 2B and wished it a good riddance on the last drive out of the alley. Though on that drive, I did tell Kiddo, “I’m kind of sad.” She offered with a heavy sigh, “I’m sad I don’t have any food.”
Some pretty kickass anecdotes to living at home again are hanging with the fam and enjoying my mom and dad’s cooking. They’re a damn fine bunch of people and I’m pretty thrilled to be related to them. I’ve missed my hometown so much. There’s already been a hefty poker tournament in the backyard, many a lap swam in their pool, a jog around the quarter mile track up the street and a hike at a local park. (I am not above squealing over a cotton-tailed bunny or seven, turns out.) All of my DVDs are packed and my TV requires a variety of boxes and/or cables to work. I don’t have the patience for that so I borrow a lot of their movies and read more than I used to, which is a huge perk in itself. Face down in a good read is when I’m most at peace, mostly because everything and everyone around me seizes to exist. I could get behind this whole no television lifestyle, though I do miss all my Showtime stories.
Last week, I made the final payment on a loan that has been hanging over my head for five or six years. There is so much relief in that statement. It’s gone. Over with. DONE-ZO. This calls for a celebration, yes?
-CJ
Filed under: teevee
Chandler: Y’know what? We’re not sad. We’re not sad. We’re just not 21 anymore. Y’know? I’m 29 years old, damnit! And I want to sit in a comfortable chair, and watch television and go to bed at a reasonable hour!
Joey and Ross: Yeah!
Joey: Yeah! And I like to hang out in a quiet place where I can talk to my friends.
Chandler and Ross: Yeah!
Ross: And so what if I like to go home, throw on some Kenny G, and take a bath!
This is totally where I’m at in life.
I am so reluctant to admit this.
After a recent episode of Chelsea Lately, I was totally inspired. The motivation and inspiration to do more and to do better with my life came from a musician (of music I never liked) turned actor (in movies I never liked) on a talk show hosted by a sailor-mouthed lush (this I do like!). It was Tyrese Gibson, whom I obviously have nothing in common with, except rock hard abs.* He was promoting his new book, How to Get Out of Your Own Way and talked about how most often, we are our own biggest obstacle between ourselves and our goals. And I was like, “No, brotha. That’s money.” But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was kind of slackin’.
I’m of the goal-setting, list-making variety. And I need to feel that the majority of my down time still has to be productive in some way. Folding laundry while watching the baseball game. Listening to educational podcasts while driving. I have struggled with the impossibility to come home and sit down. I get anxiety on the drive home from work sometimes, thinking about all of the things I need to do. This makes my end of the night comedown that much more rewarding but the many hours before it completely exhausting. I will complain to Josh about his not doing enough around the house until he sets me straight. He does his part. Not doing as much as I do is not a fault of his. I set stupid-high standards and buzz around like a Tasmanian devil (assuming they do consistently whirl around like that of the Looney Tunes** character) until I’ve exhausted myself.
It is hard for me to really relax on a weekday if it is still light outside. (I do allow for a lot more down time on weekends.) I am the goddamned opposite of lazy, is what I’m saying. Sometimes it sucks. But I let the chores and ennui of the daily life get in the way of real, personal self-improvement. I vowed to learn to speak Spanish and just stopped after a couple of lessons and index card study sessions. I have all of these plans for the front and back yard of my house but don’t allow the amount of time they’ll take. I want to do these creative projects for the first time in my life, but I’m putting the laundry first. And Tyrese is the guy who made me see my own big ass stuck in the way of things. This is funny, yes? I think so.
The laundry and the sweeping and the dusting and vacuuming can wait, right? The roof won’t come down if I dedicate a solid thirty minutes a day to a new language?
But do you promise?
-CJ
*Sike.
**Um, why ‘tune’ like music and not ‘toon’ like cartoon? Why hasn’t this been protested? We must put a stop to this!
My parents’ BBFs are temporarily living with them.
I’m going to start calling them Jules, Ellie, Grayson and Andy.
-CJ
Father’s Day went a little something like this:
Morning time lovins, *bow chicka*
Early morning impatience behind the Couple That Asks Questions at Knott’s Berry Farm. I sent Kiddo and her dad inside the park and waited and waited and then I sighed and waited more because all of the questions that could be formed in the English language had just been asked… and then we were on to Spanish. I just needed admission for my kid sister, but the questions did not cease. In fact, I’m posting this from my cell phone, while I wait behind the couple, 1.5 days later.
Admission granted, sister and I sought the biggest and the baddest rollercoasters we could while Kiddo and her dad took off to do smaller, less bad things. Xcelerator is my new favorite thing in the world, even though it is spelled xcelerator. Are we so fast we forgot how to spell, RIDE? HUH?
Eighty-two miles per hour in 3.2 seconds plus a ninety degree drop. In the name of awesome, amen.
The day continued in such a way, pairing off for two to enjoy the mania at a time, Kiddo begging to ride the same damn rollercoaster over and over again. At 35mph, you do not impress me, Jaguar!, even if you do come complete with an exclamation point.
By the time our feet were blistered, we’d conquered about everything except Pink’s.
I am pissed off at Pink’s. What with their incredible reputation and Hollywood Legend Since 1939-age, I wanted so, so much better. We had finally gotten around to trying the famous place for lunch that afternoon now that there is a location in Buena Park (and it is conveinently located right outside the amusement park) and it was just suck.
All suck. All of it. Don’t care if the original is better, I have lost my motivation.
We packed up and hit the movie theater up the street for some overachieving AC and amusement by way of Toy Story 3. It took over twenty-four hours to convince Kiddo that it wouldn’t be a complete waste of her time. She would have much rather seen Avatar: The Last Airbender but we’re big giant jerks and we went to the toy movie. Someone should really call protective services. It doesn’t get much meaner.
Later, we dropped my sister off at home and popped a pizza in the oven for a late night dinner with our new favorite show, To Catch a Predator. My guilty amusement and the need for such public documentation and the capitalizing on the dumb dumbs is all for another day. WE CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF THIS SHOW.
Baby daddy was the recipient of an excellent dinner at Benihana the night before and a BJ Penn action figure for his sweet dadly contributions to my precious precious’ life. He’s pretty good at what he does, I must say. Right when my patience gives, he has a way of swooping in. He catches and appreciates all of the little things I miss and no one can make our kid laugh as hard as he does.
-CJ
Over the weekend I was victim to a copy of The Lovely Bones; a DVD meant for ‘awards consideration only.’ I considered punching myself regretfully for bothering with the flick. I loathed that movie and stared directly at my cohort next to me and simply shook my head when it finally ended. I can absolutely appreciate the visionary aspect of the heaven-like place that Susie Salmon finds herself in, becase, holyfuck, that was cool. Aside from that I want 135 minutes of my life back.
The Grammy game went surprisingly slow though there were multiple instances of two or more consecutive drinks. Eventually I made myself a real cocktail and shortly after, got really sick of the dragged out mediocre performances save for Stevie Nicks on Rhiannon (where my ninja gets her first name, excitingly enough). If we’d watched the whole thing on mute and just admired some of the excruciatingly beautiful people I think it would have been much better.
No more award shows or award-consideration bootlegs for me.
-CJ
I don’t watch award shows because for every one award whose winner I might actually care about, there’s three and half hours of filler and six horribly matched duets. Sitting through them makes my brain hurt.
I tweet’d a thought this morning: “There’s gotta be a way I can turn the upcoming Grammys into a drinking game.”
The suggestions were stellar.
- Take a shot every time someone thanks the gee oh dee.
- Take a shot every time someone says Beyonce or Michael Jackson.
- Take two shots every time Taylor Swift or Lady GAGa are mentioned.
Not only will I watch it this time, but I’m excited to. Who’s coming?
-CJ
PS, you can always depend on my lovely friend Misty over at Handbags & Handguns for the most kick ass recaps.
Last night I was being a little pansy on my couch with a throw blanket, a glass of Chardonnay and Josie & the Pussycats on TV.
I KNOW.
I asked Ree if she remembered the anti-drug commercial with Rachel Leigh Cook, where she annihilates a kitchen with a frying pan. It was the one thing I’d seen that Ree hadn’t so we pulled it up on YouTube. At the end, Cook asks coyly, “Any questions?”
Ree and I had the same one at the same time: How you doin’?
-CJ
