Top 10.5 Things to List

While scrolling through Facebook, just now, I was presented with at least 10 links to blogs and articles of lists. Top 10 movies... 12 Things to never eat... Top 8 reasons your butt is big...

I like the listed type of article because it's nicely summarized, gets right to the point, and is manageable/actionable information. 

So here is my own list of listed articles I'd like to eventually create lists for:

1. How To Fold Thong Underwear in 5 Easy Steps

2. 4 Things You Do That Really Piss Me Off

3. 7 Reasons Now Is Not The Time To Put Away The Laundry

4. Top 3 Places To Nap

5. My 6 Favorite Ways To Use The Word "Bitch"

6. 3 Reasons Why We Overeat and 4 Ways to Shut That Shit Down In 2 Easy Steps, Bitch!

7. Top 37 Vodka Drinks

8. 101 Dalmation Names

9. The Number One Thing To Write That Will Keep People Reading

10. 50 Shades of Grey

11. The 5 Most Impactful Lists of 2013

-B(Sting)

Balance

In 2014, KBfit commits to:

·         End food-shaming

o   Carbohydrates are not the devil.  They give us energy, feed our brains, fuel our workouts, build muscle

o   Fruit does not make us fat.  Sitting on our asses, eating until we have to roll our pants down or over the gut makes us fat

o   Grains and dairy are bad for some people and not for others

o   Dietary fat does not lead to ass fat

o   Sugar is not equivalent to crack

o   Just eat the food, for chrissakes.  Elimination eventually leads to bingeing.  Let us know how that works out for you.

o   The key to a healthy body composition is a healthy balance.  We will support and assist that.  We will not help you starve yourself or deprive yourself.

·         End fat-shaming

o   Trying to lose a certain number of pounds within a certain time frame promotes putting off happiness.  Do NOT suspend happiness till you get “there” – because, sometimes, “there” is a moving target and happiness can’t wait.

o   Taunting you with the ‘threat’ of bikinis does not promote ‘willpower’.  It promotes anxiety, stress, and spikes in hormone levels that actually cause weight gain or inhibit fat loss. 

o   Clothes fitting tight?  So what.  Make a few healthy changes and move on.  Dwelling doesn’t burn fat.

o   KBfit offers bootcamps and guidance because it’s easier and more fun to adopt healthy habits in a group of fun(ny) people.  We are not focused on fat.  We are focused on health. 

·         End Internal Smack-Talk

o   Do you tell yourself you have no willpower?  Willpower is bullshit.  The power is not in the will.  The power is in the balance. 

o   Are you not doing things right now that will make you healthy and happy because you’re afraid you’re too fat?  Too slow?  Too weak?  You could get hit by a bus tonite.  Tomorrow is not a guarantee.  We live in the now.  Stop waiting to live!

o   Stop talking bad about your thighs.  You’re hurting their feelings.  They carry you around all day, every day and they don’t smack-talk you. 

o   Your belly keeps your guts from slopping onto the ground.  Why you gotta talk bad about it like it’s not even in the room?

Today is a new day.  What are you going to do with it?

Good Enough

Tonight, I had to channel my inner child psychologist for my beautiful 9-year old daughter, HRH.  She used to be the happiest little girl on the planet.  But lately, growing up is catching up. 

When she was younger, I could see the “I’m not good at anything” mentality was going to rear its ugly head.  My sweet, smiley Cheeks n’ Buns (a nickname assigned by El Jefe on her day of birth) was slow to walk, talk, read… and everything else.  In dance classes, she’s never really been on the beat.  She has to work hard to earn good grades in school.  She never learns anything instantly.  Things never just come to her or click.  She’s not developmentally delayed or in need of special assistance – she’s just not a “quick study”. 

In the beginning, she was never affected by her last-in-line status.  She didn't care... or even notice.  But now, as she gets older, she’s starting to recognize the self-imposed ranking system; and her reaction to it is spinning me back to my own youth – and adulthood. 

I recall standing in the kitchen as a young girl with my own mother; sobbing in her arms, crying about feeling left out, being left behind, and not being good enough.  Mom was my rock and she built me up.  Dad showed me how to be a leader and not take shit from anybody.  But, sometimes, outside forces can be stronger and can silence what our parents and mentors teach us. 

Unfortunately, as I got older I lost sight of what Mom and Dad tried to teach me and I practically sold my soul for acceptance. 

I am scared to death that will happen to HRH. 

Tonight, I sat on the bed for an hour and cradled her emotionally broken frame in my arms as her soul and sense of self poured onto my shoulders in the form of tears (and snot).  “Mom, I tried out for the play, today, and I’m pretty sure [my best friend] got the part.  She’s always better than me at everything.  She even always wins at Rock-Paper-Scissors!  How is that even possible?!  It’s a game of chance!!!!”

The audition confession was the cork that opened the flood gates.

“I’m not good at anything I do!  [Another friend] is a better dancer than me.  And I REALLY LOVE dance!  I love art but I’m not very good at it.  My best friend even corrects my art work.  It’s MY art work!  How can it be wrong??  I got 3^rd place in the spelling bee, today.  Third place didn't even get an honorable mention!  I always get picked last to be on teams – and sometimes, I don’t even get picked, at all!  Why am I here?  Why aren't I good enough?  Why can’t I do anything really good?”

“I think you mean ‘…really WELL’.  As in … Why can’t you do anything really well.”

(Nooooo… I didn’t really SAY that!  Even I’M not that douchebaggy)

It’s so painful to watch those steady streams of low self esteem streak down my child’s face.  Her voice catching in her throat… I wanted to cry with her. 

We commiserated; I told her she’s not alone.  I, too, feel the same way.  There’s better bloggers than me.  There are fitness instructors better than me.  There are women more beautiful than me.  There are better mothers than me.  There are better bodies than mine.  Better… better… better!!!! 

But why do we care?  Why do we compare ourselves to others?  WHY do we define ourselves by how we stack up against our peers? 

I don’t have the answer to that.  But I think the solution is to look inside rather than outside.

“Baby, who are you?  What do you think makes you important to your friends and family?”

“I have nice hair, Mama.”

“Yes.  Your hair is exquisite, indeed.  But there’s more.  You’re a good friend.  You’re giving.  You truly care about other people’s feelings.  You pride yourself on being a good girl.  You want people to be happy.  Do you ever recognize those things in yourself?”

“No.  That’s just who I am. Why would I spend time thinking about that?”

“Exactly.  It comes naturally to you – without even thinking about it.  And those are the very things that DO make you good enough.”

Eventually, the tears dried up and I think I convinced her that she IS good enough.  She – we – are not the sum of our abilities to one-up our peers.  Instead, we are the ability to hold up our peers. 

But I worry that our pep-talk won’t hold.  I know that our collective insanity raises the zombie self-doubts that we try to bury.  They rise up and feast on our brains until we’re empty shells, again.  

How do I teach her to stop comparing herself to others when I can’t even practice what I preach? Who am I trying to be?

I want to be the strong shoulder people can lean on and the person people can turn to when they need help pushing down the self-doubts.  I want to make people laugh – in ANY situation.  I want to BE solace. 

When I remind myself of those things - the perfect body; parental crafting skillz; and badass dance moves no longer matter (but I'm pretty sure I do, in fact, possess badass, Solid Gold dance moves).

Hopefully, I will keep reminding myself… and being… who I want to be; consequently, I can help her love who she is meant to be - without the need to sell her soul. 

-B (Sting)

Thankful

At the election party, the restaurant manager approached, “Matt is in the office.  He would like you and your daughter to go to him.”

I knew it was bad news.  I collected our 9 year old daughter and warned her that this was it.  This was the end.  She didn’t believe me, “Why?  Who wouldn’t like Daddy?”

We were lead through the hot kitchen into the back office.  There was Jefe, eyes red and glassy, “It’s done.  We’ve lost.”  And then he cried.  Our daughter cried.  She cried the hardest.  To her, it was personal. 

Matt had lost 60% to 40%.  The witch hunt was over.  The mayoral take-down had just begun.  All of the incumbents lost. 

Out of all the campaigning, all the mud-slinging, all the public shaming; I was proud of him.  Do you know what he did first in that hot, steamy back-office?  He called his opponent.  It went to her voice mail, but he left a message, anyways.  “Hi, Debra.  This is Matt Riedemann.” (as if she didn’t know who he was)  “I just want to congratulate you.  I know you will do a great job.  If you ever have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

Or something like that.

We had to tell the 50+ who had gathered to cheer us on.  Our little girl was a mess with her bloodied and battered heart splayed on her sleeve.  Matt barely kept it together as he delivered the news.  Every single person hugged us and congratulated him for being a good man and for taking the high road. 

He did take the high road.  He was given many pieces of information that could easily “take down” the other side, but he chose not to expose them.  Why?  Because two wrongs don’t make a right.  Ever.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Matt eventually took our girl out for a wound-healing ice cream while I stayed behind and said my final thank-yous. 

On my way home, I stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes.  That’s right.  F-U, proposed city-wide smoking ban.  I’m lighting up!  BAM!  In your face, suckers!

Pulling into our neighborhood, I decided to go past my house and drive around.  It was comforting to see all of his signs in all the yards.  I was told this was the biggest voter turn-out in our neighborhood ever.  I love that. 

It will be nice to have him back.  We’ve missed him at countless dinners.  For those who still believe a city council position is a part-time job, I assure you – it is not.  During his short term as councilman, Matt attended every ribbon-cutting and city event he could.  He loves this city and wanted to be there for her – in every way.  Selfishly, I am not THAT sad that we get him back.  But I am sad that he has been made the sacrificial lamb.  Our financial history is mottled – and, frankly, we’re not out of the woods, yet.  But his integrity is intact.  He… WE… would do it all, again.  Because that is who we are.  We are not perfect, but our love for you is. 

November 5, 2013:  I am thankful for Matt Riedemann.  I am thankful for friends and family who will rally to ensure we don’t slip into a dark depressing place of regret.  I am thankful our shit is all laid out and we no longer have to worry “who will find out that the crumbling economy got us, too”.  I am thankful the public lashings, stone-casting, and beatings are over. 

Xoxo

-B(Sting)

Why Lou Rawls and I Hate CrossFit

Recently, I read and shared on Facebook an article warning about the dangers of CrossFit… something about being attacked by bloody clowns, or something?  I don’t know.  I didn't read it very closely cuz I really just liked the fact that it appeared to be anti-CrossFit, so I hopped on the bandwagon.  In fact, I hopped on that bandwagon like an f-ing pie-in-the-sky box jump, bitches! 

I bet you’re wondering why I dislike CrossFit, so much?

The reality is my hatred for the hottest craze to buck the fitness industry is purely emotional and backed by completely unscientific and mostly-made-up research.

 

Lou Rawls’ song is looping in my brain as I write this.  I virtually cradle the chrome microphone between my cupped hands and remorsefully sing to you…

“You'll never find, as long as you live

Someone who loves you tender like I do.

You'll never find, no matter where you search

Someone who cares about you the way I do…”

I joined the fitness industry more than 7 years ago, after about a decade of being an unhealthy, lazy fat-ass.  I was never athletic.  Shit!  I’m still not “athletic”.  I wanted to be able to scale rock walls, jump high, flip my body like I had springs for feet, and run faster than the wind.  But my body mechanics – and sad, sad lack of coordination – would not allow it.  Instead, I dug deep and learned to work with what I CAN do… and then master the shit out of it! 

I became certified to teach every possible fitness discipline I could handle.  Eventually, one of my besties, Kay, and I created a fitness business and named our new baby KBfit.  We dug deep into our souls, hearts, and finances to help everybody we could touch through the power of physical fitness.  It had changed our lives and we had a vision to change their lives.  We wanted to show people how to be their best in spite of injuries, age, and… fear.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a new fitness phenomenon was rising up.  Friends were joining CrossFit boxes and telling me all about their cool workouts.  I really wanted to try it.  But then I saw how much it cost.  That was a deal-breaker for me.  That and my own previous injuries including but not limited to a 2-level spinal fusion.  *Le Sigh* 

Kay and I bought equipment, attended conferences, and obtained certifications and licensing.  We designed workouts that could challenge people at every fitness level.  More than a year and a half later, KBfit is still kicking.  We research and scheme to keep workouts fresh.  We strive to add a personal touch and really get to know every single one of our members.  We make ourselves available all day – every day .  We try to accommodate as many needs as we can. We truly love our business and – even more – we truly love our members.  That’s all we want to do.  Love our members and deliver something that is neither cost-prohibitive nor injury-inducing.  We just want to exist and do our thing  - changing lives and promoting wellness. 

Here’s the thing:  We love our members and our business so much that we are like jealous lovers. 

And there it is, readers.  THAT is why I hate CrossFit!  CrossFit (CF) threatens the sanctity of our love. 

I hate competing with an entity that threatens to steal my people… my loves.  I hate competing for you.  I just want to love you.  Just relax and let me love you, baby. 

 “… Whoa, I'm not braggin' on myself, baby

But I'm the one who loves you

And there's no one else, no-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh one else…”

Let me repeat that.  No… One… else!!!

Am I a CF-hater because I “can’t hang”?  Yeah.  I guess so.  I have titanium rods in my back and now half my plantar’s fascia has been severed. You’re damn right I can’t jump up and down off a box that’s 2-4 feet high!  And I shouldn't have to, either!  Why you gotta make me and my people feel bad for not wanting to jump around like a damned fart in a bottle, risking a torn Achilles’ tendon or ACL?

Am I jealous?  How ‘bout yes!  I’d love to be able to do a zillion un-assisted pull-ups.  But I can’t.  Maybe I’m too tall.  Maybe I’m too weak.  Maybe I’m too fat.  But why you gotta make me cry and hate myself for it?  Why can’t you just hug me and help me find a workaround so I can feel GOOD about myself?

I believe fitness should make us feel good.  Not make us compete with our own peers so hard out of our realm of safety that we barf or get hurt… or piss ourselves… really, CrossFit?  REALLY?!  That’s not even sanitary!

“You'll never find, it'll take the end of all time

Someone to understand you like I do

You'll never find the rhythm, the rhyme

All the magic we shared, just us…”

I understand you, baby.  I know your trials and tribulations.  I know when you want to quit and when you need to quit.  That CrossFit coach SAYS he loves you, but does he give you his cell number and tell you to text him anytime you need someone to talk you down from the ledge?  Does he let you bring your kids to class cuz you’re strapped for a sitter?  Does he give you a price break cuz you’re strapped for cash?  Does he give you a hug cuz you’re strapped for answers why you’re not losing weight? 

Now, I have lots of friends who do CF and they are good people.  They don’t make me cry or taunt me when I walk by and call me names like, “Sissy bootcamper” or anything like that.  I know, I know… I know my hatred is not rational or even scientifically founded.  I know not all CF boxes and CF people are evil.    But I still feel the divide.  I still pick up the condescension.    

“Whoa, I'm not tryin' to make you stay, baby

But I know some how, some day, some way

You are (you're gonna miss my lovin')…”

You will, you know.  Some day… you will miss my lovin’.  You’ll miss the good times we had.  You’ll miss how much I cared for you.  You’ll miss how hard I worked to make you smile. 

So, that’s it.  That’s why I hate CrossFit.  I hate all the rhetoric about how it’s tougher than errthing else.  You know what?  It’s NOT better than all the other fitness entities.  It’s just different.  So stop bragging like it’s better than us, stronger than us, and sexier than us.  Just like all the other crazes, it WILL eventually be replaced by a newer take on the same damn thing.  And I’ll still be here… doing MY thing…. Loving you.

Disclaimer:  Lou Rawls doesn't really hate CrossFit.  I totally made that up.  

Runner’s High OR Runners Are High

Previously Posted on November 17, 2011

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Without doing the actual math, I would venture to guess that 80% or more of my friends are runners – albeit, various stages of runnership. ‘G’ is a badass marathoner. Her SUVcould be completely covered in those 26.2 decals like some sort of bizarre math autowrap. Meanwhile, ‘S’ just completed the Couch to 5K program, ending in a neck-jarring 5K. Seriously. She injured her neck. She doesn’t even know how she managed to pull that feat off, either. But most importantly, she trained daily and completed her first 5k!

Sidebar: why are races labeled in kilometers until they reach marathon status? 5K, 10K, 13.1 miles, 26.2 miles. Is it because 3.1 miles doesn’t sound nearly as kickass as 5k? Or maybe it’s because 42.195k sounds ridiculous compared to 26.2 miles.

I’m kind of jealous. I would love to be able to run (without pain). Don’t waste your typing skillz on explaining to me exactly how I, too, can do it. I’ve tried. And I now have titanium trophies implanted in my back. Let me back up and regroup (like our kids’ obnoxious “new” math)…

Rewind to October, 2003. I am working out with my trainer and we’re discussing her training me for an amateur figure contest. She thinks I can do it. I think I can do it. Let’s do it! But first let’s do some dead lifts! And then *POP*… poor form, shoulders rounded, lumbar disc is blown from my spine to the opposite wall. November, 2003: Laminectomy and partial discectomy (which is surgical speak for snapping off a piece of the vertebrae and plucking the bulging disc from the spinal column).

Full recovery! Hurray! Then I got knocked up, had a baby, and got fluffy(er). What gets rid of excess fat faster than anything? Say it with me… RUNNING!!! So I tried it: Walk for an hour, jog for 1 second. Walk for 30 minutes, jog for 2 seconds. I hated running. It hurt me from head to toe. My lungs burned with the intensity of a thousand forest fires. I had to keep stopping to re-light my cigarette. My toe nails hurt from being repeatedly slammed into the toebox of my shoes. My knee caps filled with water and felt like they were sliding right down my legs. I swear my shins cracked like aged tree bark. But I kept at it cuz I just needed to “work through it”, right?

It took me a while at this pace, but eventually I was jogging upwards of 3 CONSECUTIVE miles! AY DIOS MIO!! I was a RUNNER!!! At 6 feet tall, you’d think I’d look like a blonde gazelle bounding across the concrete Serengeti wearing cool running pants and slick running shoes. Smooth, fast, graceful!

No.

At 6 feet tall, painfully uncoordinated, and comically awkward; I more resembled an ostrich with a broken leg, flightless wings outstretched to help maintain balance – limp/running to safety.

Sadly, I would never pass the 3-mile marker. One day, while shaving my legs, I noticed I couldn’t feel the razor glide up my shin or the ledge supporting my foot. “Weird,” I thought. “Should I be able to feel that?” So I tested it on the other leg. Yep. I should be able to feel that.

August, 2007. 2-level Anterior Lumbar Interbody Fusion (ALIF). Apparently, the impact of my ‘long-distance’ running had caused a domino effect of crushed discs up my already-compromised spine. No more running for me. Ever. Again.

I felt like the poor, dorky kid in gym class (who was always picked last for EVERYTHING) was just handed a permanent “Excused From Gym Class” note. It was awesome! I was told to never run again! I didn’t have to try, anymore. I didn’t have to beat myself up because everyone else was doing it. I had a legitimate excuse!

Oh, man! That was liberating. I discovered less painful forms of exercise and even became a fitness instructor (I know. I still can’t believe it, either). But somehow, over the years, I managed to surround myself with a passel of runners. The gnawing feeling that I should be running with my crazyass friends has plagued me for years. Ohhhh… I don’t evny them! Ohhhh I DO envy them!

I like to get into their heads and learn all about the process of the long distance runs. What is training like? What happens to your body during the process? Do you get bored after THE FIRST TWO HOURS? What kind of illegal drugs would I have to administer to motivate myself to run for fucking 2+ hours?

Here’s what I’ve learned – beyond the obvious knee, ankle, foot ailments:

• Toes get banged around in running shoes, a lot, resulting in bruised nails that turn black and fall off. Awesome! Are pedicures discounted if you don’t have all 10 toenails??
• While running long distances, the friction of clothing (and even rubbing skin) can and will cause chapping and rashes. Brings a whole new meaning to the “That really chaps my ass” saying, doesn’t it? Locations that make me cringe the most: nipples (from prolonged rubbing of shirts/sports bras), armpits, inner thighs.
• Research has documented links between marathons and increase of cardiac events immediately following and for up to 24 hours after a marathon.

(http://www.active.com/running/Articles/New_study_cites_link_between_marathon_running_and_some_heart-attack_factors.htm)

Bonus! Why wouldn’t I run a marathon?!

Interestingly, the marathon finds its origins in the legend of Pheidippides – a Greek messenger, who ran the entire distance from Marathon to Athens to watch a Georgia Bulldogs game, got drunk, collapsed, and died. Or something like that.

So, it appears running isn’t all cupcakes and candy canes. It’s grueling, painful, and – in rare instances – fatal. So why the hell do so many people ‘just do it’? Repeatedly?

Accomplishment. I get it. I mean, I’ll never “get” it… but I get it.

I’ve heard of the runner’s high. I kept waiting for the runner’s high. I never achieved it, but surely everyone else does or they wouldn’t keep at it. Maybe I have some sort of odd immunity to the runner’s high. What does it feel like? Does it occur before or after you throw up?

I have a friend who was recently talked into training for a half-marathon. While I outwardly called her a sucker; inwardly, I am in awe and fairly jealous. Nevertheless, I haven’t loosened my death grip on my permanent doctor’s note.

-B(Sting)

An Open Letter to Mike Linch

An Open Letter to Mike Linch – Sr. Pastor at NorthStar Church

Previously Posted on February 23, 2012

14

Rumor has it that my great grandmother renounced Judaism out of fear.  She became Lutheran, apparently.  Quite a jump, right?  As a result, my mother was raised in the Lutheran church, but in the ELC (Evangelical Lutheran Church) synod.  As children, she and her brother were told by a Lutheran priest of the WELS (Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran) Synod that they were going to Hell because – while they were Lutheran – they belonged to the wrong (lesser quality?) synod.

Wait.  What?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my father was being raised Catholic.  While at Catholic schools, he was periodically punished (with a wooden ruler) for 1) being left-handed – which was considered ‘The Hand of  The Devil’ in those days;  2) outwardly questioning the concept of indulgences (because why wouldn’t we all be able to just buy our way into Heaven?  Sweet!); and 3) frequently pointing out – during class time – the corruption of The Papacy (Pope… politician… whatever).

If you ever met Dad, you would quickly ascertain he was punished A LOT (he’s an ordained button-pusher).

Dad was quick to leave the Catholic Church to marry Mom and they lived happily ever after in the Lutheran Church (but, of course, among the Hell-bound ELC synod folks).

Fast forward to the birth of my brother and me.  While we were both baptized into the Lutheran Church, we never actually attended church.  Mom and Dad had enough of church ‘values’ (aka hypocrisy) crammed down their throats, so they mutually decided not to cram it down our throats.

Growing up, I always wanted to attend church on a regular basis.  It seemed so beautiful and structured. To me, structure equaled love.  Not that I’m Type A, or anything (yes I am).  I would go to church with my (Catholic) grandmother.  Man!  I loved the pomp and circumstance of those services.  Sure, I had no idea what the Priest was saying… but who did?  Just being there ROCKED!  And that incense?  I would inhale deeeeeeeply when they’d walk by, swinging that lantern-thing on the chain; smoke billowing from within.  I didn’t know what its significance was, but I told myself it was all part of The Salvation Experience.  Next-up:  Communion!  Bring it!  The Priest called us up, pew-by-pew, to receive the ‘piece of Christ’ (or was it supposed to be ‘Peace of Christ’?  Saaaay, was that intended to be a double entendre?  Those clever bastards!) and the ‘blood of Christ’.  But as I stepped out to get in line, Gram stopped me, “No, dear.  You cannot take Communion.  You’ll go to Hell because you’re not Catholic.”

Wait.  What?

I became very disenchanted with The Church and religion, as a whole (or should I say ‘hole’?), on that day.  Nobody could seem to get their story straight.  Mind you, I still believed in God.  But religion?  WhatEVER!

Fast forward to my adult years.  El Jefe and I are newly married and trying to have a baby.  Trying.  Trying.  Trying.  Each year, my faith in (even) God waned.  And then I had ectopic pregnancy #1 on my 30th birthday.  Ectopic pregnancy #2 occurred on Matt’s 31st birthday.  Was I being punished?  Is this because I never went to Church?  Is this because I wasn’t Catholic?  Maybe because I wasn’t WELS Lutheran or Jewish.  Is this because I lied, that one time, about having horses in my backyard (in inner city Milwaukee) when I was in kindergarten?  Yes,  I told lies in my past.  Other than that, I was a pretty good person, God!  What gives?!

Let me state for the record, 7 years of infertility is hard.  It’s hard on a soul, it’s hard on a marriage, it’s hard on one’s faith in God.

Eventually, I became bitter and dark.  I still believed in God… sort of… barely… but certainly not The Church… not any church.  El Jefe would try to get me to go to churches with him.  Reluctantly, sometimes I would; but I would hate every moment of it, scoffing at the sermon.  Yeah, yeah.  God loves me.  All I have to do is pray.  Blah, blah, blah.  I’ll put that on my to-do list. I would think to myself, “Let me tell you something, Mr. Priest!  I HAVE prayed!  I prayed HARD!  You think I didn’t pray for a baby??  And look where I am after all that praying.  No baby and I’m down one ovary.  Thanks.  Thanks for the advice, dumba….” (well, I’m sure you can guess how that rant ended).

My bitterness drove a wedge between El Jefe and me.  We nearly divorced because of the darkness in my heart and soul.  Somehow, we eventually yanked our heads out of our butts and got back on track.

And then… (wait for it)… we became pregnant with Her Royal Highness (HRH).  The conception was a bit miraculous, if I do say so, myself.  Without boring you with medical details, suffice it to say the chances of conception in my circumstance were very slim.  But here we are, today, with a 7-year old royal spitfire daughter!

While my distrust in God, religion, and The Church were eased over time; it was not resolved.

Then some friends (Dina and Neil) lured us to NorthStar under the guise of some sort of couples nite out event the church was hosting.  El Jefe was hooked.  We began attending services… occasionally.  I still dug in my heels on the mornings he’d announce we would be attending, “Am I gonna have to sing?  I’m not singing.  Rock band at church!  Seriously?!?” (Remember, what little church exposure I had was quite formal)

Here’s the thing:  I really liked the feel, the message, and that I knew a whole slew of people that already attended.  But most of all, I liked you, Mike.  You spoke to us like we WEREN’T on the fast-track to Hell AND you demystified passages in the Bible.

Wait.  What?!?

Sure, I still scoffed and questioned and thought, “yeah, but that doesn’t even make sense and is even contradictory” – and I certainly did NOT sing; but I was hooked on your talks.  That singing-to-a-rock-band-at-church-thing, though… No.  Just…. No.

Now we attend (almost) every Sunday, El Jefe is involved in church groups, and we are (for the first time ever) attending church events as a couple (the retreat AND a couples group).  What is happening to me?!

But wait!  There’s more!

Recently, we attended NorthStar’s 15th anniversary service.  As mandated, we brought HRH (Her Royal Highness).  As expected, she was bored out of her mind.  But when we stood up to sing, I looked down and SHE was singing along.  She was unabashedly, open-heartedly singing with (God help me) The Rock Band!  And do you know what happened next?

I.  Sang.

True Story.

-B(Sting)

PS

I’ve regressed, a little.  Singing along still doesn’t happen very much.  But I DO tap my toes.

Fifty Shades of Grey: Introduction

Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy Review Overview

Previously Posted on April 19, 2012

5

The Fifty Shades trilogy by EL James (Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, and Fifty Shades Freed) has been dubbed by the author’s fans as ‘Mommy Porn’.  Admittedly, I devoured all three books within 1 ½ weeks (would have been done sooner, but El Jefe and Her Royal Highness (HRH) needed dinner and shit).

Once done with the books, I found myself meandering around the house, feeling empty and lost.  I wondered if Anastasia and Christian even do stupid laundry. Or do they just roll around in it?

I'll break book 1 down into three easy posts, but first let's begin with a quick and dirty run-down of data...

Characters: 

• Christian Grey :  Mid-to-late 20s and self-made gazillionaire.  Devastatingly handsome.  Dark, luxurious hair that apparently requires a lot of ‘raking’.  As the 4-year old child of a crack whore, he was abused by mom's pimp and then left for days with her dead body.   Christian has some emotional baggage and a sexual dark side.
• Anastasia Steele (Ana):  Early 20s (21 or 22?), just graduating from college.  Bland, at first, but proves to be alluring.  Shy but sassy.  She blushes a lot.
• The Others:  Don't pretend you give a rat's ass about character development.   

Basic Story Line:

Essentially, these books are erotica with a more developed plot than your typical erotica genre.  Christian Grey is a control freak who knows what he wants and always gets it.  Ana is unassuming and quiet.  She's one of those quiet-types that blows people's minds when they drop the f-bomb.  Christian Grey can't figure out what it is about this plain-Jane that rocks his socks, but he suspects it has something to do with that hidden f-bomb.  In other news, Ana is a virgin and Christian is a sexy sexual deviant.  

Buckle up, bitches, cuz we’re goin’ in… and so is Christian. 

-B (Sting)

Weight! What?

Previously Posted on December 7, 2011

I’ve always said that the scale messes with my head. That smug digital readout carries more weight about how I perceive myself than my actual ass.

Every week I step on the scale. Hahahahahahaha…. No I don’t. I suffer from lardassaphobia – a mortal fear that the number that flashes before my eyes will be greater than the last time it flashed before my eyes. I never forget that number. It is seared in my brain until the next slap in the face-weigh-in.

When I do get on the scale, however, the process goes something. Like. This…

Walk around naked for a few minutes to dry out any errant moisture I may have accidentally absorbed. Bonus points if the room is chilly! Go to the bathroom. Squeeeeeeeze out every last drop. Take a deep breath. Tap the scale with my toe to activate it. Wait for an eternity for the 0.00 to flash (approx 1.5 seconds). Step on scale and exhale forcefully to get all that heavy air out of my lungs. Rock back on my heels a bit so I’m more ‘light on my feet’. Try to not care as I STARE at the flashing number, waiting for it to stop reeling from the heavy load thrust upon it. Bend over to get closer to the display to read it (cuz I don’t have my glasses on … Cuz they would add unnecessary weight… DUH!).  Tell the scale to fuck off, step off, and get dressed (cuz I’m freezing!!).

I force myself to step on the scale so I know where I’m at and how much damage I’ve blindly done since my last self-induced punishment.  It’s painful but at least I know.

Imagine how quickly my life turned upside down when I went to the doctor and stepped on their scale…

“Okay, Miss B.  196.”

“What?!  Whoa, there!  Back up, bitches.  I don’t accept that readout.  That’s not even remotely what my scale told me just yesterday morning!”

“Well, honey, that’s what it says.  See?”  The nurse pointed at the number like I was some sort of slow monkey-child hybrid.

“Yeah.  I see that.  And my husband also says I’m the most spoiled bitch on the planet – but I don’t accept that either.  So – much like my husband – that scale is wrong.  Find me another.  I’ll wait.”

Needless to say, she did not find me another scale.  Useless hag.

You may have noticed that I bravely shared my “medical weight” (everyone knows those scales at the doctor’s offices are buckass-wrong; so I use the term “medical weight” to indicate a fictional number).  Now look, smarty pants, before you judge me based on that number I just threw at you; remember that I am 6 feet tall.  I weighed 110 pounds when I was 10… and skinny.  So suck it!

But still… 196 – no matter how fictional – is pretty jarring.  That’s only 54 pounds away from my highest weight ever (Yes.  I was a ‘woman of size’ in my 30s).  Just yesterday, my scale told me I was 186 lbs (post peanut butter and wine binge). So who do I believe???

A Note about my weight fluctuations: 

My highest recorded weight was 265 lbs.  My lowest recorded (adult) weight was 152 lbs.

[I looked emaciated at 152 lbs.  But I was pretty proud of that starving Ethiopian look.  Nevertheless, it was too low and I couldn't maintain it (oh shut the hell up about that Ethiopian comment.  This isn't a political rant.  Stay focused, for chrissakes!).]

My average holding weight is 180 lbs.  I prefer to be around 170 lbs – which allows me to maintain my boobs AND wear tight jeans.  I look spot-on-hott at 160 lbs and tend to wear only hooker clothes.  I don’t even remember the last time I made it to 160 lbs.  Maybe it’s better that way.  A 40-year old mom probably shouldn’t be strutting around her daughter’s elementary school in her finest hooker-wear.

So which scale was correct?  I spent my entire day flipping back and forth.  I felt like Sybil.  Am I fat?  Am I slender?  Could my scale really be that wrong?  That may explain why my spandex seemed oddly tight around my thighs.  Maybe my thighs are meatier than usual?  I tried telling myself it was from excessive squats and lunges.  But the truth is I’d have to actually do the squats and lunges for that theory to hold water.  Water!  My period is right around the corner.  So I must be retaining water.  Is 4 weeks considered right around the corner in regards to water retention?

Their scale cannot possibly be correct!  A few weeks ago, I weighed in at 178 lbs on my scale.  178 lbs is in the 170s range.  Which is practically the same as 170.  I was SURE I looked awesome!  I walked around my bedroom NAKED… in front of El Jefe AND MOOSE THE DOG… cuz I was so confident with my 170s(ish).

Is it possible my scale really is 10 lbs off and I was actually strutting around at 188 lbs?  OH MY GOD!  THE HORROR!!!  Is that why Moose now averts his eyes whenever I approach him?!?

After the doctor scale-incident, I put on the biggest, bulkiest sweater I could dig out.  I just wanted to cover up (my body and my face).

I had to know.  Was I making a fool of myself, prancing around like I was all hott and slender?  Or was I actually hott and slender?  How could I test the validity of my scale?  I didn’t have any dumbbells.  You know what I did have, though?  A handheld luggage scale.  At least that would give me a comparison.

Once I got home, I went through all the proper pre-weigh-in steps:  Naked, chilly room, pee, weight in heels, no eyewear…. (drum roll, please)…. 186.

But I wasn’t in the clear, yet.  I needed to compare my scale to something.  So I darted to the guest bedroom – naked, of course – to dig out Big Blue, our ginormous (blue) suit case.  That bitch weighs a ton (or 15 lbs, whichever).  I rolled Big Blue back to our bathroom (still naked – if anyone peered into our 2nd story foyer window from the street, they either got a thrill or is scarred for life).  I hooked Big Blue onto the luggage scale:  15 lbs.  Then I hoisted it onto our
bovine human scale.  15 lbs.

OH MY GOD!  REDEMPTION!!!

I re-weighed Big Blue 2 more times.  I’m all about statistics, you know.  14.8, 15, 15

So there it is.  The doctor’s scale really was jacked.  Fucking bastards made me nutbuddy, batshit crazy for an entire day!

But do you see what’s been happening to me?  I have been seeing myself through a scale’s window.  When it ‘gives’ me a favorable number, I see myself favorably.  When it ‘gives’ me a shitty number, I see myself shittily.

I don’t know how to change my behavior, but this can’t go on.  I can’t be the scale’s helpless little bitch, anymore.

-B(Sting)

50 Shades: Dark Grey

Previously Posted on May 3, 2012

11

Anastasia and Christian stand at the precipice of pain… both emotional and physical.

Alright.  That’s enough flowery writer-speak.  Let’s get down to brass tacks (I have no idea what the hell that actually means, by the way).

Ana has agreed to enter The Red Room of Pain (Christian’s evil playroom where he assumes the role of Dominant and bosses around his Submissives).  Christian has a thing for hearty food consumption, so he makes Ana eat a well-balanced dinner first.  He worries like a Jewish mother.  After dinner, he announces, “… right now, I just want to tie you up and fuck you senseless.  Are you ready for that?”

Yes.  Yes I am.  Oh… wait.  You weren’t talking to me, were you.  Dammit!

“Yes,” she’s all in.

“Good.  Come.”

I’m a little surprised she didn’t actually come on command, there.

He takes her hand and leads her upstairs to The Playroom (seems to me, a place like that should be in the basement… like a dungeon), leaving all the dirty dishes on the breakfast bar.

Oh, hell no!  That would never happen in my house.  We do not leave a pile of dirty dishes to go have savage sex in a dungeon that happens to be located on the wrong floor of the house.  No sir!  We clean that shit up!  THEN we go have savage sex in a …. Well… then we go watch TV or scan Facebook.  

In The Playroom, he undresses her, “… and absentmindedly folds [her] dress, not taking his eyes off [her].”

So you’ll leave a festering pile of dirty dishes, but you neatly fold a dress before whipping your girlfriend.  Fair enough.

As part of the party-prep, he braids her hair and then “… ties it with an unseen hair tie…”

Does El Jefe know how to braid hair?  How many men have hair bands on their person… just in case they need to quickly braid their women’s hair?  Is this standard issue for women with long hair?  Do your boyfriends/husbands stop the throes of passion to exclaim, “Baby, let me just braid your hair real quick-like so it doesn’t get all up in my way.”

Christian performs a brief Playroom Orientation, “When I tell you to come in here, I expect you to kneel [wearing only panties] over there [a spot near the door].  Do it now.”

I am confident El Jefe would approve of this rule.  However, HRH and Moose (the dog) may be a bit confused and scarred to find me kneeling at the back door, wearing only panties, looking down at my spread legs… awaiting El Jefe’s arrival.  Knowing Moose (the dog), he’d jam his snout between my legs and breathe deeply.  That dog is so odd. 

“You can sit back on your heels.”

Oh, thank you for your generosity in securing my personal comfort.  Asshat!

“Will you remember this position, Anastasia?”

Ana’s response:  “Yes, sir.”

My response:  Fuck you, Jackwagon.

Why aren’t chiseled, domineering, hyper-protective men ever attracted to me?  Oh.  Wait… never mind.

Throughout all three books, Ana uses the same verbiage to describe Christian, a lot.  For instance, she addresses his smell frequently.  Apparently, he “smells of body wash and Christian.”

What the hell does this mean?  What kind of body wash?  How does she know it’s body wash?  Maybe he swipes a garden-variety bar of Irish Spring or Lever 2000 across his man-parts?  And what IS Christian-smell?  Curry?  Next time I smell a bouquet of flowers, I’m going to murmur that they smell like Christian. 

 Another one of her favorite descriptors is “trussed up”.  Everything gets “trussed up”… her boobs, her wrists, her entire body… all “trussed up”.  I have to admit, this one has crept into my vocabulary, too.  Now, whenever I work out, I “truss up” my knee.  And when I’m getting dressed, I “truss up” the girls, too.  Although, those bitches now need industrial strength shackles… or a good surgeon.

“… he hooks his fingers into my panties and… peels them down my legs… so that he ends up kneeling in front of me.”

That’s right.  Nooooooow we’re cooking with fire.

“… he scrunches my panties in his hand, holds them up to his nose, and inhales deeply.”

Weirdo.

Ana is “trussed up”, hanging like a slab o’ meat in a plant and Christian slaps and runs a riding crop through her cucaracha, “See how wet you are for this, Anastasia?  Open your eyes and mouth.”

He jams the wet crop into her mouth.

I’m imagining myself in this scenario.  It goes something like this:  With the wet crop in my mouth, I slur, “Is this thing clean?  This can’t be hygienic.  I guess I always assumed I tasted better than this.  I need to eat some pineapple, or something.”

“See how you taste?  Suck.  Suck hard, baby.”

This is just stupid.  I’m embarrassed for you, Christian.  Sucking a riding crop.  Really?

Ana thinks to herself, “I can taste… the saltiness of my arousal.”

You know, it’s not a dinner roll glaze, for fuck’s sake!  “Say, B, what’s on these dinner rolls?  Melted butter?  Some sort of glaze?  It’s just lightly salty.” / “Why, no.  In fact, it’s my special arousal sauce.  See, I run each roll through my hoo-ha just seconds before I serve them up.  So you like it?”

“Oh, Anastasia, you taste mighty fine.”

I know, right!  That’s what all my friends say, too.  Eat up, Christian. 

So, he slaps her with a riding crop until she comes.  So… what… 2 slaps?  Then he tells her, “Lift your legs, baby, wrap them around me.” (cuz, you know, they’re now going to have The Sex while standing)

Help me out, here.  Does this really work?  I’m 6 feet tall, so this has never worked for me.  My leg (note, it’s just one leg, cuz no man can support me AND hold both legs) is always still dragging on the floor and the parts never line up correctly.  It sounds hot on paper, but the dots just don’t connect.  Are you picking up what I'm putting down?  The dots. They don't connect.  

“I feel the build up again.  Jeez, no… not again… I don’t think my body will withstand another Earth-shattering moment.”

Go to hell, Ana.  

Lessee… a few pages later… oh look at that… they’re having The Sex.  How is her vagina not broken?

“I can feel a gathering deep inside me.”

Why?  Are you hungry?  Do you have to poop? 

“Oh no… and for the first time, I fear my orgasm… if I come… I’ll collapse.”

Oh shut up, you fucking cry-baby.  Jeezus!  Does this book ever end?!?  I think I’m growing weary of make-believe great sex.

Oh!  Here’s one of my favorite parts...  There’s this one scene where Christian has laid out Ana’s clothes while she’s in the shower (If I let El Jefe do this for me, I’d spend every day dressed like a circus clown whore) and he’s craftily omitted her panties.  So she goes to meet his parents SANS PANTIES!

Right.  Okay.  Let’s stay here, for a moment.  I have a friend or two who have gone sans panties.  I have never gotten my head around this.  Men, brace yourselves, cuz I’m about to reveal something about women that you may not want to know but it’s time for you to grow up.  You see, after ovulation, there’s almost always some sort of 'stuff' dropping outta there.  Panties’ main purpose, therefore, is to catch the errant drips.  If she’s not wearing panties, where do you think that shit ends up?  How ‘bout the back of her dress or every chair and couch she sits on.  Basically, she’s leaving a shiny snail trail everywhere she goes… all because she’s trying to be sexy.  Tell me… do you still think that’s sexy?

In another scene, he’s about to insert a pair of Ben Wa Balls into her.  Wondering what those are?  Here’s a brief explanation:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Wa_balls  Wondering how I knew what they were?  Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.

Upon insertion, he tells her, “Now turn around, bend down, and grab your ankles.”

Funny.  The IRS tells me to assume this position ever year.

There’s a lot more sex, but I’m getting tired of explaining it all to you.

But then there’s this one scene that grabbed my attention…

They’re about to climb into bed to do a crossword puzzle… haha… no, no… they’re about to have The Sex, silly.  And Christian asks Ana, “Are you bleeding?”

Foreplay, arousal, blah, blah, blah.

And then…

“He reaches between my legs and pulls on the … string… and gently takes my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet.”

STOP!  STOPSTOPSTOP!  He can’t toss that into the toilet!  Those are not supposed to be flushed!  This is a little wrong on other levels, too, but I’m guessing I don’t need to state the obvious, here.  

They move on to sex and then she remembers, “I’m bleeding.”

That doesn’t bother him, “Does it bother you?”

Uh… how ‘bout Yeah!?!  Cuz the room would look like a damned CSI crime scene!

Thankfully, they proceed to take a bath.  Filthy bastards need to clean that shit up, too!

In the tub, he grabs her and pulls her onto his lap, “I’m going to have you now,” he whispers.

Water sloshes all over the floor.

I can’t take it.  Water all over the floor, too?  Where does it end, people?!?  Dirty dishes, blood, water… you’re pigs!  PIGS!!

I’m certain there’s more sex.  And then she agrees to let him spank her with a leather strap… six times… really hard.

To her surprise, she doesn’t care for that activity.  Who knew?

Dumbass. 

They have a poignant conversation (without sex) and book one concludes.

-B(Sting)