love the wang

i’m going to be frank. i don’t particularly like children. in fact, my newest punch line is “me and my three eggs? we’re having SO much fun” (please review season premier of family guy…) i think having children is vain, it’s like tring a new hobby just to see what come of it. like, let’s see what i can make! let see if it’s cute! let’s see if it’s like me!   um..let’s not. okay, come to think of it, i don’t dislike children, i dislike irresponsible parents who have raised their children poorly.

but with that in mind, it poses the question: do children determine your success in life? i brought this up to my mom in a conversation recently. If she had never had me, what would her success in life be? at 48, my success is her success. if anyone ever asked her what she did with her life, she’d just point to me.

if you’re in your 40’s and without child, do people look at you a certain way? asked what you’ve done with your life? did you save something? change something? invent something? if not, why were you so busy that your forgot to reproduce. and if the above is the case, someone needs to find me a species of cacti to save or SOMETHING, cause me and my three eggs, we don’t really want to reproduce.

all this children talk? it’s not that i’m knocked up or anything CLOSE, it’s that while i’m always inspired by Michelle’sblog, it’ll always remind me that she’s got a wonderful boyfriend with whom compliments every quirky fantasticness that’s her…..and i….spend a lot of quality time with my DVR. love is hard to find. true companionship is rare- even amongst friends. in the new gray’s anatomy, the old man with the pain level “8″ tells Christina that his wife had died, and he described her “she was my favorite person” how RARE is that? you FAVORITE person? most of can’t even define a favorite COLOR! (green AND black)

the reality is, i might be flying solo for a while. (enter allie mcbeal/sex in the city/crazy single 30’s woman joke here) so i’m planning for my own future, as a single person. (i mean, we plan for our financial future, for why not plan for our personal ones) do i WANT children? i’m not fond of the baby’s daddy idea (i don’t like to share), so do i want to adopt? and if i don’t have children, will i regret it? and will people see me when i’m 48, ask me what i’ve done with my life to only get a shoulder shrug as an answer.

meet the new houseguest:

his name is Monkey. and while his mom is finding love in Scotland, Monkey is the newest addition to my Chihuahua collection.

he’s missing teeth from one side of his mouth, so his tongue sticks out on one side. Kiraa’s left ear recently developed a hematoma and is drooping. so between one drooped ear and one-sided tongues, i would have to say my apartment resembles circque du funny-looking dogs.

nothing like a tiny-dog mafia to brighten the day.

for years and years on end, i’ve made countless (futile) attempts to get into a fitness schedule. but darn it if something always comes along to throw me offtrack (i consider the excellent prime time programming of CBS to be a primary distraction…i don’t care if CSI is a rerun, i don’t remember how it ends!!!) there was the running phase- short lived because i hate when people honk at you while you run. there was the hot-yoga phase- short lived because it was frickin’ expensive and i had to do laundry like twice a week to have enough workout clothes to wear. there was the ballet phase- VERY short lived because i was the fattest girl in class, nevermind everyone else wasn’t out of puberty yet. there was the 24 hour fitness phase- which took place at the irvine location with the geriatric deographic. 24 hours finally had to go because after the first 2 months of diligence, i failed to even step foot in that SHOPPING PLAZA for the next year.

When one of my security/floor guys at work started to train for his upcoming MMA fight, it occured to me that maybe HE could make me into a lean-mean-fighting machine. (i really just wanted the lean and mean part, but i won’t object to being made into fighting machine.) Much to the objection of everyone we worked with, we got started (they said i was mean enough without fighting skills.) The first session, I got light-headed about 5 times. The second sesson, I threw up. The third sesson, my arms couldn’t hold up the 14 oz boxing gloves that Andy had strapped on my. Every week, I went, looking foolish as my limp arms tried desperately to support the hulk-like gloves while the attendees of the group class stared as Andy kept reminding me to breath (i always forget.)

Miracles or miracles, by the 5 or 6th time, i was starting to feel better. i was getting through my sessions without wanting to faint. i was able to do my crunches without tears. i got the rhythm of the speed bag down (cue ’eye of the tiger’ please!) i was even able to hold up my arms without them feeling like they were going to be burned off at the bicep. i was getting…good!

Until last week. Apparently all those hitting and kicking drills were suppose to amount to something? like actually attacking people! Andy made me punch him in the face. which i refused until i went to throw a punch and he delibertly didn’t block it. i flinched. then HE punched ME. and my contact fell out. and like the fat nerd in gym glass, i was sent to the ground, blind and looking for my eyesight.

Today, Andy had the brilliant idea that since i was progressing fairly well, that he would up the time on all the repetition work we were doing. i know 2 minutes doesn’t sound like much, but try punch a giant sand bag for 2 minutes straight with 14oz gloves on. my arms BURNED like pompei upon the erruption of mt. versuvius. Then he upped the reps on the sit-ups. BURN, i tell you BURN.

and as we were doing all the repetitions, Andy would LIE about how much time was left to keep me motivated. “10 seconds left” he’d say. and i’d do like 15 more reps wondering why 10 second seems so long. then he’s say, “i lied, NOW there’s 10 seconds left.” my muscles felt betrayed.

the moral of this story is that if you’re looking for me in the next three days, i’ll be stationary. on my couch with my dog wondering if i’ve died because i haven’t moved. i’m in pain. everything hurts. sure, it’s a good i’m-gonna-look-great-in-skinny-jeans pain. but it’s still pain. i’m not giving this one up anytime soon though, the possibility of being able to be made into a fighter is way too enticing. plus, there’s the whole skinny jean thing. (we can’t all be born thin limbed, like michelle! damn you!) so for the forseeable future, i’ll just be here, in pain, sulking in my vanity.

people always say work hard, play hard. but HOW? everytime i work hard, all i want to do is go home and sleep or watch tv and be still….completely still.

god i wish i had the energy of a 20 year old again.

my friend ashton turned 24 yesterday. and for his grand celebration, ash ordered a party bus complete with a 4000 watt sound system, three stripper poles and karaoke! the bus took us to the hustler club and canyon inn where the birthday boy got thee lap dances and about 140,000 shots.

first off, let me say that girls love stripper poles. maybe it’s the gymnastic element to it ( i mean, which one of us didn’t try and recreate carrie strug’s heroic 1996 olympic vault in our living rooms?) so when there’s three on a bus, there’s bound to be some heroics. AND since we had gone to a strip club, i was somehow inspired and convinced that i could hang upside and spin from one. PLus, all the girls on the bus were like 24 and UNDER, so you know- mama had to show them a thing or two.

i showed them alright…..until i woke up the next morning unable to lift my arms past the 45 degree angle and unable to laugh without abdominal pain. apparently, stripper pole activities are only for people in fit physical conditions- and not for 27 year olds with muscles that have atrophied into fat.

let that be a warning to the rest of you. (cause my arms hurt from holding them off to type so i gatta lay down now…)

it’s here! it’s here! my motorcycle!

bob, this little pudgy short guy called me from champion motorsports two fridays ago and told me my 2008 kawasaki ninja 250 was here! and i had one day to decide if i wanted to buy it. i called my mom (she said i shouldn’t) i called my dad (he said “want some money?”) and by saturday, i had a shiny black motorcycle in my possession. we’ll disregard that i haven’t learned to ride it yet, but i LOVE it.

i walked in and bob, my little motorcycle friend led me into the greasy garage to see the mechanics fine-tuning my bike, and in the room full of men in jumpsuits, i squealed “it’s SO SHINY! and PRETTY!”

a few things have happened since i’ve gotten it:

1. i’ve getten it to 5th gear, except there’s no gear indicator, so i forgot what gear i was in. and then i just kept down-shifting. but then i lost neutral….that was confusing.

2. the bike fell over while i was trying to move it, thankfully there were no scratchings (thank god for frame sliders) but i was able to pick it back up BY MYSELF!!!!

3. i’ve been practicing taking off my helmet and shaking my hair out in slow motion. it’s looking gOOd.

don’t worry folks, i’ll be rolling up to a driveway near you in a leather jumsuit soon enough.

we did it. mud run 2008. i feared for it. i dreaded it. and while we were driving there, i felt that everyone had bigger calf muscles than me. but we made it through without dying. and even though three days later i’m still having trouble regaining control over my theigh muscles (trying going down the stairs), i’m proud that i completed it. sure, maybe i should have trained (this thought entered my head about a mile into the run) but “rambo”-ing it is just so much more fun. and i have to thank alice, michelle, carissa & kristin for running with me, cause if it was just me by myself, i would have stopped at the first marker, popped a beer open and just kicked it with the marines. plus, i busted my knee on the first wall i had to scale and ran the remainder of the race with blood dripping down my leg. it felt good to look like a bad ass (even if i couldn’t walk the next day.)  so who knows? maybe the nike run for women half-marathon is next? (i’ll train for that one, of course)

i think my face says it all…

we mustered up our last ounce of energy to take this photo…

um. de la soul is playing at sutra on thursday. DE LA SOUL. if that isn’t worthy of getting off the couch, nothing is.

me: how’s the new girl?

co-worker: not that cute.

me: good. maybe she’ll work harder.

co-worker: *silently stars at me*

me: i just have a big brain. that’s why i work hard.

co-worker: you know what they say about girls with big brains?

me: what?

co-worker: they can’t ride motorcycles.

me: …..

my dog doesn’t know she’s a dog.

my mom always joked around that my dog thinks she’s human. it’s true that kiraa insists on sleeping on couches and beds, eating warmed food and believes that food comes from the fridge (not by hunting) she also always insists on going into the designer stores when i take her shopping and she hates t-shirts that aren’t made of natural fibers (i know you guys think i’m kidding, but the only shirt she’s ever ripped and chewed on was a little polyester blend hawaiian dress i bought her!)

but i never believed it! i mean, how could she not know she’s a dog? she’s like 8 inches tall! and she licks her butt!

but i took her to the dog park this week and she refused to socialize with other dogs. in fact, she look rather annoyed at the other canines. she keep getting this chiuhahua grimace on her face and trot away to a corner anytime someone tried to sniff her butt. she didn’t seem scared! just frickin’ annoyed. she then proceeded to leap into the laps of people who were sitting on the dog park bench and just letting them pet her! like a spoiled brat! it was then that my friend michelle (who’s dog gracie seemed to be in doggy heaven, leaping and running and “bro-ing out” with the other dogs) turned to me and pointed out that my dog was pretty much ME. “ugh, it’s so hard walking amongst the commoners.” and let’s be real, that’s my inner monologue every time i WORK. “ugh, it’s hard being amongst the mentally challenged.”

so i suppose, the moral of THIS post is that dogs are like their owners, and owners are like their dogs. and we’ll be happy together, as long as you don’t make us wear man-made materials.