Crossfit & Cookies

After a 4-week hiatus from hot yoga, I forced myself out of the apartment yesterday for a nice Sunday-sweat-it-out. Motivated, right?

Nay – my ‘scans’ are about to expire and I most certainly haven’t used all of them. Or even half of them. And I spent the majority of the day telling myself, and everyone that called/texted/FB’d me that I was going. Turns out, repetition is somewhat encouraging. Or whatever. I put my spandy-pants on over an hour early, drank a glass (maybe) of water and headed for I [love] Hot Yoga.

The saying goes that you learn something new everyday. Guess what I learned. My yoga teacher…is the devil. Who knew that such an evil person could reside in 5 feet/6 inches of slender cuteness? Not I.

Exaggerating? No way. The girl had us crescent moon/lunge/twist/binding until the Cat/Cow came home.

It’s good for me? It’s good for you. What did you do yesterday, asshat? Clean your room? Your laundry? Yah, I did that too. Then I stretched the Wendy’s out of my system (thanks PKG for getting that btw. E and I totally needed to eat), got a little light headed and sweat like I was having withdrawals. No drugs needed.

She was encouraging; I’ll give her that. Most yogis are. Unlike that Jillian Michaels. Please tell me you have done one of her 20-minute DVD’s.

Yah, I GET IT, Jillian. If I don’t want to put in hours at the gym, a 20-minute workout shouldn’t be easy – says her. If I am only willing to put 20-minutes into it, what makes you think I want to be doing it? I spend more time telling her how much I hate her, hoping that my weak voice travels to whatever media outlet she is currently interviewing with so she can hear my muffled swearing, than focusing on her little workout regiment.

This brings my to my next point: Crossfit.

Uncle J has been a track coach his ENTIRE life. He ran track, coached track, married into a family of track coaches then BRED more track coaches. My own personal hell. Thank gawd he lives on the other side of the state.

Saturday, 60-year old Uncle J told me the wonders of Crossfit. He had me air-squatting in a dress. At my Nonnie’s memorial. (Then we walked 20-miles to the nearest gym in the snow without shoes so he could improve my form.) With enthusiasm he proudly told me of his seven-lost pounds. The 6-minutes he cut from his Entry-test time. The 28-year old sorority ditz that he almost beat during the Exit-test – although, pretty sure at age 60, being behind by only 3-seconds basically makes you the winner.

I had to take a Diet Coke/cookie break at this point. Then hoped he osmosis’d those seven pounds away from me. (He did not, fyi.)

This conversation happened not even 24-hours after cousin K and I passed a group of Bootcampers, chuckled and reminded each other how we would never do that.

To Recap: My Uncle could kick my ass twice. Possibly three times. Pair him with a peppy-Yogi and you’d find me passed out somewhere between Greenlake and Eastern Washington.

So, find me at Hot Yoga. I’m getting my sweat on before Jillian Michaels tracks me down and tells me I lack motivation. Scary bitch.

Side note: My yoga teacher was actually really sweet. Her ability to make me hurt like I got hit by a Crossfit truck while gasping for what little air I could find in my non-smokers lungs was impressive. And yes, I should be thankful that she gave me a good workout. At the time though…she-devil.

Technologically Challenged

A few of my closest stalkers have inquired as to why I have not blogged in over a week. Through incessant texts, FB posts and flat out verbal abuse, I feel an explanation is needed.

I am technologically challenged.

No, not in a “how do I delete an app from my iPhone” or “WHY IS THE FONT SO SMALL I CAN’T READ MY SCREEN?” kind of way. Btw, thanks girl-I-work-with for asking me said questions. If you ever read my blog, know I called you out with the utmost respect.

More in the “I have had this computer since the beginning of time and it just committed unassisted suicide.” Yes, I know that’s just plain old suicide, thanks Dr. K for calling me out. Pft.

Those of you that have had the luxury of being inside my apartment, know that I am Mac friendly. Living and dying by the ways of Steve Jobs himself, I am not capable of buying a PC. The days of yore have passed for me, and I am no longer PC literate. Being a Mac user is the most prestigious of all computer cults one can join, and I am proud to say that I have sunk lots o’ dollas into Apple products.

(Do you think if I plug them enough they will send me a free MacBook?)

Now that I have established my love and obsession with all-things-Apple, I will tell you with much distain that I am preparing myself for the loss of two, yes, two, Apple laptops.

“Who can kill TWO laptops?” you ask? Well, me.

My personal iBook, which I immediately named “Baby” upon her purchase – since nobody puts Baby in a corner, has the energy level of your 85 year old grandpa after five hours of cribbage. She just doesn’t want to hold a charge, be charged or think about charging. Her poor little plug-in has lost that lovin’ feeling, and without massive surgery or a miracle I feel she is lost and gone forever.

After I accepted the loss of Baby, I moved on to using the hand-me-down PowerBook my company gave me. Though he (unnamed) has a bigger screen, and probably more memory or something fancy pants, it just isn’t the same. Alas, he allowed me to communicate with you weirdos, upload pictures to Facebook and stalk people I don’t really know/never really knew via FB late hours into the night.

Until he also decided to stop caring about his energy level. Ok, that’s not true. If he COULD charge he WOULD…but…well…the charger seems to have broken.

Let me explain. The TIP of the charger broke off INSIDE my PowerBook. JUST THE TIP. GAH! And that is blocking any sort of electrical connection (or something, I just made that up) from happening between the wall and PB’s battery.

Both will be having surgery at a private residence this weekend. Please send all flowers, gifts, money and well wishes via FB. Unless it’s cash, in which case, straight to my piggy bank. Thank you.

With that, know that it’s not that I haven’t WANTED to tell you about all that is going on in my world, dear reader. It’s just that, although I have strong contacts (without which I have the vision of your 85 year old grandpa after five straight hours of video cribbage) and nimble fingers bred for constant texting via iPhone (GO APPLE!) – my ability to write an entire, well edited (or at least partially) and witty blog is next to nothing.

I’d like to also point out that I wrote an ENTIRE blog on my broken Baby/PB without one swear word. Mom, you are welcome. Don’t get used to it please.

Bracketology: Broken Down

While trying to pull my allergy-tastic head from the pillow this morning, I got a text from the Queen of Sportcenter reminding me to fill out my 2010 NCAA bracket pre-9am. Seeing that it was pushing 8:30, I was already late and unshowered, I felt it was completely appropriate to take an extra sixty seconds to do this. Yes, sixty seconds.

You think I actually KNOW who I was picking? Cute. Here is a list of the following facts I know about NCAA Men’s Bracketology:
1. I went to Gonzaga; therefore I am obligated to pick them to win through at least the first round.
2. They developed a seed system that will hold my hand while picking teams. No, this was not a system created to determine game locales or match-ups.
3. I will most likely not win any bracket pool I enter.

I believe these three main points sum up why it only takes me approximately one minute to fill out a bracket. If I had to hand write out each time a team was to advance it would probably take me around five minutes. Once again, a big shout out to Al Gore for making my life that much easier. Go Internet!

You probably know very little about college basketball. Sure, you ‘guffaw’ with the drunken ‘gents around you at the bar, or swear along with the Duke-haters. Are we talking about me or you? Me? The blog is called ‘Tales from a Social Narcissist’ – helloooooooooooo.

March Madness is the perfect time to convince yourself, male or female, that you are truly committed to understanding college basketball. If you are not the Queen of Sportcenter, or a male with waaay too much time on your hands, then this means you. (Note: apparently you DO have too much time on your hands, since you are reading my blog. Creeper.) And it also means you must back up your selections with every bead of sweat in your body (ew). Under no circumstances is it acceptable to say “Yeah, you’re right. I should have picked Vandy losing.” (HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?) Admitting defeat is a sign of weakness. Do it, and I will no longer allow you to read my un-blocked, completely public blog.

After filling out my bracket, I proceeded to absorb as much information possible that I could repeat at a later time to a different person in order to make myself seem more knowledgeable. Picking teams with a low “Lara Seed,” if you will, is a safe way to play NCAA bracketology. More likely there will be an upset (again, VANDY WTF?) and you can say things like, “Seriously, Vandy. What HAPPENED there?” Realistically, I have never once referred to Vanderbilt as Vandy prior to today. Though it seems to be flying out of my mouth left and right today. Weird, huh? Regardless, this low Lara-seed allows me to understand that Vandy losing is unacceptable and I can verbally shame them for it. Without said number, I would be a hopeless mess of “so what if they lost?” Whew. Dodged that bullet.

Moving on, the tourney is the best excuse I can think of (next to football, baseball..screw it. sports = drinking) to sit around with friends, drinking beer and chuckling about how stupid you are for picking a team that lost out in the first round when you have them in your Final Four. You won’t be named, but I am laughing at you.

Things to be cautious of while watching NCAA basketball:

1. Profanity. My mother scours the streets of Seattle waiting for you, sweet Lara-stalker, to drop an eff-bomb. Watch yourself.
2. Beer. Used as a weapon, beer can be quite detrimental to your dress/jeans/eyes. I don’t know? Maybe you bob for shooters in a pool of beer. Freak. Given the right hand gesture and wrong chair location, you may find yourself dripping in beer.
3. Being a loser. If you happen to attempt to call an overly zealous upset, and are tragically wrong, you’re an idiot and shall be shamed. If you are right, you are a know-it-all that annoys all who surround you. Step carefully before shoving that bracket in anyone’s (my) face. See point 2.
4. Tequila shots. These do not mix well with basketball. Mostly because if you have too many someone, namely me, will write on your forehead “UW SUCKS. GO ZAGS!”

Take that as you will. We are only into Day One of March Madness, and I am sure there will be stories to follow. If for any reason my Zags lose tomorrow night and you try to rub it in my face, I will defriend you on Facebook and paint your dog blue and red.

(Blogspot does not recognize ‘defriend’ as a properly spelled word. C’mon Google, get with the times!)

Vegas Asked, I Answered: Part Deux

A continuation of my Q&A with Las Vegas

Did you count calories while in LV?
Count? Haha. I could barely walk, what makes you think I was of the mindset to count? Based on our schedule (see below) there was very little time to eat/count/give a shit. Schedule was as follows:

6 am: Go to bed.
11 am: Zombie walk to bathroom.
1230 pm: Leave hotel.
115 pm: Find food.
145 pm: Attempt to eat.
2 pm: Puke (optional)
215 pm: Continue trying to eat.
3 pm: Nap.
4 pm: Zombie walk to bathroom.
430 pm: Get life together. Don’t shower.
5 pm: Adeline-rush self to GU Alumni social. Drink. Bullshit about how amazing I am.
8 pm: Shower. Get cute. Bitch about wearing high heels.
9 pm: Get a racist cab driver to take us three blocks to destination.
10 pm: Elbow way to bar. Pay way too much for a drink and immediately regret not wearing a lower cut dress. Or clothes at all.
11 pm: Lose exit buddy; don’t care.
12 am: Take shoes off.
1230 am: Find unsuspecting idiot to buy $15 drinks.
1 am: Put shoes back on. Be amazed at how feet don’t hurt.
1:02 am: Take shoes off. Bitch.
1 am-4 am: Continue ‘to shake shake my ass ass, show show my thong thong.’
4:15 am-6 am: Eat mushroom pizza. Drink Gatorade. Hobble back to hotel room. Pass out.

According to this schedule, I left two time windows for meals. My caloric intake was clearly the least of my worries, as it seems my darling LV creates a temporary eating disorder with all that vacation there.

If you could describe the cabbies with one word, what would it be?
Racist.

I am not sure this answer needs elaboration, however I can tell you that in the span of 91-hours somewhere around..oh every cabbie we had was racist. The N-bomb was dropped on various occasions, specifically by one driver who I am almost 98% sure did not have a green card. Weird…we also had a cabbie that left us with the name “Team White Bread.” Take that as you will.

Is cash necessary?
Another debatable question. I would say yes – because what happens if you find yourself without an exit buddy in a cab with a cab driver who wants to take you to a white supremacy meeting instead of back to your hotel? You are totally screwed. Unless you have good tuck-and-roll form. In which case, you might be covered. Otherwise pack cash dear friend. Yes, PACK IT. Don’t think you are going to be able to find an ATM and just ‘get cash.’ You’ll get cash and a buttload of bank/ATM/you’re an idiot-fees. Don’t be dumb.

Do you have a ‘Vegas Personality’?
Obviously. Who doesn’t? Didn’t you see the Friends episode when Pheobe introduced herself as Regina Fallangee? She had it figured out YEARS ago, why don’t you? You need a believable yet totally ridiculous name, a legitimate occupation that you can bs about since you clearly have no real understanding of it and a new location that you have at least a minor amount of knowledge.

Example:
Name: Tami. With an ‘i’ [insert giggle]
Occupation: Real Estate.
Location: Portland.
Phone number: If you’re an idiot, like me, you’ll probably be too ruhtarded to make this one up. That’s your (and my) own fault. Just remember when you answer the phone to pretend like it’s either a wrong number or you have no idea who this person is…oh, and if you miss the call and they get your voicemail, hence realizing it’s either a wrong name or number? YAHTZEE!

Nice hotel or seedy motel?
EW! Why would you even ask me that. Who wants to stay in a rodent/insect infested motel JUST to save on cost? If I wanted to save money I would have shacked-up with some rando. The extra $15 a night is worth it to stay someplace comfortably located in the middle of everything. Believe me, there will be other girls walk-of-shaming it home tomorrow morning – so you won’t be the only one. If that’s the case, try this line – “I’m staying at _______ but I can stay where yooooou’re staying.”*As said by someone who knew a girl who knew a guy who heard it from his cousins roommate. If you can wink, great, insert that here. If not, don’t try. You’ll end up looking like a stoner-raisonette. I promise.

Vegas Asked, I Answered.

A Q&A sesh with Las Vegas and myself.

How low can you go?
Turns out, quite low. I apparently have the ability – even after a vodka/Redbull or two – to stabilize myself, heels and all, and still drop it like it’s hot. Important note for you rookies: always wear boyshorts. No one wants to see your Britney on the dance floor, except the creepy European guy that’s been following you around for the past 20 minutes while you dance with every other person to avoid his inevitable attempt to grab your ass.

Can I teach you how to snap two nudey cards together?
If you’re a guy, of the straight nature, I think that you should be issued a complimentary baseball card holder once landing in Vegas. No, wait. Even if you are a girl you should be given this free gift with airline ticket purchase, because regardless of what kind of situation (hehe…ye) you have going on down there in Mexico, it doesn’t matter. You will be non-verbally handed hooker trading cards everywhere you go. It’s kind of like when you were seven and your parents took you to Disneyland and gave you one of those autograph books. The purpose there was to get as many signatures as possible. I am going to go out on a limb and say if the same goal were true here, there would be free clinics on every other street corner. Legally these baseball card pimps can’t talk to you, or so I am told, hence the snapping. However, the hungover girls walking-three-wide to keep each other vertical are going to pass on the girl-on-girl action. Thanks anyways.

Is the phrase ‘What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas’ true to your experience?
Maybe it was in 1998 when you, sweet LV, felt the need to try and stimulate your economy by convincing unsuspecting travelers that you are a vortex of secrecy where they could fulfill any possible fantasy without their wife/hubs/coworkers/kids from knowing what kind of perverse things could come of them. Then, in an interesting turn of events, Facebook happened. Unfortunately, for these fratboy-wannabes-gone-wild, Facebook opened the front door to Vegas. No, actually, Facebook straight up bulldozed through it. And now there are tagged photos, quotes that have no meaning other than to the person saying it (HAHAHAHHAHAHA “CEASAR! WE’RE BACK!” – See? No idea.) and a plethora of wall posts that may or may not be about you. Wait…someone else made the same bad decision I made? No, no, no it must have been that other girl that I ran into..Also, I love signing into my account and getting a notification that says “Blank has tagged you in a photo.” Crap! Rack-brain. Thinkthinkthink. When was this photo taken? What was I doing? Did I have boyshorts on at the time?

Would you like an late check out?
No, I would not. I want you to get me to the airport as quickly as possible. The sooner I forget I was in the at-will Bermuda triangle of vacations and get back to reality, the better. Except, right now I can barely move and either I find $8 for a Gatorade or I might die a slow and painful death in this extremely comfortable bed/bathtub/hallway/doorjam. Lucky for you, I opted to bring my extra dignity with me, so you keep whatever I left by accident.

Do you have your exit buddy?
I do now. Did I this weekend? Debatable.

Would you do it again?
Wait which part? The coming to Vegas part or the…I’m sorry repeat the question please.