catheroominations

My sister is a pastry chef. She makes cupcakes from scratch and decorates them with homemade icing to look like this:

Those are meringue sticks on top. Oh, and jimmies. Also, she added a light dusting of cocoa.

I am not a pastry chef. I make one cupcake (a huge one) from a box of mix and decorate it with Pillsbury frosting in a can to make it look like this:

Those are m&ms on top. Not the mini-sized ones. Those are full-sized m&ms. That is a dinner plate holding the cupcake.

My sister has a degree from the California Culinary Academy.
I have a book called Cooking for Dummies that my mom bought me.

My sister has taught cooking classes, and once assisted Martin Yan when he taught a class.
I like to watch the Food Network.

In her job, my sister got to meet Bono and Bill Clinton.
In my job, I got to meet the guy who delivers our office supplies.

My sister will soon start a new job, working under a former Top Chef contestant.
I like to watch Top Chef.

My sister is a professional. She bakes sober. And as such, her cupcakes rock.
Despite the warning “Don’t drink and bake”*, I plan to do just that tomorrow with Stacy and McGee and some other fabulous ladies who do not heed our governor’s advice. Perhaps some alcohol will reveal my hidden talents?

*In what movie was that line spoken?

I wasn’t going to.
I said I wouldn’t this year.
But.
I’ve gone and done it again.*

I have been uninspired to blog lately so I figured participating in NaBloPoMo would give me reason to post. Surely something will spark a post every single day for the next 30. Oy. I had planned to skip this year because I don’t want to post something just to post something. I don’t want to put up crap just to stick to my commitment to post every friggin’ single day. I do hope I won’t be posting about daily earthquakes, since I felt a noticeable aftershock yesterday around 4 pm. Yeah, we can be done with the earth shaking now, mmmkay?

Maybe I’ll write about my time on the treadmill on a given day, because that is riveting to read about, I know. But if my toes can avoid an arthritis attack, I should be good for my first race in 2 years on Thanksgiving morning. I didn’t sign up and pay $35 for the charity aspect, or for the camaraderie of running in a pack, or for health reasons. No. It’s about eating pumpkin pie with no guilt.

Blog posts this month might include a lot of complaining about having to think of something to write every day. I don’t want to resort to describing what I ate for lunch, or what color my socks are. I won’t resort to posting my grocery list or recount what cute thing my cat did that day (unless it’s even cuter than this).

Yes, it’s going to be a long month, people.

*Name the movie that quote is from.

This playlist is dedicated to all the bloggers who participated in NaBloPoMo. As I gave you a post for each day of each week in November, I give you a song from my own playlist (except for the Simon & Garfunkel tune) for every day of the week, plus some bonus tracks:

Everyday I Write the Book Blog by Elvis Costello
Sunday Bloody Sunday by U2
New Moon on Monday by Duran Duran
Tuesday Afternoon by Moody Blues
Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m. by Simon & Garfunkel
Thursday by Morphine
Friday I’m in Love by the Cure
Always Saturday by Guadalcanal Diary
Something to Say by Toad the Wet Sprocket
So Much to Say by Dave Matthews Band
November Spawned a Monster by Morrissey

Thank you for visiting while I participated in NaBloPoMo. It helps me to write when I know someone is out there reading. Thank you for the comments, and for just stopping by. Welcome to those of you who found me from Fussy’s list of NaBloPoMo blogs and the NaBloPoMo Randomizer. Before starting NaBloPoMo, I was having trouble finding topics for my posts, but for whatever reason, once November began, I could always think of something to post. Some days were harder than others, but it was nice to have the extra motivation, knowing that I had to put something up. every. single. day, or be scratched off fussy’s list. It also helped knowing that so many others were doing it to. I’m a joiner, you see.

I’m going to keep up the daily posts as much as possible, because now it’s become almost part of my daily routine. I’ll have to be accountable to only me this time, which doesn’t usually result in success, but maybe if you all keep stopping by, it will boost me to continue. And if you missed out on NaBloPoMo, but you want to try posting every day, just do it. It’s fun. I dare ya.

Nor can you assume that a man crossing the street on a cold day is wearing a knit cap over his permed hair.

Because it might be that the man crossing the street just has a really really bad mullet.

Oh, it was heinous.

Last night I was exponentially more sore (sorer?) than I was after Monday’s bootcamp session.

I sat on the couch last night with my feet on the coffee table. It was comfortable. Comfortable, that is, until I had to get up. When the urge hit, I had to place my hands behind my knees and pull my knees slightly toward me, to remove my feet from the table. Then I dropped my feet to the floor, and try to stand. To do this, I placed my hands on either side of my hips, and used my upper body to hoist myself off the cushion. Then I tried to straighten my legs to walk, but I needed to use the coffee table for support and to help launch me to a straight, standing position. My thighs and calves were so tight, I walked like I was 85 years old. Actually, more like an 85-year old Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. But this 85 year-old Tin Man waddles like waterfowl a little bit.

Yesterday at work I had to use the large bathroom stall so I could support myself with the helpful bars on the walls. It’s a good thing I have a filter that kept me from yelling “OW!” outloud each time I had to use the facilities.

To get out of my car, I had to grab onto the roof with my right hand and the door with my left, to lift myself out of the seat. I made the mistake of going to lunch in a coworker’s Audi TT yesterday, and almost had to spend the rest of the day in the car because I was stuck.

I kept dropping things too. And I could not pick them up like a normal person, because I was unable to squat. Instead, I had to bend at the waist to reach. And since my hamstrings were so tight, I had to spread my legs a little bit in order to grab what I dropped. I had to perform this in front of someone’s desk when a piece of cantaloupe fell off my plate as I walked by. I would have left it there on the floor, but the dude saw me drop it and heard me say dammit. I didn’t say dammit because I dropped something, but because I had to attempt to get it up off the floor.

Today is a long run. At least jogging will help loosen things up. I think. I hope. I’ll probably look ridiculous, like a running penguin. But everyone loves penguins.

When we were visiting my parents for Thanksgiving, my mom gave me a comic she’d saved for me since it appeared in the October 1 comics section. It’s a “Close to Home” comic that depicts a wedding ceremony. The preacher-type person (who appears to be in pajamas) is standing between the bride and groom, who are both seated at small desks, typing away on their computer keyboards. The preacher is saying something about the couple sealing their marriage by Googling one another.

Ha. Yeah. That’s funny. I guess my mom thinks Matte and I spend a lot of time on our computers. I don’t see why she would think that. Weird.

Although I snickered and appreciated the sentiment, the comic doesn’t really suit our style. Our wedding won’t be like that, with the Googling. No way. That’s totally not us.

At our wedding, Matte and I will be seated with our laptops, which will be projected on two large screens, his Dell projected above his head and my superior PowerBook above my tiara-bedecked head. Our guests will watch, wiping away their tears of joy, as we IM our vows, complete with emoticons.

This morning I woke up a little after 5:00 to go have my ass kicked to the first day of bootcamp. It was dark out. And wet. And cold. And most people in their right mind were still in their cozy beds, curled into the fetal position under their toasty down comforters, snoring and dreaming of lovely things. But not I. Because I am insane. But at least I’m not the only one.

I can accept my insanity, but what bugs me is how completely out of shape I have become. The warm-up tired me out. I used to run 10Ks and I can’t make it through a warm-up? I was huffing and puffing, making O’s with my breath in the air. (Actually it was oh sh!ts but huffing the word sh!t doesn’t result in much of a shape in the frigid air.)

My muscle memory needs some ginkgo biloba because my body has forgotten how to run, jump, skip, lunge, and repetitively lift things weighing slightly more than a can of soup. For much of the hour, my parts screamed, “What are you DOING to us? It’s still night-time, right? Why are we even UP? And dammit, woman! Would it have killed you to put on another layer? We’re freezing here! And this ground you’re sitting on while you stretch? It’s WET! Oooh, you’re gonna pay for this one, Missy!”

My wheezing drowned out the voices, mostly. But now, as I sit on the couch, the parts are still yelling. My quads, hamstrings , and calves are pissed off. And my glutes hurt in places I didn’t even know could hurt. You know what? It’d be easier to just tell you what doesn’t hurt.

My eyelashes. Yeah. Those are feeling pretty good right now.