Music

The hills are alive with the sound of burpees ²

This is not a real post.

You see, in order to actually write a real post, I would need to have logged more than three hours of sleep last night.

(Fortunately I have the day off and am driving to Nebraska as we speak. Looks like I’ll be dozing off soon and sleeping through all of the thrilling scenery Iowa has to offer. Darn.)

So why did I get so little shut-eye?

In a brief moment of insanity, I decided teaching a 5:15 am workout class was something I was up for. This meant my alarm was set for 4:30 am. (And 4:15, 4:20, 4:25 and 4:35…just in case.)

Being that I’m not a morning person, sleeping through my alarm is a huge fear of mine. As the instructor, it’s vital that I actually show up to the class…not to mention the fact that I’m responsible for unlocking the building. I don’t think the women of Smalltown would appreciate me sleeping in, leaving them waiting in a 14 degree parking lot at 5:00 am.

Despite trying to fall asleep by 9:30pm, it was well after midnight before I finally slipped out of consciousness. Even then, I was so worried I would sleep through the alarm, I woke up in a panic every thirty minutes frantically checking the time on my iPhone.

Add to this a horrible Sound of Music-inspired nightmare, and you do not have a good night’s sleep.

Not at all.

So what exactly does a Sound of Music-inspired nightmare consist of, you ask? My version included me, starring as Maria, in a large-scale production somewhere important. (Possibly Bemidji.) It was opening night, and all of my friends, family, and even enemies were in the audience. The problem? I had failed to memorize any of my lines or song lyrics. Basically, it was me, butchering “The Lonely Goatherd” in front of everyone I know, trying to make up for my made up lyrics by performing an overly enthusiastic box step.

(Can you tell I was a former theater kid?)

After tossing and turning for hours on end, visions of clothes made from curtains haunting my dreams, 4:30am finally arrived.

I roused myself from the most comfortable mattress in the world, got dressed, and drove to the gym.

I then proceeded to lead a group of women in a series of 100 burpees.

Yes. 100 of them. The workout was inspired by the video below. Only difference? This video is only fifteen minutes. Our workout was three times that length. (Basically it was one giant blur of salt and curse words.)

Looks like I’m no longer the most peppy and vocal fitness instructor in the land! Cassey from this video definitely holds that title. (Or at least gives me a serious run for my money.)

The good news is that I survived. Honestly, it was awesome to work out with such intensity at the butt-crack of dawn before spending the rest of the day sitting in a vehicle. Plus, the ladies at the gym are totally inspiring and awesome. All in all, it was 100% worth it.

(Still…I don’t know which took more inner strength…completing 100 burpees in real-life, or dreaming that I had accidentally hijacked the “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” solo from Mother Abbess…not realizing it wasn’t even my song to begin with until halfway through a very off-key third chorus.)

*****

Main image by bortescristian

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Meow! ³

Today’s musings double as my daily blog post and my day 5 entry of The Outfit Project. Let’s take a look at today’s ensemble, shall we?

Top: Go Jane, Necklace: Premier Designs, Douchey fake glasses: Target, Jeans: Target

I had every intention of wearing long sleeves today. You see, I spent Sunday afternoon shooting guns at a hunting club, and wound up with dozens of scabby bug bites on each of my arms. Long sleeves clearly would have been the wisest choice.

And yes, you read that right. I shot a gun.

Proof.

Let’s just say I’m way better at ordering cat t-shirts online than I am at handling a firearm. I shot this rifle (Is it a rifle? I think it’s rifle…) exactly one time before screaming and making the very kind man in the photo take it away from me. Truly, it was probably best for all parties involved that I didn’t have control of a weapon.

But back to the cat t-shirt. It arrived via UPS this morning, and I just had to abandon my long-sleeved agenda for the day. I’ve literally been counting down the hours untill this ~~puppy~~ kitty showed up at my door, and not wearing it seemed like a crime.

So why did I order an abstract cat graphic tee? (Not that 80s-inspired, tribal themed cat clothing needs justification or anything.) That’s easy. I ordered it because it looks like the cat is singing.

To explain the importance of singing cats, we must travel back in time to November of 2009. Scott and I were living in Upstate New York, and had decided to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon watching the Nebraska Cornhusker football game. During a timeout, the band began playing a familiar song that I don’t actually know the name of. I do know that for whatever reason, Scott began meowing the tune in his very best cat voice.

I immediately joined in as cat meowing happens to be one of my more advanced talents. I attribute this rare skill to the countless hours I’ve logged listening to my own personal copy of ”The Jingle Cats Greatest Hits”, a gift from my father circa Christmas 2004.

Long story short, the habit has stuck. Every time we hear that song we meow it out, note by note. The ritual has even become a go-to form of amusement during long, boring car rides.

Oh, who am I kidding…we even do it on non-boring car rides. Or grocery shopping. Or while trying to fall asleep at night. As it turns out, playing musical cats is actually kind of…fun. We’ve also expanded our repertoire to include recent hits such as Call Me Maybe and the entire Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack. Lately we’ve been working on learning to harmonize.
While I’m too ashamed to record our musical stylings and share them publicly, I will tell you that we sound strikingly similar to my Jingle Cats CD. I’m not entirely sure if this is a good thing…

Want more Jingle Cats, complete with subtitles? They happen to have their very own channel on You Tube.

You’re welcome.

****

Four-hundred and seventy-four words later, you finally understand the reason behind my “meow” t-shirt. You also know the reason Scott and I have decided we’re not yet mature enough to procreate. Our children would probably show up to kindergarten meowing their ABCs and licking themselves at nap time. And that’s not even taking the possibility of a cat nip addiction into account.

And with that, I think this blog post has officially made my otherwise bizarre cat t-shirt seem totally normal by comparison. Although now that I think about it, it probably would have been better just to let you assume my t-shirt was just weird.

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White Girls Can’t Dance ⁴

Wow, you guys.

Just…wow.

The outpouring of support after yesterday’s post was beyond anything I ever could have imagined.

I assure you, I didn’t set out to write that post in hopes that my “woe is me” story would generate tons of compliments and praise. I simply had been dealing with some doubts, and felt like I needed to write them out.

As bloggers, we take a huge risk by sharing the details of our lives with the vast masses of the internet population. Once we hit “publish”, it’s done. It’s out there. Forever. Even if we take it down. Someone has seen it, read it, possibly even taken a screenshot. The internet is written in permanent ink, and there’s no going back. The criticisms I found online made me second guess whether or not sharing the intimate details of my day-to-day existence was actually a good thing, and whether or not I really wanted to put myself out there like I’ve been doing for the past year.

You guys reminded me that the answer is yes. The emails, comments and messages you sent made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. They reminded me of how much I truly love blogging, and how special the little community we have going on is.

Thank you, I needed that.

Your feedback also made me realize that if people are going to talk smack about ‘Sota, I might as well give them something to really talk smack about, right?

Hence, this video.

Let me preface my dance of shame with a little back story. I’ve been teaching a strength training class on Wednesday evenings and attendance has been pretty sparse. Late night classes in the summertime are kind of a tough sell, not to mention the fact that there are, like, five other strength training classes earlier in the day. For these reasons, I’ve been granted permission to change the class to Hip Hop Hustle, a dance workout created by the same people behind my beloved Turbo Kick.

The first class is next week, so I spent some time last night learning the routine I’ll be debuting. naturally, I felt the need to video myself with a laptop webcam…you know….just to make sure I didn’t look like a total idiot or something.

Disclaimer: For any of my coworkers who view this, if you spontaneously start laughing at me during a meeting, I will assume it is a direct consequence of this video. And I won’t even be upset. If I were you, I would laugh at me too.

This video is sad in so many ways. For the sake of being organized, I’ve listed them below in order of patheticness.

1. At nearly 28 years of age, I’m still recording videos of myself performing hip hop dance routines.

2. I’m totally wearing stretch pants.

3. I’m, like, way too into the routine. In a bad (read: delusional) way.

4. I broke my beloved silhouette of Jolie.

5. At nearly 28 years of age, I spend my time tracing photos of my dog in Adobe Illustrator, printing them onto a template, and cutting the pattern out on decorative paper from JoAnn Fabrics so I can frame them.

I was disappointed to discover that I was shakin’ it so hard, I actually broke Jolie.

Fortunately, Scott thinks he can fix it. (He was almost more upset about the damaged “artwork” than I was.) And dont’ worry, the other one is still in tip-top shape.

Yes…there’s more than one.

But do you want to know the worst part? The part that I don’t think I’ll ever live down?

Guess who saw the entire catastrophe unfold right before his very eyes.

You can tell he’s judging me in this photo.

Remember “The Duke”? You may not recognize him, as he’s undergone a pretty extreme makeover. This “before” snapshot might look more familiar.

It’s amazing what a can of white glossy spray paint can do. In less than 48-hours, “The Duke” was transformed from “tacky plastic man-trophy” to “sassy gay deer friend.”

And yes…the Duke is totally gay. C’mon you guys…he’s way too pretty to be a straight deer.

I couldn’t be happier with the end result of this little DIY project. He looks chic, modern, and I saved over $150 by crafting him myself.

I pretty much love him.

Unfortunately, after he witnessed my epic dance of shame and ridiculousness, I don’t think the feeling is mutual.

Hey…wait a second….you don’t think he’s the one that’s been talking smack about me on the internet, do you??

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The fall of veganism

Über Bowl ⁰

I mean…the world “super” is so 1982. “Über” is more 2012, don’t you think?

Which reminds me…I’m like, über confused right now.

I always thought Minnesota was known as a dairy state?

If this is in fact the case, can someone please explain to me why I rang in Super Bowl XLVI eating vegan nachos and BBQ tofu wings?

Nothing says "Super Bowl" quite like tofu marinated in a homemade, plant-based BBQ sauce

I stand corrected. Dairy-free nachos with "cheese" made out of ground up cashews and nutritional yeast flakes are WAY more "football" than those wimpy tofu wings.

I’ve got to admit…the dip and wings were really delicious. You’d never have known the nachos didn’t use real cheese unless, like me, you had spent an hour soaking raw cashews in water before blending them with dragon’s blood and eye of newt to make it.

Just kidding — dragon’s blood and eye of newt are so not vegan. Can you tell I’ve been reading Game of Thrones, though?

Scott’s dad recently went vegan, so we’ve been trying lots of plant-based recipes while we stay with him. Not only is vegan food quite tasty, but my father-in-law’s commitment to clean, raw eating has literally saved me from myself.

And by “myself” I mean the hungry, dairy-loving, cookie monster protegé, that could ~~probably~~ definitely be a competitive eater.

This whole Turbo Kick thing is just a facade. And yes, that's a tutu. And a tiara. Add in a trucker hat and you have the "three Ts of Turbo"

So, the vegan diet has been fantastic on many levels. Although I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to hold out without a heaping portion of my beloved tater tot hot dish.

But back to the Über Bowl. Our plant-based fare wasn’t the only non-traditional aspect of yesterday’s festivities.

We actually spent the majority of the evening watching a wrestling duel between University of Minnesota and University of Nebraska. How’s that for breaking the mold? At this house, college wrestling will always trump Tom Brady.

Actually, pretty much everything trumps Tom Brady. Sorry, dude. Your wife on the other hand carries some serious clout around here. Scott and I both have a huge crush on her.

Did you know Giselle was discovered at a McDonald's? And I bet she wasn't even eating a cashew nutritional yeast flake cheeseburger.

Because we switched between wrestling and football, I only saw about half of the game and missed all the commercials.

I did, however, witness enough action to realize that Eli Manning should not have been named MVP.

No offense Eli, but in my book, this distinguished honor belonged in the angelic, Will-Ferrel-esque hands of Afro Ginger. Talk about a complete oversight.

Afro ginger Superbowl Tight Rope Halftime 2012

Afro Ginger rocked the tightrope.

No. He made love to the tight rope. It was beautiful.

But apparently, it’s a slack line, not a tight rope.

And his name is “Sketchy” Andy Lewis, not Afro Ginger. He’s being referred to as “king of the slack line” in internet land.

Whatever his name is, he single-handedly saved the entire half-time show. If that doesn’t deserve the MVP trophy, I don’t know what does.

Aside from my new favorite slack liner, the mid-game entertainment was pretty disappointing, although I did think it was really nice of them to let Joan Rivers perform.

Wait...that's not Joan?

Alright. I’m creating a new rule. If you’re older than my mom, you’re not allowed to dress up like a cheerleader and lip sync in public. Or in private, for that matter. Unless it’s to ”Don’t Cry Out Loud” by Melissa Manchester, in which case I’d love for you to send me a video recording.

The punishment for breaking my middle-aged cheerleader rule? Being upstaged by a man in a sequined black Snuggie, of course.

He's like Puff Daddy's twin who's actually puffy!

As much as I’d love to make a couple more snarky comments about Cee Lo right now, I just can’t bring myself to do it. Despite his poor judgement in endorsements (those 7-up commercials are ridonculous) the man is legitimately talented, and I was impressed that he chose to actually sing during the live event. What a concept.

He’s also inspired me to craft a sequined Snuggie of my own. Just because I’m working from home doesn’t mean I can’t add a little swagger to my lazy blanket-clothes.

I suppose I should also apologize to Ms. Madge. It’s not nice of me to make fun of you, even if you do have veiny arms.

Maybe she SHOULD take a hint from Joan Rivers and Botox those suckers.

Ok…that was the last jab. I promise. I’m really going to try to be nicer to you from now on. And give you more compliments. Like calling out the fact that you’re 53 and in better shape than I’ll ever be. I respect that.

My newfound kindness springs from the final message of your performance…I’m really trying to take it to heart.