no pain no gain

So, seeing's how our gym attendance has been waning this month, SJY and I decided to get up early on Saturday and attend a class at our gym. I get home from work around midnight, unwind for an hour or 2, then head to bed, so it takes a pretty big deal for me to get up before 10am. For some reason, I figured the 10:15 Center of Attention, taught by Fran, was reason enough. I assumed the class would be 30 minutes of various ab exercises that would motivate me to get in shape for bathing suit season. I couldn't have been more wrong.
I can't even begin to describe the experience we had in the class...but I will say that I never realize how out-of-shape I am until I attend a class with 12 other people who are bearing witness to my extreme out-of-shapeness. It was ridiculous. The class was not a 30-minute deal where we all did crunches on the floor. Ab-solutely not. The class ended up being what I like to call--Pilates on Crack.
Our instructor kept telling us to squat and take energy from the earth and give it to the sun (whatever the heck that means), all the while twisting and twirking my body in various positions. Eventually, my body was in such extreme pain that I gave up trying to look like I was keeping up with everybody else. I looked over at my equally miserable husband (who is less flexible than me--if that's even possible) and as soon as our eyes met, we dissolved into juvenile giggles in the middle of the quiet studio. I did my best to laugh quietly, but that's pretty much impossible when you're trying to suspend your body in mid-air.
On our walk home, we chalked the class up to a decent morning of entertainment and went on about our day. I headed to work but as the evening progressed, I noticed my legs and butt beginning to get sore. By the end of my shift, I was hobbling around like a frickin' geriatric. The next morning, I woke up and some kind of rigor mortis had set in in my legs. I'm not even kidding. After 2 days, I still don't have decent range of motion from my hips to my ankles. This poses a serious problem when attempting to walk. Not that SJY is doing any better. It's like we're living in a retirement community, hobbling around and complaining about our ailments 24/7.
I'm hopeful that in the next couple of days we'll be able to walk down the stairs without the fear of our legs giving out, the rigor mortis will subside, and I'll be able to quit comparing injuries with the old people down the hall. Oh, and in case you're wondering...I'm totally going back next week.

Broken

So, what do you call it when your parents are married, but they don't live in the same city
and they don't talk to each other
and they don't love each other
and you can't remember a time when they actually did?

And how do you continue to listen as complaints are filed
and lines are drawn
and fingers are pointed
and denial is rampant?

And how are you supposed to deal with the fact that they have been at it like this for years
and the family is in a constant state of trauma
and there's no indication that things will be different
anytime soon?

t

little drummer boy

So, I think it's safe to say that I have a pretty crappy track record with upstairs neighbors. In Nashville, my upstairs neighbor would bang on her floor (my ceiling) if I or any of my roommates used any water between the hours of 7-8:30am...which just so happens to be when 90% of America gets ready for work. I worked the night shift at the time and, without fail, right when I would fall asleep in the morning, the banging on my ceiling would begin. We actually had about 4 house meetings with her to address the 'banging', but we never got anywhere. Needless to say, she was an idiot.
Then, I moved to Seattle and had the unfortunate experience of living underneath 1 human and 2 pugs. All I heard, 24 hours a day, was the clickety clack of little pug toenails on the linoleum floor above me...and all night long the pugs would run back and forth, from one end of the apartment to the other, barking and wrestling until their owner dragged her drunk self home at 5am. I worked up the nerve and wrote a nasty note telling my neighbor that I had better things to do at 4am than listen to her pugs run around like wild banshees. Of course, I finally gave it to her a week before i moved out so it didn't do much good.
My current upstairs neighbor takes the cake. Apparently, he's learning how to play the drums. I hate to say it, but every day sounds like it's his first lesson. SJY and I were gonna give him a month before putting yellow post-it notes all over his front door with "You SUCK!" written all over them, but then we found out he was only 15 and we didn't want to be solely responsible for shattering his shalom. So now, usually about 3 or 4 days a week, we are privy to some of the most god-awful sounds that I have ever heard...the other day I think he was even playing along to a John Cougar Mellencamp song, which is just heinous in and of itself!
I'm currently home with the flu, and have not left my apartment in a few days. My whole body hurts, I'm blowing ungoldy amounts of snot out of my nose, and I'm exhausted. This afternoon Miss Dottie and I had just settled onto the couch for a little catnap, when all of a sudden...bam, chink, bam, bam, chink, thud, thud, (unrecognizable sound), bam, chink...totally ruined any chance of relaxation. The flu has turned my appearance into one that closely resembles Cruella Deville, so there was no way I was gonna go upstairs and kindly ask him to shut the f&%* up. There's no sense in traumatizing the poor kid. But I have decided that maybe the post-it notes weren't such a bad idea after all...

Newlywed Cooking mishap #57: The Monkey Bread Debacle

Since getting married, I have been trying my hand in the kitchen in attempts to improve my cooking/baking skills. Much to the continued amusement of SJY, I have been more like a worthless Paris Hilton in the kitchen than the Giada De Laurentiis vibe I was going for. First there were the chocolate chip cookies that I made with course sea salt because I didn't have any fine-grained cooking salt. I figured, salt is salt, right? Wrong. The salt didn't absorb evenly into the cookie dough, instead every 3 bites or so, unfortunate taste testers would suddenly get a burst of waaay-to-salty nastiness. They were so bad I actually threw out the entire batch...SJY tried to fight me on it, but I'm pretty sure he was just desperate for a cookie.
There were also the chewy oatmeal chocolate chip cookies that somehow came out as crispy as a triscuit, the banana bread that required an electric knife for slicing, the hockey puck yeast rolls...I mean, the list is endless, people. I've been insisting that I'm still getting used to a gas oven, but I think SJY is convinced there are bigger issues at hand.
Nonetheless, tonight was a mishap for the record books. I made yeast rolls for Easter lunch yesterday, and today decided to make monkey bread out of the leftover dough. I defrosted the extra dough all day, got a recipe off Cookinglight.com and anticipated the accolades I would receive for my award-deserving monkey bread. Keeping in mind all of the 'issues' I seem to be having in the kitchen (and the fact that I'd never actually made monkey bread before) I followed the recipe word for word.
The timer dinged, I pulled the soft, warm monkey bread out of the oven, and let SJY have the inaugural bite. I should have anticipated his immediate look of horror...

SJY: Ugh, this tastes like straight-up alcohol.
me: That's impossible--it's monkey bread! I told you this gas oven is unreliable!!
SJY: We could get full and drunk at the same time!
me: (sigh)

I took a bite and, sure enough, it tasted like I had just tossed back a shot of really nasty cough-syrup-flavored booze. I couldn't even hold back a grimace. I guess all the dough, sugar and yeast somehow combusted to make an alcoholic...umm...beverage?
In spite of another unsuccessful evening in the kitchen, I remain upbeat. I'm pretty sure I just created SJY's new favorite food: alcohol-infused-yeast-bread--his two favorite flavors melded into one. Although he currently won't go near the monkey bread, I'm sure that with a little tweaking, I could totally make it not taste like poison. I just need a little time...and an Easy-Bake oven.

Miss Dottie: after

So, it seems that the dog grooming industry has become one of the biggest rip-offs that I can currently think of (second only to the ridiculous amounts of money that I have to pay in order to park my car in the city of Seattle, but that's another story). The cheapest haircut SJY and I could find for Miss Dottie was $40! That's more than I currently pay for a haircut (that may be hard to believe...but I've got connections), so SJY and I decided to buy a dog grooming kit for $40 and we figured that we'd get approximately 230 haircuts for Miss Dottie for the price of one at Petsmart.
Unfortunately, we soon figured out why sometimes it's just better to pay someone to do something rather than to attempt to do it yourself. We did OK on her body and legs, but somehow left her with a huge mustache and a Brazilian. Poor thing. Less than 3 minutes after we finished the 'haircut' she let us know what she thought of our work by taking a big whizz on the living room carpet. We really couldn't blame her for that one.
We're still not convinced that a $40 haircut is the way to go. SJY is convinced that our dog grooming skills will only improve with time. However, I'm afraid that if we continue to traumatize her, we'll have to shell out the big bucks to the freakin' dog whisperer or something. We'll see.
For now, here's what Miss D looks like. I still think she looks cute. Kind of. But I love her, and love is blind. Thank God.

Introducing Miss Dottie

For my wedding present, SJY got me the best present in the entire world (note to self: remember to order SJY's wedding present). Anyway, Her name is Miss Dottie and she's the cutest puppy I've ever seen in my life! I realize everyone says that about their dogs, but I don't think anyone who looks at her picture could argue with that statement.
She was with the breeder in North Carolina until about a month ago, when we got her. She's a Yorkie-poo, so not only is she really smart, she is hypo-allergenic- which is a total bonus because dog hair all over everything makes me crazy. We got her when she was four months old, so we had to finish potty training her...which was a bit tricky since we live in an apartment in downtown Seattle and the only patch of grass in a four block radius is next door at the Shell station. Dottie has completely owned that patch of grass.
So, here's a picture of the lovely Miss Dottie so you all can drool and be jealous. It's bound to happen.

green thumb

I grew a plant. seriously. While this may not be a big deal in most people's lives, I have not been able to grow anything remotely aesthetically pleasing since the mullet I sported in the 2nd grade. Ask any of my former roommates, and they'll tell you that I often buy little potted flowers with the best of intentions...and shortly after, death ensues. without fail. At first I under-watered the flowers and dried 'em all out. Then, in attempts to keep my flowers adequately watered, I ended up over-watering them and killing them that way. I assumed the more water the better...but flowers don't really work that way. I guess it's only humans that need 8 cups/day. oops...
Anyway, around Christmas time I was feelin' the botanical urge yet again, and decided to give my black thumb another chance. I bought an all-inclusive, fool-proof, bulb plant. The package came with a bulb, rocks, and a clear pot. All I had to do was put the bulb in the pot, cover it up with rocks, add water, and wait for a miracle. And ladies and gentlemen, a miracle is what I got.
So, In honor of my green thumb, I'm posting a picture of the flower/success story. In all honestly, I have no idea what the flower is called, I'm just happy it's not dead. That's a start.

wedding slide show

So, our photographer is still working on editing our wedding pictures, but he did put together a short slide show of some of the pictures. You can view the slide show at www.kevinmilz.com/kouns Enjoy!