Fast Talk & Fast Food

Convo with my sister, just now:

R:  I'm so sick of this whole Chick-Fil-A fiasco. Is it just me or are people giving this fast food restaurant a way bigger voice than they deserve?  I mean, what ever happened to "God doesn't like ugly?" Seriously disappointed with... (insert long-winded tangent about religion, politics, human rights and all things kumbayah here)

Andrea:  I'm with you. Over it. It's really not worth waiting in that kind of line.

Amen sister.

Now that we've got that squared away, check out this picture of my adorable 2-month old niece Abigail.  (Also known as Auntie Roz's very own little butter biscuit.) Ah, love.

The Proposal: Part Uno

So... it's 11:45 pm on a Tuesday. I feel like if I were sleeping right now, the universe would probably be okay with that. After all, it's Tuesday. But if you know Nick, you know that his mind never sleeps. Which is why I've spent the last few hours translating Nick-speak into workable budgets and business proposals.

I see the word "Proposal" glaring at me across the top of the page...

Quick check to the bottom right for a date check...

And realize that seven months ago today, Nick was putting together a different proposal. And without my help!

If there is one genuine thing I could say about my life, it's that no one could ever say it's dull. While I feel like I've always been a magnet for madness (with maybe even a little un-invited drama a la carte) I know for certain that the crazy gauge went berserk four short years ago when I started dating Nick. When I think about it that way, it only makes sense that our proposal be just as chaotic, with twists and turns at every corner.

Since I started working at the state college in Niceville, I have been graced with the benefit of a college schedule and lots of holidays. As you can imagine, this has been a really tough adjustment for me (cue in audience laughter) since I have to plan what to do with all of that precious time off (cue audience eye rolling). So for my two weeks off at Christmas, I had big plans to clean and organize our new casa, do lots of blogging, and get ready for some Texas-style R&R with the Wik fam in San Antonio!

I survived my first Saturday and Sunday off without so much as a scratch and was looking forward to some quiet productivity time while Nick was at work. Call me crazy (or normal) but I do love a quiet house. Then on Monday it started raining, which pretty much made me the happiest person ever. Had it been sunny, I might have had to divert from my plan and do something un-productive instead. "A rainy day you say? Fabulous! While I'm at it, I might as well get a quick workout in too! Lose those holiday pounds before I even put them on? Why not!" I put my gym clothes on and started out the door for CrossFit when alas! A package on my doorstep! Christmas come early, hooray! Oh, how I love the holidays.  

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

I lean down to pick it up my joyous new package and whoosh! Slip, BOOM. Something pulls in my back and I am suddenly laying shoulder-down on my front porch.

Did I mention it was raining?

Of course it was raining. Doesn't there HAVE to be rain when things like this happen? Flashback to the great fall of November 2007 when I ended up in the hospital with a cervical sprain, concussion, and a bleeding brain. On Thanksgiving Day. A rainy Thanksgiving Day. Which also leads me to believe that there is also some weird holiday connection to all of this. 

Seriously. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

Anyway, so I'm on my front porch, literally screaming in pain and wondering how in the heck bending over to pick up a package has left me on the pavement. Especially considering I never even got to the part where I pick up the box. And! Just to add insult to injury, I still don't know what's actually in the box.

SO annoyed right now.

At this point I feel like one of those people on the Life Alert commercials. Which is totally not helping my attitude. The only things in my view are Lucy and Gia (staring blankly at me) and my phone, which is on the counter top about ten feet away. I start wondering if maybe the dogs could get my phone, then quickly realize that my dogs lack that Lassie-esq gene for saving the day. Timmy could just say "Lassie, quick! Get help!" and she would come back in record time with a capable adult, a sheriff, and a first-aid kit. (And they say reality TV is unrealistic.) Meanwhile, I cry for help and my dogs rear up their hind legs and start barking at me, tails wagging. 

Where did I go wrong?

After realizing I'm flying solo on this rescue mission, I do what any respectable 26-year-old-at-the-time "adult" would do. I start screaming profanities at the top of my lungs.

Then, I scoot.

I am embarrassed to say that it took me 11 minutes (per the microwave, also in view) to inch slowly and painfully to the counter, which I reached just in time for Nick to come waltzing in the door from the gym. Singing.

Yep. Sounds about right.

My back and neck were in such bad spasm at that moment that I couldn't pull myself up on my own. Nick helped me to the couch where I just sat there crying. (Not exactly my shining moment.) He thought maybe the bed would be better, except that when he tried to lean me back I started aiming my profanity screaming at him, to which he responded by pulling a switcharoo and helping me to the truck instead. Viva la hospital. Happy vacay!

The worst part of the hospital was that everyone assumed, being that I was in sporty gear, that I injured myself working out. When I had to explain that (a) I didn't make it to the gym because (b) I got distracted by a package and injured myself leaning down to pick it up, not to mention that (c) the package is still sitting there because (d) some sort of unidentified back and neck spasm has taken over my body... the doctors couldn't stop with the joke reel. And they also insisted on taking this:

Not exactly the holiday scarf I had in mind.

Doctor's orders required 3 different medications and strict instructions to wear this fashion-forward neck collar for the next 10 days. Great. Sure. No problemo. It's not like I had plans or anything. I can totally just clean the house next month. Christmas shopping? There's another one next year. My family might still love me then. And ten hours of driving to Texas? No problem. Those bumps in the road will probably feel like a massage.

Meanwhile, Nick had something up his own sleeve. After barely surviving a car trip with my (half incoherent, half evil troll) self, we roll into San Antonio.  

To be continued... sorry, no bling in this blog...

Strong is the New Skinny

I went to my first CrossFit class exactly 22 days ago.

I know this because 23 days ago I could actually move without feeling like I've just been run over by a truck. A very large truck.

Over the past year or so, pictures have been popping up all over Facebook of my faraway friends at CrossFit doing really ridiculous things - jumping on wooden boxes, hitting tires with hammers, doing handstand push ups - and I knew there was only one explanation.

It's just a fad. And my friends are all nuts.

(Okay, so two explanations.)

I mean, these people are like flipping giant monster truck tires in parking lots (which probably came off the truck that later ran me over). Seriously, who does that?!? The only place I have ever seen anything remotely similar is on The Biggest Loser. And let's be honest- there is absolutely NO WAY a reality show could actually be based on real life.

My curiosity started to get the best of me when I witnessed the amazing transformation of one of my good friends from school who has been going to CrossFit in Texas. She has always had a great figure, but her recent pictures have literally had me drooling. Yes, drooling. At the risk of sounding like a creeper, I admit that I have been tempted to put her picture on my refrigerator as motivation. (At the risk of actually being a creeper, I have refrained.)

Curiosity later caught up with Nick when a friend of ours starting going to the local CrossFit Destin. Nick, of course, isn't the type to look at pictures of other people doing something and wonder (from afar) what it's all about. He had to check it out himself. Immediately.

It only took one workout and he was hooked. Which left me sweating, anxious, and overwhelmingly intimidated. Listening to my super-fit boyfriend talk about having to sit in front of a fan after his first workout so he wouldn't pass out? Straight up horror. I knew it was only a matter of time before we would be walking through those dreaded doors together.

I successfully procrastinated for a week, then tried to keep my cool through 3 rounds of 5 stair runs, 10 push ups, 15 squats, and 20 jumping jacks.

Whew, finished! This isn't so bad.

Oh, wait... that's just the warm up you say?

Seriously?

I am instructed to then do 5 burpees (Google it), 5 pull ups (which is 5 times the number of pull ups I can actually do), 15 sit-ups (not to be confused with crunches), 10 dips (waaaah!), and 20 box jumps (you do realize this box is almost as tall as I am right?).

But no problem, I can TOTALLY (maybe) do a round of that.

Wait... do as many rounds as I can in 20 minutes?

Hold on, what's a burpee again?

Can you restart the clock?

I wasn't ready!

Seriously?!?

Let's just say I did more than one, but less than three. (Nick did 8, but who's counting.) That's when the truck first ran me over. And when I noticed the shirt hanging up on the wall that reads: Your WORK-OUT is Our WARM-UP.

Ah, makes total sense. Glad I didn't see that on my way in... I might have just left and sat in the car.

I joined two weeks later (after I knew for sure that my shoulders wouldn't fall right off my body) and I am HOOKED. Never have I been so excited to be drenched in my own sweat and feel like I might fall flat on my face at any given moment from pure physical exhaustion. A little extreme, but a lot true.

It looks like I've joined the crazy train people, only something tells me it isn't a fad.

"This S*** Sucks. What time tomorrow?"

Junk in the Trunk

I have a theory about getting older. I think that the older you get, the less you care about what other people think. It's why old ladies go to the grocery store with their hair in curlers and why old men don't trim their nose hairs. Because, well, they don't care about what us young whipper-snappers think. They do what they want, when they want. And they have no problem letting everybody know exactly what that is.

I think this is why my 2001 Honda Civic has been acting like such a hag.

She just had her 10Th birthday, which, by car standards means that she is past her prime but isn't even close to being considered a classic. Her mid-life crisis has led to a series of rebellious acts... which have led to a string of embarrassing occurrences for yours truly.

Sayonara dignity. I'll miss you.

First she went for my visor mirror, which fell off and literally disappeared. I have no idea when this happened or where it vanished to, but this was clearly an act of sabotage. Doing my makeup in the car is tough without a reflection.

Next up, part of my AC compressor (you guessed it) fell off. This time I felt it happen but not an auto mechanic around believed that "something fell off my car then suddenly my AC stopped working." But gosh darnit, wouldn't you know that is exactly what happened.

The doozy, surprisingly, didn't involve any missing vehicle parts. It did, however, involve trying to get certain parts to cooperate. While driving over a speed bump at the post office, my trunk popped open. It literally just popped open. Fortunately for me, there were lots of people around to witness this embarrassment. Goody!

Pull over. Close trunk. No big deal, I probably just didn't shut it all the way. Nothing to worry about. Get back in the car.

Let's try this again.

Another speed bump. Trunk pops open. People start pointing and laughing. (Is it really necessary to say literally again? Because literally, they were pointing and laughing).

Pull over. Close trunk. Mean mug annoying laughing people, then flash a smile (obviously fake and laced with sarcasm) in their direction.

This quickly became a favorite pastime for the ole Civ. While driving down the highway in Jacksonville, she decided to up the ante. At 60 miles an hour, POP goes the trunk. New problem? It no longer felt the need to stay closed. The 2 guys in the car decided the logical solution was to slam it shut over and over (and over and over) again.

Einstein once said the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

But anyway...

Finally a gentle push did the trick. That is, until the next morning when it flew open on the highway once again. Luggage in tow. Lots of junk in the trunk. As we pulled in to the airport, TSA stopped us.

Does airport security have the authority to ticket you for driving with an open trunk? Because the only thing worse than my trunk sporadically popping open would be having to pay someone to be embarrassed. (Especially when I could just as easily be embarrassed for free pretty much any time I want.)

The TSA guy was actually pretty amazing, and apparently had an abundance of knowledge on the topic of car trunks. Go figure. That emergency release latch for the inside of a trunk? Genius. Even more genius? Actually knowing that it existed. And that if it gets jammed it could keep your trunk from closing...

Promptly adding this to my list of useful tidbits of knowledge learned after-the-fact. Otherwise known as things that don't matter until they matter.

Now that my darling Silver Bullet is all patched up and (almost) as good as new, hopefully she is done acting out and ready to face the next 10 years of her glorious life (probably with me). Even though she has been a pain lately, she has been a great car to me and so long as the engine doesn't fall out next (knock on wood), I think I will keep her.

Too bad she doesn't care what I think.

Soco Amaretto Lime

INT. CONDOMINIUM ELEVATOR - MORNING

An empty elevator. Clean but cheerless.

ROSALYN steps onto the elevator from the fifth floor. She presses the P2 button and stares intently at the digital clock on her cell phone.

We see her adjust the two bags hanging on her shoulder - one is her purse and the other is a Clive backpack which we know contains her gym clothes.

The door to the elevator opens, and a middle-aged NEIGHBOR dressed in a collared shirt and dress slacks walks into the elevator toward ROSALYN, who moves to the corner of the elevator. She does not acknowledge him.

NEIGHBOR
(jovial)
Headed to school?

ROSALYN
(long pause)
No. I'm actually headed to my "big-girl job." You?

NEIGHBOR
(silence; embarrassed)

ROSALYN
(silence; annoyed)


Isn't being young amazing? No drama, no stress, no wrinkles.

What. A. BUNCH. Of. Crap.

I have had drama since I had boobs, stress since schools started grading me on more than just my ability to color inside the lines, and wrinkles since I started laughing at the ripe age of oh, infancy. Night cream helps, but can I just say that the only thing more depressing than wrinkles is having to wear night cream.

Ah, yes. Age.

My brother turned 22 today, which is fine except that I thought I was 22. I was forced to count backwards to 1985 only to realize that I am still, in fact, four years his senior. Which makes me, like, almost 26. Wait, that can't be right...

Except that it is.

Crap.

It seems like just yesterday I was a high school kid sitting in an upstairs loft in San Antonio, singing along to Soco Amaretto Lime as someone strummed it on a guitar. When I think back, all I want to do is be 18 again...

"I'm gonna stay eighteen forever so we can stay like this forever
And we'll never miss a party cause we keep them going constantly
And we'll never have to listen to anyone about anything
Cause it's all been done and it's all been said
We're the coolest kids and we take what we can get
(You're just jealous cause I'm young and in love)"

Then I have some guy (jerk) in the elevator ask me if I'm on my way to school. As in, high school. REALLY sir? I may not look 25 but do I look 18 to you? Totally offended.

I actually get "the look" pretty regularly. "Nice to meet you Rosalyn, is the Finance Director running late?" Actually no. She's right here. And she heard you say that.

The doubters, the disbelievers, and the jealous retreaters. I've seen them all.

Some days I wish I was a few years older (or a few inches taller) and other days I am offended when I don't get carded at happy hour.

So I guess there's really no in-between. I'm an awkward middle-schooler all over again. Except this time I'm really an awkward twenty-something-er. There is no set of rules or guidelines that could appease me (I'll go ahead and admit it) but the following advice is, in my opinion, more than fair (for now):

1) When in doubt, the (ID) card comes out.
2) Don't question my Clive.
3) If you want to guess my age, don't.
4) If you think I look too young to be in my position, avert your eyes.
5) When tempted to share that you have grandchildren older than me, resist.

And so, I leave you with some awe-inspiring words of wisdom that I once saw on a bumper sticker: Age is just a number, unless you are a cheese.

Well-said Volvo, well-said indeed.

The Dog Days Are Over

If you think this title means I have abandoned Lucy and Gia, please do me a favor and look up Florence and the Machine. The chorus to this song has been on numerous movie trailers, talk shows and tv shows. And I am obsessed. Mainly because it is my anthem right now. It's also my ring tone, but that's beside the point.

Things have been super chaotic since February and I am excited to report that things are (seemingly) getting back to normal. The last few months have included 1 wedding shower, 7 days on a cruise ship, 1 audit, 1 book club, 1 missed flight, 4 days in Utah, 1 global terrorist down, 1 impromptu newspaper interview about said global terrorist down, 1 dog fight, 1 trip to Biloxi, 3 trips to the doctor, 2 fundraising events, 2 weddings, 1 one-year BLOGIVERSARY, and 1 "Organizing Your Finances" seminar taught by yours truly. And don't even get me started on the twenty-something grant deadlines at work.

Let's just say things have been a LOT busy. But now they are only a LITTLE busy. My own dog days are over. So stay tuned... I'm back!

Rock and Roll

Training for the Rock'n'Roll Mardi Gras Half Marathon has been, well... interesting. I quickly found that the more challenging my training runs were, the more ridiculous they became. I waved to every single person I passed, ran through sprinklers out of boredom, and hopped over the sidewalk cracks (so as to not break my mother's back). Every Sunday I woke up motivated and excited to reach a new goal!

Okay, so that last sentence is a complete lie.

The truth is that I might be the worst trainee of all time and have acquired a hatred for all physical activity since I decided to register for this race. Today was the exception.

The infamous "Race Day" is probably the only reason I signed up for this thing to begin with (and, of course, to cross half marathon off my life list). I love the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the crowd, the cheers, and all the people holding up signs with(out) my name on them! I especially love the runners that are three times my age and dart past like nimble gazelles as I choke on the dust.

Again, that last one is a lie. But unfortunately my hatred for elderly athletes showing me up in public doesn't seem to stop it from happening.

Anyway.

What they didn't mention when I registered for this race was that apparently the eternally hot and humid Louisiana was going be be GASP! Like, 30 degrees on race day. Lovely. Luckily I brought my Underarmor, but it was definitely not the ski jacket that I needed. After borrowing some fuzzy gloves from a friend, it was literally off to the races for me.

I was not able to master the art of simultaneous running and blogging, but in case you are curious my inner dialogue went a little something like this:

Mile one. There is no way this is going to happen. What the BLEEP was I thinking. It's 30 BLEEPING degrees out here and I am wearing gloves with fuzzy balls on them. What I really need is some BLEEPING wool socks. I cannot feel my feet. How am I supposed to run a BLEEPING half marathon with no feeling in my feet? Mother BLEEPING...

Mile two. Seriously. I have only run one mile? That means I have more than 12 to go. Where are all the bands? Aren't there supposed to be bands? Did they sleep in or what? No bands and no feeling in my feet. This was a stupid idea. Where are all the taxis? There should be taxis.

Mile three. Oh, there's a band. Why aren't they playing? What is the point of showing up if you are going to just stand there and chat amongst yourselves? If you are going to do that, please at least do it into the microphone so we can all be entertained, since judging by your laughter whatever you are gabbing about is just SO BLEEPING funny.

Mile four. Why would someone bring a sign that says "Pain is temporary, pride is forever?" She is obviously trying to torture my mind. Thanks a lot lady, now since I am refusing to walk my legs are probably going to fall off. Say hello to your conscience for me you evil, evil woman.

Mile five. What is with this dude and why can't I just pass him? His towering frame is blocking my view but his neon yellow leg warmers are... well, quite entertaining. Oh well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. He is actually keeping a good pace. Hmm. BLEEP it, follow those leg warmers!

Mile six. I wish I was six feet tall. Captain Legwarmers parts the runner seas with his ginormous presence and I simply follow behind him. This really wasn't a bad idea. I am a genius.

Mile seven. New text. Competitor Wireless. "Rosalyn has crossed the 6.2 mile (10K) at 08:26:25 with a time of 01:03:41." Think. Quick! Fast math. That's like a 10 minute mile. On track. Just keep following those yellow legs.

Mile eight. Wow. There sure are a lot of people with handmade signs. Maybe someone will have a Rosalyn sign and I can run up and snap a picture with them. I wonder if Nick made a sign for me. Yeah, I am thinking no. I need a sign. I should have made a sign myself and had him hold it. Wait, where is Nick? He hasn't texted or called. He better not have overslept. Oh. BLEEP. What if he overslept? What if I have to celebrate on my own? Why did I do this race again? Waaaahhhh.

Mile nine. I wonder if this guy realizes that I have been following closely behind him for like, five miles. I think once we finish this race, together, I will thank him for being my pacesetter. Then I will introduce him to Nick and we will all hang out and be friends. Anyone who rocks '80s leg warmers in 2011 is a friend of mine. Only a few more miles to go...

Mile ten. My iTunes play list that I created last night when I should have been sleeping is definitely my all-time best work. I can now feel my feet, but I don't really care. They hurt. But what makes the pain go away? A little MJ, that's what. These people all have ear buds in, right? They totally won't mind if I sing aloud...

Mile eleven. New text again. Better be Nick. Nope, Competitor Wireless. "Rosalyn Wik has crossed the 10 mile at 09:06:22 with a time of 01:43:38." Still on pace. Wait where did Captain Legwarmers go? I've lost visual. How does a guy like that just disappear? How will we ever be friends now?!

Mile twelve. Breathe, sing, breathe, run, run, run. Those leg warmers were stupid anyway. Who needs that guy. I can totally finish these last two (point one) miles by myself. I started solo, I can finish solo. But seriously. How much longer is this thing going to last. I am sick of carrying these gloves.

Mile thirteen (plus point one). Last mile. No Nick. No handmade sign. Except... wait.. that guy looks like... it couldn't be... Nick! Why is he running beside me? In a wrist cast? And wearing jeans? And a button-down shirt. And loafers? He is so going to regret this later. But who cares! Nick is finishing with me! And I am pretty sure people think he ran 13.1 miles in jeans and flats from Aldo. Always a show stopper.

"Rosalyn Wik has crossed the Finish Line at 09:39:39 with a time of 02:16:55." She is now headed to a local Italian restaurant where she will down a calzone and a large mushroom spinach pizza all by herself. Ah, the taste of accomplishment.