Sunday, January 31, 2010

Be Awesome Instead. Be Incredible Instead of Awesome. Just Sayin'

Ladies and gents, Welcome to Incredible Week! This week will be solely, SOLELY dedicated to all things Incredible. Mr Incredible, that is. There will be a series of guest bloggers until Mr. Incredible reads slash followsfor the week, blogging about all of his favorite things.  Goal: Some attention

The last and not, not least guest blogger of Incredible is Hutch, from Be Awesome Instead.  Today, she's going to be Incredible instead.  (I know, it's getting old.)  She semi lost me at 5 OT, but I think she's talkin' Mr Inc's language.  Actually, I know she is.  
... Sometimes we visit my mother-in-law in Syracuse...
But in all honesty, she sold me at BEER, BBQ AND SNOW.  Now we're talking.

Wow, first being asked to guest on here by the Awesome Kiera (seriously honored) and then following some of my favorite bloggers, the pressure is on, whew.  Luckily, my love for sports and ability to sit through a 5 OT Big East championship game without losing my voice/sanity, means I can handle pressure...I think (just popped open a Dos Equis to calm my nerves).

Similar to Surferwife, my first love is, and always will be, the NFL.  I grew up on it.  Sundays in the fall weren't about church, they were about praying for the Niners.  I even got to stand near the endzone before performing at halftime (high school dance thing), when Jerry Rice caught a touchdown, landing at my feet.  Jerry freaking Rice. He also broke one of his many records with that catch.  Yea...awesome!  However, my goal here is to combine 3 of Mr. Incredible's favorite things.  Sports. Beer. Syracuse.

I just so happen to have attended the right school to know all about each, and trust me, they are best when combined.  Consistently ranked as #1ish in the nation in terms of snowfall, the options for what to do, during the 9 straight months of all snow and no sun, are limited.  Fortunately, we had BEER and we had Syracuse Basketball! 

Possibly the best weekend of my life, started out on Friday, April 4th, 2003.  This also happened to be my 22nd birthday, and the day before the Final Four game of Cuse vs. Texas.  If anyone is not aware, the number 44 at Syracuse is a big deal, HUGE actually. I was turning 22 on 4/4.  22 is 1/2 of 44.  The Final Four started the next day.  Are you with me? (Hey, at least I didn't say four has 4 letters!)

The weekend went as follows:

Friday, April 4th - BEER-B-Que in the snow for the birthday, my roommates were awesome like that.  Yes, the girls manned the que while the guys were inside where it was warm and dry (lame).

Saturday, April 5th - Rally by drinking excessive amounts of BEER during the Cuse Final Four game (of course they won, numbers don't lie), stumbling down to the guys house after to celebrate.

Sunday, April 6th - I honestly don't remember, but guessing it had something to do with BEER.

Then comes Monday.  Technically, Monday is not part of the weekend, but in college what day isn't the weekend?  I'm not the only one who planned their class schedule around the bar specials.  Right?

Monday, April 7th - To backtrack a bit,  the roommates and I weren't exactly social drinkers, meaning we needed an activity.  At the bars, we took cards or introduced newbies to 7-11-doubles (the dice game, we're evil).  Before any sporting event, we pre-gamed with Power Hour or Beirut.  So of course we needed to do something during the game.  Why not go shot for shot with a player of our choice?  Done.  Using BEER we each took a shot every time our player did, I chose Hakim Warrick (I seriously miss watching him dunk on the big guys), and we all drank with Carmelo.  Why?  Because we're awesome!   The night was filled with shouting, singing to picture frames of boyfriends studying abroad, and maybe a loss of some clothes. 

In the end, Cuse won, thanks to my man Warrick, and the rioting began!  Unless you've experienced it, I don't know if I can do justice to the true euphoria that comes from drunkenly watching your school win a national championship during the best post-season that exists in any sport.  Superbowls?  They come and go.  5 is enough for me at the moment.  World Series?  Eh.  NCAA Men's BB Championship? Um, Yeah!

The Warrick block, along with the image of Kansas students crying, will forever be imprinted in my Happy Place memory bank.

**This post was sponsored by Labbat Blue, thank you for helping me create so many lasting memories in SiberaCuse.**



Friday, January 29, 2010

Cape Cod Incredible.... errr.. Awesome

Ladies and gents, Welcome to Incredible Week! This week will be solely, SOLELY dedicated to all things Incredible. Mr Incredible, that is. There will be a series of guest bloggers until Mr. Incredible reads slash followsfor the week, blogging about all of his favorite things.  Goal: Some attention


Now this girl, she knows her sports... even if all she can think about is her nonexistent handbag all the while.  I'm pleased to introduce to you Jess from Cape Cod Awesome!  She's done her research and knows best to talk about the Buffalo Bills.  kinda.  *side note: I've learned through reading this that the "pats" are not, in fact a teaspoon of butter.  Just sayin'.



i feel beyond honored that i have been asked to do a guest post here at imperfect daisies. kiera rocks, and i am not sure that my unintelligent ramblings will due her blog any justice (especially having to follow some pretty impressive guest bloggers). i have been searching my little pea brain on things i could come up with that mr. incredible would enjoy. if any of you read my blog, you know that i like to talk about bump its, spider attacks, and other generally sparkly unicorn rainbow stuff. before i lose you, mr. incredible, let’s focus for a moment on virgins. guys dig virgins, right? well, i am a virgin guest poster, so kiera, thank you for being my first. i will remember it forever and always.

as for other guy related stuff…i do drink beer, however, i am pretty confident that allyson’s story beats any i could come up with. so, i figured i will see if i can steer this puppy at sports. i am a new englander, so my pats, sox, bruins and celts really are my boys. usually. i guess some people would call it “fair-weather”, i call it smart. after my heart was broken by the pats blowing a perfect season (who does that?!), i decided i needed to protect my little tender feelings from further torment, so i pulled back the reigns a smidge. but back in the day, when i was with the previous boyfriend, we were diehard. this was the type of guy that would make me watch reruns of sportcenter because “the ticker on the bottom of the screen says different stuff than the first (800) time(s) we watched”. we spent all day sunday in front of every nfl game in the country (and monday nights, and sometimes thursdays), and if any of his teams lost, it was a bad day (sometimes bad week) around our house. we couldn’t move if things were going well, but if the game was going bad, we had to change seats, sit indian style, hold our breath, stand on one leg while patting our head and rubbing our stomach (you get the point…). so in 2003, i decided to be the awesomest girlfriend ever and get us pats tickets. here is a lesson folks: unless you want to spend $400 for two tickets- buy early. but whatevs, i am a rocking girlfriend, i will totally spend $400 on something i know will appease the sporty boyfriend gods.

a brief reminder of the pats 2003 season, they started the season being killlllllled by the buffalo bills (0-31) with drew bledsoe and lawyer milloy, two of our previous players. ouch. bad start (now, i realize that mr. incredible and kiera live in buffalo, i promise this is not going to go in a “pats rock, bills suck” direction- pinky swearsies). so being all rad like i am, i get us tickets for the last game of the regular season, against, you guessed it, the bills. it was the game that decided home field advantage throughout the playoffs, so it was a pretty big deal.

so we get to the stadium and immediately people are trying to buy our tickets off of us. having shelled out an amount of money that could have bought me a rad handbag, i seriously considered it. more than once. but, i knew that would probably not go over well with the bf, so i looked straight down at the ground and tried not to think dollar signs. one would think spending that much would get one good seats. well apparently not when that one waits until the last minute. once we get in the stadium, i thought i would die before we finished climbing mount gillette. we finally get to our seats, and i have to commend mr. kraft here, even in the nose bleed section, the view was perfect.

we settled in with our hats, mittens, and million dollar beers. as soon as the game started, the stadium filled with the most amazing energy i have ever been around. it was the single most exciting event i have ever been to…better than gavin rossdale, better than dave matthews, better than tina turner.  the crowd is screaming, cheering, doing salt inspired dances. the pat dude keeps firing off a canon, the patriots cheerleaders are all pretty and bouncy and cheery. the hours go by in mere seconds. of course, i can’t sit here and tell you that so and so scored this, ran for this, and threw for this, because i have no freaking clue. what i can tell you is that the pats beat the bills 31-0, as they had done to us the first game of the season.  but that didn’t even matter, even if the pats had lost- my point is: ladies- if you have not gone to a game, GO (salt style preferably). it is exciting, fun, pretty, you get to see hot guys run around in tight pants, and your man will think you rock and buy you something (in my case, it was a burberry purse). you can’t lose.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

M&M's in the House!!!

Ladies and gents, Welcome to Incredible Week! This week will be solely, SOLELY dedicated to all things Incredible. Mr Incredible, that is. There will be a series of guest bloggers until Mr. Incredible reads slash followsfor the week, blogging about all of his favorite things.  Goal: Some attention.



Magnolias and Mimosas, that is.  I'm pleased to introduce to you Allyson, the genius who is able to make any situation fabulous:



Upon finding out that Mr. Incredible is a sports fan, I resolved to write about how I love sports (and by sports, I mean UK basketball). I decided it was the best opportunity I would have to educate him on the attributes of the University of Kentucky basketball program (See also Kentucky, Heartbeat of and Why It’s a Bad Idea to Leave Your Thong in the Hallway of Wildcat Lodge…Also, please disregard that we just lost our #1 ranked status less than 48 hours after receiving it.) But Salt did such a staggering job of charming us with tales of fandom gone wrong…that I really just felt like I couldn’t compete. So, I’m switching to Mr. Incredible’s 3rd Great Love (after Kiera and sports, of course…and yes, in that order, I’m sure)…beer. I know a little something about beer. And what it does to a jellyfish sting, attractiveness to the opposite sex, and your unscathed arrest record. So, grab a seat and a Pabst, boys and girls. It’s story time. 
Beer has gotten me into all sorts of uncomfortable situations. It’s convinced me that as long as you keep it all in the same fraternity, then it really is OK. And it allowed me to believe that, even though I was, basically, kicked out of gymnastics at the Y, I really can do a keg stand. Above all, it has granted me invincibility. All I’m lacking is a cape…and the ability to fly, as it turns out. So it was with this air of untouchable…um…ness…that I left the party and headed home. Now, let me stop here and say that I do not condone drinking and driving. It is by far the stupidest thing I’ve ever done…much stupider than failing Nutrition 101 TWICE…and showing up at my sister’s wedding (as the maid-of-honor, of course) with a gash on my chin from playing leap frog in front of a strip club…and wearing a skirt on my 21st birthday. Stupider than all of those combined. Having said that, this is funny for me now. I’ll tell my mother on her death bed. 
So, I left the party and headed home, down a major 4-lane road that basically forms a big circle around the city. I was doing just fine (even if I was doing 10 miles under the speed limit) when I noticed a city police officer in my rear view mirror. Awesome. If I was pulled over, it would be like that commercial where the guy opens his door and the 170 gallons of beer pours out. In all of my foamy logic, I decided to take the next exit ramp off the highway…y’know…just to get away. I turned off…and so did he. Oh dear Lord, please do not let me get a DUI tonight. Please, please, please. So I made a right at the end of the ramp (because, when in doubt, just make all rights). And so did he. At this point, my heart is pounding straight out of my chest and ricocheting off the windshield, my palms are sliding with sweat, and I’m sober. I mean S-O-B-E-R…although a breathalyzer would surely argue. So, I took the next right…as did he. I started to count by 2’s, recite the alphabet backwards and try to touch my index fingers together (and anything else my friends had informed me that they do to test sobriety). The alphabet in reverse is a tricky one, but the counting and touching was manageable. At the next turn, I took a left. If he followed, this would seal the deal. I took a left, he took a right. SHEW! Thank you, little baby Jesus. I drove just a bit further until I found myself in a parking space. I breathed and looked around to see where I had landed.
I was parked at the county detention center.
I had driven myself to jail.
Having never been to that particular jail, I was never really sure where it was located…until that night. Apparently, I had made a left (where you pick people up) and he had made a right (where you drop people off). I am convinced that God wanted to teach me a lesson the easy way, as opposed to the hard way. And it worked. Oh sheep balls, it worked.
I still heart beer. I even have a friend who makes and bottles his own, which I wish he would market because it is phenomenal. And it pairs much better with pizza, chicken wings, and Swedish meatballs than anything else. I haven’t given up drinking, but now I travel with a toothbrush because there’s nothing worse than crashing on someone’s couch and waking up, feeling like a brewery has thrown up in your mouth.
Dear Mr. Incredible,
If you don’t follow Kiera by the end of this week, that’s stupider than driving yourself to the jail. Just sayin’….
Best,
Allyson


Honest on my life truth:  I thought that she was talking about United Kingdom basketball.  That, my friends, is why I need other people to write about sports and beer, and not me.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

If All These Women Can't Convince Mr Incredible, Surely a Man Can

Ladies and gents, Welcome to Incredible Week! This week will be solely, SOLELY dedicated to all things Incredible. Mr Incredible, that is. There will be a series of guest bloggers until Mr. Incredible reads slash followsfor the week, blogging about all of his favorite things.  Goal: Some attention.


I'd like to introduce to all of you today.... drumrolll... Travis!  From I Like to Fish!  Not only is he an excellent story teller, he is a... drumroll again... MAN.  And he thinks soccer's a joke.  Perfect. Perfect.  


So go follow this guy.  Awesome?  Always.  Funny?  Always.  Offensive?  Maybe.  


My Feelings On Soccer. (Oh, And READ YOUR WIFE’S BLOG!) 



“Soccer was invented by European women to keep themselves busy while their husbands did the housework.” –Hank Hill



Never has a more true line been uttered on fictional TV.



I hate soccer. ESPN has been playing commercials for the FIFA World Cup, and I want to shoot myself every time I see one. 



I don’t really get into all sports like a true “mans man.” I like football okay sometimes, (if Dallas wins) I’m okay with baseball (Yank’s fan) and I’ve been to a hockey game once, because, let’s face it, hockey is soccer on ice. BUT. They let you beat the dog shiz from each other, so that’s cool.  



However, I’m a die-hard basketball fan, especially college and high school. I don’t watch the NBA much, because, let’s face it, I’ve seen video games more realistic, and whose characters have as much, if not more depth. 



But I HATE soccer. 



“Hey guys. I’m going to kick this ball around and try to get it in between those goalposts…HEY! HE TOUCHED ME! HE TOUCHED ME, THAT’S NOT FAIR!”



See what I mean?



And for those of you who say, “Well, basketball is a non-contact sport.” I dare you to watch a rivalry game. Sometimes I half expect a special teams unit to come out onto the court, that’s how rough it gets. 

However, I really think that soccer is like the number 1 all-time favorite world sport. Why? I think it’s because over in other countries, it’s counted a skill if you can kick a ball good. Over here, we call it kick ball, and if you’re good at it, you’ll get all the benefits of being picked first for every game until the end of 6th grade, or until you hit puberty and get all awkward. Then you’re out. 



Do you remember being good at kick ball though? I do. I was amazing. I couldn’t kick good, but I could play defense like no ones business. I could catch ANYHING. I carried that talent into junior high, where I was feared on defense in pick up football games and in wall ball, which is a sport, if you are not familiar, wherein one throws a racquetball at a brick wall, and then a group of people tries to catch it, and if it touches you, you have to touch the wall before being pegged with that little ball. 



That crap HURT, y’all. 



This has kind of sloughed off into a tangent of sorts, and I’m sorry about that. My original point is that soccer, no matter how popular, is not interesting to watch, much less play. 



If you disagree…



…maybe you need to move to England? 


Oh yeah, and Hubby? (not my hubby, but the hubby that is needing to read his wife’s blog more, and I said not my hubby, but I don’t have a hubby, not at all. I want to type that again. I DON’T HAVE A HUSBAND, I LIKE GIRLS.) 



But yeah. Read her blog. I’ve been on it now, and I read it, and I’ll be honest with you. She talks about you sometimes on here. Like, bad stuff. I’m pretty sure she even said you can’t read good, which is why you like MY blog, which seems as if it’s been written by a 5 year old on speed.



Don’t worry man, I defended you. And me. Because it’s not speed. It’s meth. Speed is too expensive in these parts, and meth can be made out of brake fluid and Drain-O.

Geez. Is giving the recipe for meth on a guest blog classy? I don’t think it’s classy. 


I’m going to stop now, on account of I don’t want y’all to have to testify at the eventual trial.   

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Incredible Week, Salt Style

Ladies and gents, Welcome to Incredible Week! This week will be solely, SOLELY dedicated to all things Incredible. Mr Incredible, that is. There will be a series of guest bloggers until Mr. Incredible reads slash followsfor the week, blogging about all of his favorite things.  Goal: Some attention.




Our fine bloggoddess of the day, is Salt from SaltSays!  None better a blogger for this blog week than her considering she wears too much makeup to football games, and she loves that sport where crotch grabbing guys hit a ball and run around in circles.  Geeewhilickers Mr incredible shoulda married her:






Facepaint & Feathers: An Attention Whore’s Guide on How NOT to be a Super Fan

I have been a sports fan since I was a wee Salt. Whether it was attending Baltimore Orioles ball games with my dad or – excuse me while I show my age – watching the Baltimore Colts play football (at least up until they left in ‘84), I always loved the thrill of the game. I sported the colors and wore hats and waved pennants that my dad would buy me at the ball park. I cheered when my team went on to a win and felt sadness when they lost. Funny how much easier it was to get over those losses when you’re 5.

I was a miniature super fan in training. I can still remember the first time in the 80’s where I asked if it was ok to draw an orange O on my cheek before a game. My parents gave me the go-ahead and it was all downhill from there.

So in my Incredible Week guest bloggity blog today, I’m going to share with you the 2 biggest sports fan failures of my past. Because Kiera says that Mr. Incredible likes sports and if I’m good at anything, it’s looking like a fool at sporting events.

The Facepaint Fiasco 

It was the late 90’s and my Baltimore Ravens were taking on the Minnesota Vikings. It was snowing and FREEZING and my stepfather suggested we play it safe by taking a charter bus to the stadium. On the way downtown I put the finishing touches on my uniform for the evening: a  Ray Lewis jersey with jeans (complete with layers underneath because our seats were upper deck), a metric ton of purple and black Mardi Gras beads, a knit Ravens hat, black feather boa…and my face paint.

It was the most elaborate paint job I had put together to date. Half of my face was purple with a white #52, the other half was white with a big gold B on my cheek, and black lipstick on my lips. It took me more than an hour to get it right and I couldn’t wait to get to the game and show everyone what an awesome fan I was. I was already getting lots of compliments on my artistry.

Ok so… did I mention it was freezing? As we lined up in the aisle to disembark, I could feel the freezingness seeping into the warm bus. But it was cool because I was looking like a demented Cirque du Soleil reject in my face paint, boa and beads! I was ready to go! I WAS SO AMPED that I jumped off the bus with a cheer…

…that was cut short the moment my feet hit the ground and I felt the water based paint stiffen and crack in every direction. I reached up in disbelief and huge chunks of it fell off into my hand. The paint had literally frozen solid on my face and shattered.

There was no way I could leave it on there so I spent kickoff in the ladies room picking the rest of it off. My skin was all red and blotchy underneath and I was itchy and uncomfortable for the rest of the evening. It was ridiculous. At least we beat the Vikes, but that was the last time I messed around with face paint.

Fan of the Game. Almost.

Once upon a time, Baltimore had a really good baseball team. Back in the summer of 1999, my friends and I would shell out money for cheap seats to go watch the O’s play, sometimes a couple times a week. We always got a big group together and we made it our goal that summer to get on the jumbo-tron screen as many times as we could. (DREAM BIG!!) We made sure to dress up extra cute for every game just in case that happened. I think our grand total for the summer was 9.

Anyway,  I don’t know how any of your baseball games work, but during an Orioles game, a most coveted and important title is bestowed upon one lucky person in the audience: “Fan of the Game”. I only cared about “Fan of the Game” for the title. If you won you would receive some free Pepsi and a seat upgrade to some other location in the stadium, but we preferred the outfield because that’s where the rowdy fans sat and we were a bunch of 21 year old beer drinking a-holes.  But regardless, when they announced that they were searching Oriole Park for the “Fan of the Game”, we all got up and danced around like mad as if the idea of free Pepsi was the best thing ever.

One fateful day, I was wearing my cutest orange tank top, jean skirt, and yet another feather boa (what can I say, my sports wardrobe was alternately hardcore and drag queenish). The announcer gave his usual spiel and I had had enough beer so that dancing on my folding stadium seat seemed like the most obvious plan of attack. The cameramen scanned the stadium and then suddenly THERE I WAS! dancing and waving my boa on the big screen! My friends all screamed with mixed joy and jealousy and proceeded to cheer me on.

The camera panned around again and then CAME BACK TO ME! OMG!!! I was actually in the running for “Fan of the Game”! The camera also kept landing on this hillbilly looking guy who didn’t really seem to be doing or wearing anything important. So I figured I had this in the bag, but turned it up to 11 just in case. I was dancing like a woman possessed and then the contest was narrowed down between me and Joe Dirt.

The screen flashed to me…

Then to Joe.

Me.

Joe.

ME…..

And finally landed on Joe with the big caption that read “FAN OF THE GAME!” underneath his trailer trash face. He celebrate his free Pepsi and high fived his redneck friends and I just stood on the seat slack jawed because WTF had I done wrong?? Why did they not love my cute outfit and fly dance moves?

Defeated, I started to get down from the stadium chair and that’s when it happened. My orange flip flop got caught and I fell. I fell right into my friend and knocked him over. Beer went flying everywhere including all over my head. No one was hurt in the process, but at that moment I had never been so glad to have the stadium cameras off me in my entire life. Joe Dirt could keep his Pepsi and his seat upgrade. I would leave there with my dignity!

Or as much dignity as I had left after shaking my ass on a folding chair wearing a feather boa in front of 45,000 people.


Many thanks to Kiera for letting me play around on her blog today!!! This is one of my favorites to read and I feel all honored to write a post over here.
Update:  My goodness, my goodness!  I was just slathered with compliments over there at SaltSays.  So here go my compliments: first of all, she's a good writer (see above).  Unlike my language arts skills that barely passed forming bullet points into full out thoughts, she actually has paragraphs that consists of more than one sentence.  Secondly, she's one of my favorite blogs, too.  No, I'm not just returning the favor.  She is one of my favorite blogs, like I go back and have read hers from the beginning.  It's a work in process.  and I love.  oh and by the way salt i need to tell you that i don't think i'm eating enough carbs...  And lastly, well, I might even have a newfound interest in sports.  Really.  Mardi gras beads?  Too much makeup?  Competitions with Joe Dirt?  me likes.

Monday, January 25, 2010

This Week is Incredible Week, No Matter How Terrible Your Week Actually Is.

Ladies and gents, Welcome to Incredible Week! This week will be solely, SOLELY dedicated to all things Incredible. Mr Incredible, that is. There will be a series of guest bloggers until Mr. Incredible reads slash follows for the week, blogging about all of his favorite things.  Goal: Some attention.


I am proud and honored to introduce to you Surferwife slash Triathletewife.  She is not used to hearing the words "honored" or "thank you" so go over there and give her some lovin'.  Lots of lovin':





  1. Why did you begin to blog?  I started my blog sometime in mid 2008 and I did it as a way to keep in touch with friends and family.  I also did it as a personal journal and timeline for myself because I am awful about writing things down in real life.  Baby books?  Yeah.  Pretty much a lost cause.
  2. Did you have any expectations that your husband would read your blog?  Ummm.  It wasn't really an issue when I first started out.  It was intended for me to let others know what was happening in the Surfer Household.  So, no.  No expectations in the beginning.
  3. And does he read your blog?  When I remind him and/or beg him to.  Which is like every third entry.
  4. How do you feel about that? Pretty much like crap.  I would think he might actually be interested in what I have to say via written word.  But he reminds me that 'he lives it and doesn't need to read it.'  Whatevs.  When I'm gone 50 years from now (we both know he will live longer than me), he will be feverishly reading what I wrote and kicking his own shins for not doing it when I was alive.
  5. Tell us about this Triathalon!  Inspire us.  Hubby started doing triathlon in 2006.  And I happily cheered him on from the sidelines with a Starbucks in hand.  People would ask me if I was going to do one and I would scoff in their face.  SurferWife prefers to look cute from the sidelines.  Eventually, he was super fit and I was not.  With the deadly combination of vanity and competition flowing through my veins, I told myself I could do this swim, bike, run crap and haven't looked back.  Now I feel all athletic and strong and can totally hold my own in a barfight.  I have a triathlon training blog, too.  www.triathletewife.blogspot.com
  6. What is your favorite sport?  NFL football.  I am that girl who can sit down on a Sunday and not move my butt all day so I can watch the games.  And we have Sunday Ticket so we can watch EVERY. SINGLE. GAME.  Pretty sure this is why my husband married me.  Also pretty sure most girls would call me a traitor to the Vagine Regime but I can't help it.  And my son likes me better for my football knowledge.  Any way I can get his brownie points, you know?
  7. Did your husband train you to like it, or did you like it before you tied the knot?  My husband doesn't 'train me' to like shit.  I take that back.  He has nutured my like for ice hockey.  I wasn't a fan before he clued me in, but I am an easy sell when it comes to sports.  And beer drinking.  Again.  This is why I got the rock on my finger.  But yeah, the only 'training' my husband does with me is triathlon training.
  8. What is your favorite sport memory?  (remember, these questions are for Mr Incredible, not me)  Easy.  When the Chargers and Saints went to Superbowl 44, errr.  Oh wait.  Yeah, the Chargers blew that dream out of the water.  Again.  Go Saints!  San Diego still loves you, Drew Brees.  You get your ring and hurt P. Manning.  And tell him 'to rub some dirt on it, Johnny.'  Who gets that reference?  Anyone, Anyone?    
  9. If there was one alcoholic drink you could choose to always have, what would it be?  (specifically)  Depends where I am.  Sports bar watching a game?  I want a Blue Moon beer on tap.  On a tropical vacay?  A Mojito, hands down.  Out with the girls?  Capt n Coke.  On the round table with Chelsea Handler?  Belvedere Vodka.  

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Blog School


Important Note: I like all the blogs I read, or else I would not read them.

The more blogs I read, the more I realize that the blogosphere is high school. Some people loved high school. That's cool, that's weird. The high school-blog correlation is not necessarily a bad thing though, it's just interesting. note: I went to an all girls' school so I'm not talking boy drama. I hope there is no blog boy drama. ew.

I personally know the author's of each of the blogs I read because I went to high school with them. Start getting paranoid, kids. I know what your past consisted of and what your future holds. I wish I could either name names or name blogs, but I do not have the liberty to do that. Someone would get offended, I'm sure, although, frankly, that's just the way you are (or at least come across). No need to get mad at me.

What I am able to do, however, is tell you the pattern. There are always at least 3 groups. There are the cool skankies who party all together and shun everyone else. The leader of the group is decent, but doesn't care about anyone's feelings. But people still drool. Call. Text. Talk like. Act like. Try to joke like. No one's convinced or impressed about/by the others, but they're all still trying to be like Head Honcho. Head Honcho doesn't have a best friend, and if she does she puts her down frequently. And Head Honcho is very private in a weird way. Kind of unpredictable. Disciples of Head Honcho think they can hold their own when they talk and act like her. They fall flat.

Then there is the middle group. Where the disciples would be a heck of a lot cooler if they acted like and stayed in this group. The middle group is each their own person, but make for a dynamic group. However, they don't know each other too well, and feelings tend to get hurt easily. Someone always gets left out, forgotten, not given enough credit asldfkj asldkj asdlfkj. There are little cliques inside these groups, and one person can be involved in more than one clique at a time. Typically people from this group get along well with Head Honcho because they're just cool. Don't put much thought into anything, just act like themselves (probably because of the support system within their class).

Then of course, there are the bottom feeders. Some are bottom feeders because they just are, and some are because they're insecure and don't feel worthy of a higher position (these people are the Head Honcho of bottom feeder because they are generally very nice). First group and this group either know nothing of each other or are great friends (but of course this is kept private or else the class system would get all effed up).

Did you catch all of that?

So now here are the titles (place in appropriate class):
  • Smart Head Honcho
  • Smart, sexy, cool
  • Smart really cool because you hold your own
  • Smart wannabe
  • Not funny, in middle class
  • Ditsy funny, in middle class
  • In middle class because you have "connections"
  • Smart, funny, insecure, put other people down
  • Talk too much
  • Talk too much about relationships and babymamas/babydaddys
  • Mysterious
  • Smart but gets bad grades
  • Sporty
  • Sporty wannabe
  • Head Honcho's bff
  • Lowest class but awesome- deserve top class ranking
  • lowest class wannabe like LCA (low class awesome)
  • lowest class and eff all the rest of you
  • me
I have no idea where I fall in any of these categories. Edify me, readers and classmates alike. Where am I? Who am I?

omg omg omg I thought I was over this Identity Crisis.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Dear Mr Incredible:

Why did you have to be a thorn in my side and read then comment on my blog before, before any of my guest bloggers appeared? WHY?

fear not, readers and guest bloggers alike- his comment didn't count because it was from "anonymous" instead of Mr Incredible. Feel free (read: i beseech thee) to carry on with your works in progress and to volunteer for a spot in the 'Mr Incredible Undertaking'


Anonymous said...

Id personally like to thank everyone for helping kiera save her, I mean our marriage!
Sincerely - Mr. Incredible

Not Just for Dancers, Indi Influenced or Spiritually Faltered/Inspired



Back we go to P90X.

I have never tried yoga before. I thought it was for people who are not physically able to run on a treadmill. I also thought that it was for people like Drew Barrymore- you know, soul searching, I guess would be the correct way to describe her. I also know that dance instructors swear by it. None of the above things are bad, in my opinion, they are just not me. Hence, I never had any interest in Yoga.

aux contrare.

Day 4 of P90X and Tony wants me to put the yoga dvd in. Ha. I put if off and put it off, because, Tony, I do not want a rest day, I want a workout. I want to be bopping around like a Jane Fonda with her pants on fire.
Finally Mr Incredible gives me an ultimatum (something along the lines of "this is your only opportunity all day to do this") So I put in the hour and a half dvd. I'm just about to throw in the towel and go to the gym when (during warm ups), what's that? Oh, a bead of sweat? All I've been doing is standing with my knees bent.

Fast forward to the end. Friends, I was sweating as if I had just ran on the treadmill for an hour and a half. Incredible. Unbelievable. It is actually a workout.

Anyways, I wish I had more to say about this. But I don't. And I also don't know how to get this massive pic of Drew any smaller. Probably because google is the most obnoxious billion trillion fillion dollar company around.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Shame on most of you

[incredible.bmp]

I was not impressed with lack of comments/volunteers to better my marriage. ^ That's me and I am virtually knocking your teeth out.

But in all actuality, it's okay. Because I have a guest blogger or two. But really, nwright? This is the one you won't comment on?

Last but certainly not least, your empathy comforts me that I'm not the only person who's husband refuses to read her blog, but, BUT I want guest bloggers. I want guest bloggers. I want. guest. bloggers. It will make me dandelion-floating-in-air fuzzy feeling. Right now I'm fuzzy stuck in the lint catcher in the drier.

Monday, January 18, 2010

I Need Your Help, Faithful Readers

As I've already said, Mr Incredible are incredibly different. He likes when I make him sausage risotto, I would like him to write me love letters. He likes sports I like chocolate. He loves watching movies, I love to blog. and shop.
We both like to do family stuff.


He likes beer, I like chocolate and champagne. He says tomato, I say tomauto. He says potato, I say potauto. I know there are more, I just can't think of the important ones. (let's be clear, there aren't really and 'important ones' because we are a dynamic duo)

So where do you come in, you ask? Good question. I need guest bloggers. I need people to blog on my blog to get him to read it. He would rather read anyone else's blog than mine. Apparently I'm not enticing enough.

I'll tell you what he likes, and then you volunteer: (somebody'd better volunteer or I'll knock your teeth out)
  • sports. anything sports
  • cool statistics
  • p90x
  • sports
  • jokes that you don't have to think too much about ie Tiger Woods can drive a golf ball farther than his car
  • jokes about sports
  • inspiring sports stories
  • inspiring stories
  • beer
  • jokes about beer
  • sports
  • board games
  • really cool board games especially if his chances of winning are good
<-- he should be reading my blog. but i know he isn't.


who's in on this with me? let's see if my blog can become interesting to him. Maybe one day he'll comment (doubt) maybe one day he'll follow (double doubt). Mum's the word, though.

No fear, I won't blog about this for the next 90 days.

Today marked an epic occasion.epic. Today was my first day out of ninety of p.90.x. I'm a little shaky, but certainly not hungry. Here's what I can tell you about it thus far:
<- this is my day 0 picture. The only reason I'm posting this is because I have zero ZERO shame. keep judgements to yourself, unless, of course, it wins me comments. in my purposes.defense i'm 11 weeks post partum.


This is my yoga mat and weights. Bathroom mats do in fact have multiple purposes.







Here is a picture of Mr Incredible doing core synergetics. And a picture of me after my workout. Subtract 24 years from the age you guess and you'll get my true age.





















My life for 89 more days:

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Let's Talk About this Giveaway

Salt says is doing this giveaway for her 100th post.  I want to win it.  I want to win every giveaway though.  Greedy?  Perhaps.  But Salt, I need this apron.  The black one, preferably. 
 Let me tell you why I am blogging about this. 

  • First of all, the pictures I've seen of Salt are pretty.  She's really pretty, and frankly, who doesn't want to blog about pretty people? 
  • Secondly, she's an on top of it blogger.  Her posts aren't short (moi) and they're terrifically enjoyable to read.  She's done Zumba, she ordered her bridesmaid's dress from a "legitimate Chinese company." (?)  
  • She comments on my blog.  done and done.
  • And lastly, perhaps maybe in order to have a chance at that apron I need to blog about it.  
(voice of mentally ill man on street equally begging for money or a hug):  Please, Salt.  Please.  Salt, please.  Please, Salt.  Pleease.



Friday, January 15, 2010

What do I get for keeping my Binge Thursdays to a Minimum?

Food poisoning.  Moral of the story:  I should've binged.  I'm not sure how that is a moral or if this was a story.
Really?  Who doesn't binge 4 days before they start p90x?  Me.  Which is why I'll be a food and drink induced mess this weekend.  maybe.  

self control=food poisoning.  His puppet is clearly sick.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Twitter

I'm actually quite sure that I'm the only person on planet cyberspace who doesn't have Twitter.  Actually, I do have a Twitter account, but I didn't get it, so I didn't do it.  I forget my username and password.  



I suddenly had an urge (read: kids were all asleep at 645 and have cruised the internet a time or three) to get a Twitter account for Imperfect.  But I clutched because I don't get it.  And because I just keep referring back to this video:  twitter whore


btw i have facebook im not that un vogue.  

I'm Going to be a Big Loser




The Biggest Loser 9I'm not sure how the rest of the world feels, but I heart the Biggest Loser.  It's not because I was ever huge and then lost half of my body weight (although I was a chubby little kid.   who trusts skinny 4 year olds?  not me.) I think it's because I love stories of people changing their lives for the better.  I cry every episode.  Maria overcame her fear of water, last night.  Was that not beautiful when Jillian was cradling her in the pool in the pouring rain?  Actually it made me a bit uncomfortable.  Weird, Jillian, weird.

So anyways, Mr Incredible and I have decided to be big losers.  (drumroll please)  On Monday, we're starting P90X.  Don't hate that I'll be skinnier than you and more ripped than your husband (not crazy woman body builder way, though).  Here are a few good reasons why:

  • It gives a nutrition plan ei exactly what to eat all day for 90 days
  • It gives exact workout on DVD instead of hauling A to the gym
  • Since I am nursing I feel I have this liberty to eat brownies all day.  That liberty is not mine to take. p90x doesn't allow brownies for 90 days
  • It's only 90 days
  • It's not (necessarily) a fad diet
  • It will help me get my life together again
Actually I could write a gagillion more reasons, but those will suffice.  I've been in contact with Shandal who's been doing it, and also reading Heather's blog which is solely P90X.

I have just given myself no choice since I've told you.  Stay tuned.

Get Rid of Love Handles Once and For All! by One Source Talent Com.    NO!      no.  sure.

Monday, January 11, 2010

It's Memoir Monday Again and I'm Going to Write Another One About Duquesne

The last semester that I attended Duquesne University was a creepy one.  I'm sure my room (and roommate) were haunted.  



On each floor of the dorm buildings there was a room or two deemed the "study room."   Most of the time my friends and I were perfecting our toe touches in this room.


<--- might as well've been me because I'm seriously this good.  not.  


Anyway, on the night before a big exam I was actually studying in the study room.  My mom called so I decided to take a break.  I left all of my stuff (my ipod, books, food- the important stuff) in the study room, walked past the elevator, stopped for a drink at the fountain, and was off to my room.  I heard the elevator doors open so I turned to see who it was.  It was a 20 something guy with dark hair and a grey hoodie on, hood up.  I did not recognize him which was weird because I knew everyone on my floor.  He went into the study room, but the automatic light didn't turn on (which wasn't unusual- you just do it manually).  No light turned on.  I was a little freaked out so I told my mom to stay on the phone while I went to go get my stuff that I left in there.  I went in and the light automatically turned on and no one was in there.  I had a running commentary to my mom as all of this was happening, so we were both a bit baffled.  She told me to check the hallways.  No one.  She said I should ask the girls in their rooms if they were having this visitor.  No one.  Weird.  I just decided to ignore (?) it, even though it didn't make much sense. 


Later that night I decided to take another break from studying.  I went into my friends' room to chill out for a while.  My friend, K, said, "did you hear about the Duquesne kid who died in a drunk driving accident last night?"  I said something along the lines of "no- tragic."  She went to his computer and pulled up his facebook page which was open access to anyone.  There was the dark haired guy with a grey hoodie, hood up, in his profile picture.  The EXACT guy that came out of the elevator.


I called my mom and told her.  We prayed a lot that night.


Photobucket

There Is, In Fact, a Direct Correlation Between Vaccinations and John the Baptist's Head.

There is little question in my mind of whether or not to get my children vaccinated.  My Grandmother told me a story that made my decision very easy and very clear:

Her Grandfather's son (her uncle that she never knew) contracted diptheria.  Basically what happens is a membrane grows over your throat until you choke to death.  Enough said?  No.  There's more to the story.  This little boy had to be quarantined in his house as to not let the highly contagious disease spread.  His parents had to stay elsewhere to let their son die alone.  Are you convinced yet to get your kids vaccinated?  The father walked by his house one morning to work, and saw his son choking to death.  He burst into his house to save/be with his son when he was dying.  His son died and then the father contracted it and died.


I remember this when I have to bring my babies to get vaccinated.  It takes the edge off my anxiety and reassures me that I am doing the right thing.  But why, why? do they have to bring the shots in on a silver platter?