Lucy or Ethel? You decide…

I’m playing a game. A game of tag with a bunch of Spark people over at Spark People Dot Com. It’s a challenge. Two teams running relays, pitting their brawn, their brains, their nutrition skills against each other. Let’s just pause here. I’m not sure I have any of those things B.E. — before elevenses.

Back to pitting. It works like this. Two teams. A list of tasks — shorter than the teams — and a time frame. The first challenger does the first task on the list and Scores! Then, it’s the whole Tag, you’re it! to the next person, and they do the next task. It can be a nutrition task — eat a piece of fruit, drink 8 oz. of water. It can be a support task — give a hug, virtual or real. Yeah. Wait for it. It can be an exercise — precisely, the exercise of the day. Who do you think got that?

There are skips and forfeited points and…

The challenge started Monday. Goes through Sunday. I should last so long. I checked down the line to see what I would have in the first round. Oh, boy. Exercise of the day. Goodie. Can’t wait. For Monday, that was Dumbbell Flys. Excuse me?

I’m thinking, What if I get tagged while I’m eating dinner? I’m not dropping and doing dumbbell flys on a stomach full of Cora’s Lemon Garlic Chicken which, by the way, is fabulous. So, I dropped and did two sets of flys pre-Cora and waited to be tagged.

And waited.

Waited…

Yes. You’re getting the picture. My fellow challengers are scattered all over the galaxy and have X amount of time to complete their task before they tag the next challenger.

Moral of the blog: never anticipate.

We were all playing in the land of dreams before the person before me was tagged.

My enthusiastic, early-rising teammate is up before the birds. Before the cock that crows. Before Kronos. He has to give a hug, virtual or otherwise. At 5:28 a.m. I can give a hug. Maybe not virtual, but of the otherwise persuasion. Def. That’s a total lie. I can receive a hug at 5:28 a.m. That is all. Right Mr. G, honey? Mr. G isn’t even here, and I know his shoulders are shaking.

Let it be known in all the lands that Elen is not a morning person.

Not. A. Morning. Person.

It’s 7:30 a.m. I’m on the intertoobs. I’m checking. I’ve been tagged.

And there is a NEW exercise of the day.

So. Oh, joy. I did premature dumbbell flys for my chest which, the girls and I agree, we so don’t need.

Now, I’m scrolling the page looking for the new exercise of the day.

Squats with front shoulder raises.

Oh, God.

Muscles worked: quads, glutes, hamstrings, shoulders.

Oh, God II.

I don’t have any of those.

Nor, do I have the medicine ball I’m supposed to use to do these squats.

I improvise. Improvise is my middle name.

I run to the kitchen and snatch some cheese for a protein shot. Like it’s going to have time to work in the next 5 mins.

I run to the pantry and grab a canister of sugar (it’s worth a good 5 lbs.). Medicine ball substitute.

I run back upstairs to my office, which is big enough for squats.

All that running was my warm-up, but just  to be sure, I stick in the iPod earbuds and crank-up The Warrior Song. Thank you, Sean Householder. Honey, this is not your mama’s warm-up tune. It’s pre-caffeine a.m. What else would I use?

And I squat. 2 sets. 15 reps each.

My only thought — Pop-Tart or oatmeal?

Pop-Tart is not the Spark way. Dang.

But that Pop-Tart visual got me a little excited and, after the last squat was finished and I was feeling truly smug and sparkly, I tripped, the canister of sugar popped open, and I was looking at an ugly brown carpet full of sugar. Pre-caffeine.

Now, there is a life-sized Golden Pup pelting into my office focused on a big ol’ sugar rush.

The hand goes out.

Leave it!

Sit!

Stay!

I ignore the Gracie Allen Golden Pup stare-of-disappointment and grab the vacuum cleaner, wondering if sugar explodes if you suck it into a tiny bag filled with hot air and dog hair.

Forget the Pop-Tart. The oatmeal. The caffeine. Now, I’m thinking whiskey shot or Bloody Mary. At least with the Mary you get a serving of veg.

I sit down at the computer. Click open a window and type — Tag, You’re It!

Lucy or Ethel? Your call.

Elen

I need some of this today…

This is my favorite opening for Dancing With The Stars. Let’s Dance, Vanessa, honey. The song is on my iPod under the playlist — blush — assercise!, because my writer’s butt experienced double-digit inflation some seasons back and hasn’t quite recovered. The economy is not the only thing that needs a new stimulus package. My body is tanking. I’ve got SparkPeople working on that with me, and you can’t find a better stimulus team than that.

DWTS will be back on March 9th, and I can hardly wait. This is the eighth season. Who knew! They hit my radar about season four. I didn’t really think I would be that into them because I was really into So You Think You Can Dance. But I loved the judges and watching people, who have not professionally trained, strut their stuff.

And now, I must go and cardio-dance my little wb off, as in — Fanny Be Gone! Otherwise The Spark Guy will hunt me down. Hunt. Me. Down. Actually, not. He’s way too nice for that.

Elen

Heading for Mount Doom, or This is why…

Mr. G, honey is going to try and fatten me up for the big V-Day, as in Be My Valentine. I know it. It’s coming. I don’t need a divining rod to suss this out. I just know. I can feel it. Like a cramp. He’s going to make dinner reservations, buy chocolates. For me. It’s romantic. A lovely romantic gesture. But. Noooooooooooooo. No. No. No.

I’m sparking with SparkPeople. I’m making progress. Go Team! And there is still birthday cake in the freezer. To be precise, there is Pioneer Woman’s Best Chocolate Sheet Cake. Ever. And it is. In all of its buttery goodness. I love Pioneer Woman.

Last week, here in my neck of the neighborhood, it was a hot mess. It was the neverending hot mess. On Wednesday, there were EMTs. Here. In my house. I heart you guys. Thank you.  By Saturday, I was squishing around in water…in the carpet…in my bedroom…on the second floor. Monday morning my contractor sent the wonder boys — and they are — over to climb on the roof and remove a motherlode of ice from my rain gutters. Yes, we’ve been having one of those freeze/thaw, lots of snow and ice-damming winters. The wonder boys were in the attic…in my office…above my working bookcases. Carpet and underlay are pulled up. Fans are running. Insurance Guy is coming today.

I’m an emotional eater. I could eat all of the leftover birthday cake myself. All. Of. It. SparkPeople is the only thing keeping me from doing that right now. This is how I know Mr. G, honey has plans to fatten me up with comfort food for Valentine’s Day. I know what I know. SparkPeople would say — That’s okay. Go to dinner. Just watch your portions. Choose some healthy alternatives. But right now, I’m an emotional-eater-on-the-edge. I will have no self-control.

Sure. It will all start innocently enough. I’ll order sparkling water and then say, What’s one little drink? This is V-Day, and it’s been a very bad week. Verra. I deserve this drink. The one little drink will be very tasty and I’ll say, This bread basket has some whole grain rolls in it. I could have a little healthy whole grain roll? And what’s one pat of butter on V-Day? It’s been a very bad week. Verra. I deserve butter. The next thing you know I’m saying, Steak. Garlicky Mashed Potatoes. Green Beans — for a healthy heart. Crème Caramel. And I’m on a magic carpet ride heading for Mount Doom.

Mr. G, honey. Love of my life. I’d settle for one of your mind-blowing, toe-curling, time-stopping kisses. Oh, yeah. That says, Be Mine.

And this is why… blogging has been sporadic. Yep. This is why.

Elen