Archive | March, 2012

My Warrior Update #9

21 Mar

Complications beyond your control. This has become The Guat training mantra this month. I know you can’t control everything, but wouldn’t it be nice to control some things?

Ahhhh the mom dream.

Having my son at home, and not in preschool, for the past month has altered my workout situation. It is no longer taking place in the morning with the baby and my clunky Chicco stroller. It’s become an evening affair, when I’m tired, listless, ready to pass out and in need of “Vita-meata-vegamin”.

It’s the only time, when the kids are asleep and someone can just physically be in the house with them, in case they wake up.

I’ve been working out at night, which makes me more vigilant about my surroundings and any crazy pedophiles that may be lurking in the shadows. It makes me think I should go back to my Hapkido dojo and finish earning my black belt.

Perhaps that will be my next project when my income is more incoming. Until then I’ll have to rely on muscle memory, which to tell you the truth has been pretty good. So anybody who tries to sneak up on me will probably be in need of some serious medical attention. But I try to avoid situations like that and stay on the running track, which is pretty well-lit and in front of a fire station.

However, I still feel pretty bad about not being able to workout on a daily basis these past two weeks, considering the race is just 10 days away. But I make up for it in other lame ways, like running up and down the stairs, as if they were bleachers, or jumping rope. It’s not the same as running two-and-a-half miles but at least it’s a workout and that’s the best I can do. Can’t control everything, right?

But considering that  there’s absolutely no preparation for the last two obstacles, I shouldn’t feel like such a loser. That’s right. No prep, no training. None. So I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad about my dismal workouts last week and this week. The obstacles are based on sheer adrenaline and craziness.

The Petrifying Plunge is the obstacle where I “slosh down a slippery slope” which looks mountain-like from the pictures. A giant dangerous slip-n-slide for adults. I know how to fall, so I don’t think this will be a problem. My concern: stopping. I think I might just do one of those crash landings. No other way to do it.

But the one that freaks me out the most: The Warrior Roast. I’m supposed to leap over the “Warrior  Fires” … logs that are on fire. 

Fire … the stuff with heat and flames. I’m not to keen on burning, so I’m gonna have to use some sort of high jumping skills to clear these bad boys.

Leap, to be more accurate. Leap. Leaping is higher than jumping. It sounds higher than jumping, doesn’t it? I’m going to have to practice leaping this week. Definitely.

With this one there’s nothing I can do to prepare. It’s just a matter of building enough adrenaline and bad-ass attitude to go for it.

Giddy up!


Weekly Photo Challenge: Unusual

20 Mar

Unusual for The Guat



Unusual that they are not carrying the baby.

Unusual that they are not slathered with Desitin after changing diapers.

Unusual that they are not building Thomas the Train tracks for her son.

Unusual that they are not pitching a baseball to her son.

Unusual that they are not clapping in tune with the “I Like to Move It, Move It” song while her son dances and the baby giggles.

Unusual that they are not vroom-vroooming Monster Trucks with her son.

Unusual that they are not doing the Itsy-Bitsy Spider for the baby.

Unusual that they are not holding her head after a writer rejection.

Unusual that they are not fist-pumping in the air after her favorite player scores a touchdown.

Unusual that they are not chopping vegetables for dinner.

Unusual that they are not covered with Neosporin from the cuts she gets from chopping vegetables for dinner.

Unusual that they are not feeling the gooey-ness of Dawn dishwashing soap when she washes Dr. Brown baby bottle 147.

Unusual that they are not holding a spoonful of rocky road ice cream as I hang out on the couch.


The Big Wardrobe Change Heard Around The World

19 Mar

 He’s the top news story on every channel, and he’s not even involved in some crazy scandal.

Jags vs Colts Monday Night Football

Jags vs Colts Monday Night Football (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 It’s Peyton.

  Peyton Manning.

Most chicks don’t know who he is or who I’m talking about. Football chicks yes … definitely yes, you do know the magnitude of this news. But there are very few of us in this club. So this is for the other chicks, for the sake of your dudes listen up. Por favor! Let me educate you sisters!

He’s not on The Bachelor, Dancing with the Stars, The Young and The Restless, a trainer on The Biggest Loser, or one of the husbands from Housewives of Atlanta, Orange County, Beverly Hills, etc… He’s an athlete. Yes! But he doesn’t play basketball or golf professionally. He’s one of the most awesome quarterbacks ever on Earth and in the Milky Way Galaxy.

 The big deal? He decided to change his wardrobe. Not by choice of course. He no longer wears the white and blue with a little horse shoe on the helmet from Indianapolis. Instead he’s decided to wear navy and orange and hang out in Denver. 

He’s still a horse, but he’s not longer a Colt: a young male horse. He’s a Bronco: a wild horse. Although as a quarterback he’s not really wild … just awesome. I usually prefer college football to the pros, but when Peyton was playing, my nachos and I sat on the couch and he had our full undivided attention.

I’ve been a fan since day one and he’s the reason why I became an Indianapolis Colts fan. However, now that he’s changing colors I might have to own a navy and orange jersey. That’s just how I roll. I’m loyal to the man like that.

I mean hey … it’s Denver. John Elway, right? Peyton working with Elway … Dude.

He’s been called “Top Gun.” Need I say more … well maybe a little. He’s one of the best I’ve ever seen. He’s got consecutive seasons with 4000 or more yards. Super Bowl Champion? Yes!  He’s the only player to receive NFL MVP honors four times, and he’s been in the Pro Bowl 11 times. Eleven!

Are you that good at your job?

I mean have they given you an executive, CEO, CFO, doctor, associate, lawyer, teacher, or mom award four times? Have you ever been so awesome at something that you were on the spectacular squad 11 times? Well … maybe if you’re Meryl Streep … that chick has mad acting skills with her dozens of Oscar nominations. Me … I’m lucky if I get 11 thank yous in a year. 

Manning and his teammates in a game against th...

Manning and his teammates in a game against the Jacksonville Jaguars. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But ladies (and gentlemen) … Peyton is of massive importance. He’s special. He calls his own plays. His own plays! When most dudes are guided by the coaches on the sidelines or perhaps via phone call from the Big Cheeses in the luxury boxes, Peyton sees the field and takes action. He’s such a bad ass that he’s in huddle calling his own plays.

Talent and Smarts.  Top Gun indeed.

So if your dude, or a dude you know, your brother, or your dad is sad or upset about the wardrobe change, you can surprise him and say … well Joe Montana went from the 49ers to the Chiefs, Brett Favre went from the Packers to the Jets to the Vikings and they were still pretty awesome. I’m sure Peyton will kick ass in Denver. Playoffs baby. Playoffs!

You’ll score some points. No doubt. No doubt.

The Prince People: Awesome Customer Service

18 Mar

Most of the time, they suck. You know it. I know it. They know it.

They put you on hold and make you dials 15 digits before you can speak to an actual human being. Most customer service agents suck. Other than the Big Island Candies Chocolate people (who are awesomely fantabulous) I’ve run into nothing but aggravation from this species … that is until I met Ken from Prince Sports— Tennis Racket Division.

Prince Sports

Image via Wikipedia

  We recently went to something called the Racket Doctor to pick out my son’s first tennis racket.  He’s got golf clubs, a baseball bat, a football and a soccer ball. We figured … might as well make sure he likes what we like, or at least gets exposed to it. So many choices, but we narrowed it down to the Babolat, Rafael Nadal personal favorite, or the Prince.

We were both torn, Customer Service Agent Ken … he was awesome.

Nadal vs Federer en la final de Roland Garros 2007

Image via Wikipedia

But Rafael … C’mon now. He plays with Babolat. It’s Nadal. The King of Clay. The awesome Spaniard. One of the few who’ve completed The Grand Slam. One of our favorite players. But then I reminded him of the letter I wrote for him … the letter!So we stood there debating …  

Dear Prince People,

I have owned various Prince Signature products and enjoyed them immensely throughout the years. Despite their constant usage, they have served me to the best of their ability on the tennis courts. However, recently you “Built Equipment that DID NOT Rule the Court,” but ruined my tennis cache. I had cache, but alas on the fateful day…Poof! Gone.

I play a regular game every Tuesday and Thursday at our neighborhood park, with a motley crew of overweight (mostly divorced) fifty+ year olds. Premier athletes, if you will. I’m the young stud … the ringer. Although regardless of my age there are a couple of guys who run me up and down the court in spite of their luscious physique. But for the most part, I’m victorious.

So the day my cache was gone, I kept telling the overweight regulars that it was my tennis racket. My tennis racket! But they continued the constant ridicule: “It’s not about the equipment, it’s about how you use it.” This attack on my manhood put a hitch in my get-along and rattled my conviction in your product.   

I was up 4-3 in the set when my opponent – Mauricio the wife-beater – hit a lob. I widened my stance and prepared to smash it down his throat, when IT happened. The sun. The God-dang sun turned my smash into a missed-hit overhand.

It was only until after my demise on the court and the purchasing of a six-pack of Coors for the victor that I realized my racket had been fractured. I was devastated! How the hell can a tennis ball, something crushed in half by the Bionic Woman, splinter my Prince Tour Diablo?

I almost had a John-McEnroe moment. But I maintained. I took it to the Racket Doctor. Stat! But they could not restring it or bring it back to life! The frame was cracked. I was in mourning. Still am.

I have enclosed the tennis racket for your inspection. I have always trusted in your product and it has never failed me. Whether it’s been tennis shoes, shirts, caps, or rackets. You have always come through for me with fine quality and craftsmanship. But you left me hanging.

The workmanship flaw caused me to lose the match to Mauricio … Mauricio the wife-beater and that humiliation deserves redemption. This guy was exiled for over a year from the park because of his extra curricular activities. I could not lose to someone with such poor character. I needed redemption, and I pray that you will be able to remedy my situation, as Ken from customer service left me hopeful.

In Disappointment,

 The Guat’s Dude.

About three weeks later he got a new Prince Tour Diablo … Factory fresh.

 We stood there thinking of how much we loved Rafael and his Babolat, but then there was Ken … Which tennis racket do you think we bought?


Aisle 19, The Long-Lost Cookies, and My Dad

17 Mar

I never thought I’d get emotional in aisle 19. I’m not the type of chick that turns on the waterworks quite easily, but there I was … in the cookie aisle, having a moment.

It wasn’t because I’m an emotional eater or I was having Oreo withdrawals from Weight-Watchers-point calculations. No … I happen to come across something that sparked a childhood memory with my Dad. It happens from time to time, in random places, but I usually keep it together.

I hadn’t seen these in over twenty-five years, and I’m sure they were in aisle 19 all along, but I seldom run my cart down that aisle. And when I saw them, I remembered … I remembered … and all I could think about was my Dad and how much I missed him.

As I’ve mentioned before, we grew up in a tough inner-city neighborhood, but that didn’t necessarily mean we didn’t have a slice of something special. Every so often my Dad would drive out about thirty minutes on the freeway to take us to a place called Carnation.

We’d all pile in the brown supreme station wagon and venture off to this restaurant that specialized in making its own ice cream.  Oh. For the love of banana splits made with rocky road and marshmallow topping.

I couldn’t wait to finish my meal, because I knew dessert would be coming shortly. We would all get whatever we wanted, no limits. My sister usually got two scoops of chocolate chip, my mother strawberry, our cousins mint chip … me … I’d go for the banana split … and I’d never have to share. Usually we’d go to other restaurants or 31 Flavors and I’d always have to share my two scoop sundae with someone. But at Carnation … my dad made it a point to splurge. No sharing required, but if you wanted to … you could.

The only thing I absolutely did not share were these cookies that were neatly surrounding my awesome banana split. I’d get six … two for each scoop.

Light, crispy, and sweet. Awesome.

Just as I finished the last one, I’d always want more. But it never happened. Six and that was it. The waitresses weren’t much for extras, so I’d always come home longing for more.

Until one day …

After we had piled back into the station wagon, my Dad remembered that he had left his wallet in the booth. He left all of us there in the parking lot, with our seat belts on, the radio blaring something from the Spanish station KLOVE, and the windows rolled down because the air-conditioner was on the fritz. We were in the shade so it wasn’t too bad.

It took him a while to return. But when he did he smiled and we rushed back home. As we were trekking up the stairs to our apartment building my Dad told me he had forgotten something in the car. It was for my sister and I. He said it was in the front seat.

He tossed me the keys and I went to go get it. As I opened the car door, I saw a brown paper bag in the driver’s seat. I opened it up … it was a box of the sugar wafer creme-filled cookies. A box!

I turned to look at the stairs, my Dad stood there smiling.

He passed away about a year and a half ago and I miss him every day.

So when I saw the cookies on aisle 19 I just had to buy them. I fixed myself up a nice banana split with six cookies, the only thing missing was my dad, his cup of coffee, and our conversation.

Bedtime Battle Showdown … My Salvation: Framboise

16 Mar

Normally I’m not a raging alcoholic, but after two weeks of consecutive 13-hour days with both kids and minimal “me” time, other than the two-minute “time-out” sessions I took for myself in the bathroom, I was about to drink the two bottles of Lambic Framboise in hopes of relieving the stress from Friday Night Bedtime Battle Showdown. Normally I’d drink Patron, but I thought that’s a little too raging, Framboise a little more subtle.

When exercise doesn't cut it ... my stress reliever

In that corner: 36-pound basketball-pajama wearing three-year old accompanied by his 21-pound onesie-wearing sibling with sneaky smiles.

In this corner: The Guat, usually an upbeat sporty-spice who’s become a worn-down mom that’s accumulated more gray hairs and wrinkles this week.

If you have kids you may be familiar with battle of the bedtimes. Prior to being a guest at my mom’s house this wasn’t really an issue … maybe once in a blue moon my three-year old would act up, but I wouldn’t say it was a problem. However, recently bedtime has become such a frustrating battle  that the vein in my neck has a permanent imprint from where it bulges out.

It’s not like he refuses to go to bed. We have our routine. Always been the same. Eight o’clock comes around he’s showered and ready for some Dr. Seuss, Laura Numeroff, Sandra Boynton, Tony Mitton, Ant Parker, or Eric Carle books. After we’re done, he gets into bed all comfy, cozy, but it just takes longer for him to fall asleep.

And if I don’t get him showered on time … forget about it … He’s watching Dave Letterman. A few times he stays there awake, moving around, talking to his teddy bear until ten o’clock, sometimes later. Thus leaving me with little time to wash dishes and bottles before trying to relax in front of the television.

It’s not like I like to wash dishes. In fact it’s the chore I hate the most. Some might say just leave a dirty kitchen and let it go, but I’m the type of person that needs to have an empty sink and clean kitchen before I can relax. If only my mom believed in dishwashers, but apparently those are for lazy asses. So my hands aren’t too supple, more like the hands of a carpenter who’s been on the job twenty years.

It’s been difficult to say the least. I felt like breaking down like those mom chicks from Sex & The City 2. Have you seen this?

Yeah … but they have nannies. I have myself. I am the nanny, the cook, the diaper changer, the milk producer, the bottle-go-getter, the bath time giver, the baseball pitcher, the funny-face maker, the golf caddy, the Play-Doh creator, the dancing partner to the “I Like To Move It, Move It” song, the Lego’s construction builder, the co-pilot on my son’s imaginary airplane/fire engine/submarine that fights crime, and the dog walker. That’s me … all before lunch. No nanny. No cleaning lady. Just The Guat. 

So by the time I get to bedtime I’m just ready to have them pass out and go into a deep, deep sleep so that I can somehow enjoy television or just enjoy a quiet moment where nobody says anything … just silence.  Quiet is awesome.

So when bedtime becomes a battle or either of them just gives me issues I get so frustrated. I don’t want to be that mom that constantly tells their kid if you don’t go to sleep right now, you won’t be able to play with any cars, monster trucks, trains or sports stuff ever again! I mean it! I’ll take them to the trash.

I tried that … it doesn’t work.

I was so desperate I was about to Google “bedtime problems with three-year olds and seven-month old babies” and hope some self-help answer would come slap me in the face.

But alas … there was no super-secret answer other than some crazy note about slipping some Children’s Benadryl into their night-time sippy cups. I don’t like having crappy frustrating endings to pleasant days. Sometimes it just sucks the awesomeness out of the day.

It has to be a phase.

That’s what I tell myself, or at least that’s what I’m hoping. After the Framboise, I tell myself tomorrow will be better and he’ll get back into his normal sleeping pattern.

I hope tomorrow gets here soon. The stores are running out of Framboise.

Long Socks with Blue Stripes, L.A. Gear, and Aquanet: The Good Old Days.

15 Mar

As I watch March Madness, I begin having basketball flashbacks myself. I reminisce of long socks with blue stripes that stretch out to my knees and basketball shorts that don’t look like Capri pants. Not Daisy Duke shorts …  actual shorts. John Stockton style. I recall the Aquanet hairspray in the locker room and the chicks lacing up the L.A. Gear. I was short, but awesome. However, I wasn’t always awesome … I had my moments. Watching the Madness on TV today, I couldn’t help but remember my very first basketball game … I couldn’t help but laugh.

Picture it: Junior High School. We were the Tigers.



We played some team with white jerseys. I was one of the jeans and t-shirt wearing tomboy chicks, who told kids in her class that she had made the “varsity” team. There’s just one team in junior high. You’re either on it or you’re not. I decided to call it varsity, it sounded impressive.

I had just started learning my Magic JohnsonJames Worthy moves when the first game of the season was scheduled. I had told a couple of friends from Mr. Berger’s history class that I was on “varsity” and that they should come check out the game. They were in the presence of a baller in the making, they didn’t want to miss that. It would be the first game of the season.

So the Mr. Berger crew, with their Pee-Chee folders, Jansport backpacks and classic white Nikes with the red swoosh, stopped by to watch the event unfold. We had the warm-up music blasting as we came running through the gym commencing our practice drills. People were here to see my team kick ass. They were here to see me too.

As the refs whistle blew we took to the court. Excited, but nervous at the same time. Massive turnovers, three-seconds violation, bad shot selections, three-seconds violation, too many passes in one sequence, three-seconds violation, and then not enough passes in the other. Classic dribbling skills that needed improvement were being showcased. In addition, aggressive play helped three players from each team earn two fouls each by the end of the first quarter. I guess we were a little nervous, but soon we got the hang of it.

We went on a 10-1 run, they’d go on a 8-2 run. We’d dominate the boards, they’d get aggressive and start swinging elbows. They hit one long from dowwwwntowwwn. We’d drive through traffic, make the lay-up, and get a foul.

Just as the second quarter was winding down our coach reminded us that we wanted to finish the half strong. Go out with confidence … have momentum that would drive us through to the third quarter and possibly a win. But just when we thought all the silly nerves were behind us … it happened. I did it and I couldn’t take it back.

About ten seconds left. We had a play. Two-points. Just make a quick basket for two points. The other team decided to defend the in-bounds pass. We came closer to our teammate so that she could pass the ball to us. It was crowded on the opponent’s side. Chicks are aggressive when they’re on the court, so I kept fighting for position, so that someone would pass me the ball.

Pass comes in, my teammate is trapped. She’s fighting off opponents’ attempts to clutch for the ball.

Five seconds. The ball comes loose.

Four seconds. We scramble, battling for possession.

Three seconds. I get a hold of the ball.

Two seconds. I hear my teammates scream SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT!

One second. I shoot. I score. AHHHHHHH! I’m getting high fives from only two of my teammates.

I look up at my coach, he’s shaking his head. I look at the boys basketball team who came over to watch us, they have their hands across their face in disbelief. I look at Mr. Berger’s crew, they’re  laughing.

I’m confused.

The other team is smiling.

Apparently, I forgot where I was and scored two points for the other team. They went into the locker room with momentum, energy, and my two points.

I couldn’t believe it. I was mortified.

But nevertheless, I got pats on the back from my teammates while the coach gave me the speech. I got the point. He knew I felt bad, so he didn’t press the issue.

I didn’t feel like coming out the second half, but hey it happens … so I took a deep breath, drank some Gatorade and walked onto the court. I heard a little teasing, but it simmered down as I scored more points, this time in the right basket. We ended up winning that game.

Madness, I tell you. Junior High March Madness.

I still talk to one of the Berger crew. Just one. He actually became one of my best friends,  a brother. I’ve known him longer than any other friend and he remembers the story too. It cracks him up. Although, you hear him tell it now, twenty-something years later, and apparently in his version it’s become the championship game between two basketball powerhouses. And I made the winning-buzzer-beater basket for the other team.

He’s funny. He doesn’t let me forget memories like that … he cracks me up. Ahhhh that’s what friends are for … to remind you of your long socks with blue stripes, L.A. Gears and Aquanet. Because sometimes as a mom, when you’re an adult with all kinds of stress and responsibilities and drama, you need to be reminded that you weren’t always a grown-up … you were a bad-ass baller in the making.

Apparently, There Was Room for Just One

14 Mar

It stands alone … king of the domain, towering at nine inches tall.  The behemoth. No one messes with this. No one tries to horn in on its territory, unless they want to feel the Wrath of Kahn. It’s a territorial thing, I guess.

I became aware of the King not too long ago, when we tried to replace it … well not even replace it, just add some variety, but we were dismissed with extreme prejudice. When it comes to chicks and their kitchen it’s all about control. Don’t get crazy with the suggestions.

Apparently, Mrs. Dash rules my mother’s pantry. Have you heard of Mrs. Dash? It’s  the only spice, other than salt, that you will ever need on Earth. Not the small four or six-ounce jar either, but the Costco-sized-gargantuan-nuclear-bomb-shelter-21-ounce container. The kind an army cook uses to feed a platoon.

It’s a seasoning blend that provides you with a smorgasbord of spices great for anything and everything that flies, swims, or hangs out on a farm. According to my mom, it’s all you need.

image courtesy of

During my temporary stay at my mom’s house, in addition to being the maid, dog walker, laundromat, dishwasher, personal shopper, accountant, and Dona of the house, I’d become the cook as well.

But regardless of my temporary standing as interim chef, every chick or kitchen dude, feels their kitchen is their kitchen, regardless how little they use it. Don’t mess with the Feng Shui of their kitchen. Don’t put the pots in the pan drawer, don’t unplug the blender, don’t move the cans around in the pantry so that they are grouped by size and the labels face you, don’t move the magnets on the fridge, and most importantly don’t rearrange, remove or add to their spices. You will be schooled … I was.

As I prepared arroz con pollo, I looked for some cumin and pepper in the pantry but found the ginormous container with the yellow label staring at me.

You got any cumin?

Mrs. Dash has it.

You got any pepper?

Don’t need it, Mrs. Dash has it.

What about garlic? I didn’t see any cloves or garlic powder?

I’ll tell you in Spanish because you don’t seem to understand … Lo tiene Mrs. Dash.

How are you just going to cook with one spice? What is that?

What about cayenne pepper?

LO TIENE MRS. DASH! Your sister’s husband loved my roasted chicken and steak. All I used was Mrs. Dash. He always said how delicious it was and that he wanted to get the recipe. He likes it.

Calm down. I just like a little variety, some depth … a little less zest.

Apparently it was bad enough that I brought pepper into the house a few weeks prior, I didn’t need to get all “diva” and bring in other additions to the kitchen. They weren’t necessary. This was the most awesome creation ever and I was frowned upon for even thinking to add to the spice rack. There could be only one king of the pantry, but I added the little  four-ounce containers. They made guest appearances.

image courtesy of

 But when my dude brought in a 32 oz container of Pappy’s Choice Professional Pack  Seasoning … you know the one that says, “You’re not happy, until you’ve had Pappy’s.”

Yeah…I’d never heard of it either.

Apparently they were giving samples of its flavorful potential at Costco and he had to have it. So Pappy’s made an attempt to creep into the pantry.

However it was outed.

Ques esto! What is this?

It’s Pappy’s … don’t you know? You’re not happy until you’ve had Pappy’s. It’s got no MSG and you can use it in Bloody Mary’s, too.

I was given the dirty look, followed by the questionable eyebrow raise and the hmph.

No matter how many times we used it and put it in the pantry, it would resurface on the counter, next to the toaster oven. It was given dirty looks, dropped on the floor accidentally on purpose, and segregated from the salt and Mrs. Dash. I thought my dude kept forgetting to put it back in the pantry, but that was not the case.

One morning I put it in the pantry, label facing me, behind the Mrs. Dash of course. Then my mother saw it … it’s presence slapping her in the chef face. She grabbed the container, opened the pouring spout, sniffed it, and then closed it. She placed it behind to the toaster, label facing the wall, away from me.

Apparently there was room for just one.

Crazy moms.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Contrast

13 Mar



They go against every fiber of my tomboy being , especially if they’re pink.

They go against my athletic-New-Balance-wearing feet.

They go against trying to sneak in the house after curfew if you’re a teenager.

They go against running away from a mugger.

They go against my jeans and t-shirt attire.

After one hour, they go against my La Chona dancing moves.

They go against my lumbar.

They go against my hip flexor and knee muscles.

They work against my gravity-challenged clutzy self when I’m going down the stairs.

But do they make me look sexy if I’m standing still …


But I’m against that too … I’m a mother of two kids under three years of age … I’d rather not get the tap-tap-tap. I prefer sleep.


My Warrior Update #8 … Surprises

12 Mar

How you gonna change on me? I’ve been mentally and physically preparing my muscles for these obstacles? I’ve been training them not to fall down certain ways, because you know I can fall all kinds of ways … it’s the Guat in me. And now, I’m going to have to retrain these Guat muscles. It’s not easy people. Gravity is a powerful thing and then you’re gonna throw in five new obstacles in the mix that gives gravity an even bigger advantage? I can only do so many push-ups and squats.  Let’s not get crazy. 

But at least I’ve got about two more weeks. Warrior challenge indeed. The unexpected always happens. That’s a given … that happens all the time in every aspect of my life past and present … motherhood, sports writer, substitute teacher, designated driver, etc…. Expect the unexpected and then train like hell.

I’m glad I checked the Warrior Dash home page this week. Otherwise I would have been in for a surprise when I ran into the Road Rage, Vertical Limit, Barricade Breakdown, Great Warrior Wall, and Capsized Catamaran obstacles.

I think I’m gonna need more Glucosamine.

It seems that a few of them I can handle with ease. Road Rage has me “stampeding through a scrap yard of rusted wreckage.” I can stomp. I can climb cars. I can slide over the hoods. I’ve seen Dukes of Hazzard. This is one is not too bad.

In Vertical Limit I’m “scaling to the summit and sliding down the vertical drop.” I’m rock climbing basically. However, no harnesses or ropes attached to my body. But I’ve seen Sylvester Stallone‘s Cliffhanger…I’ll be fine. I’ve rock climbed before, so this one seems all right. I just need to remember to bring my Hapkido/Kung Fu grip so I don’t fall backwards. Thank God I don’t believe in manicures, I’ll be able to hold on tight without worrying about my Lee Press-On Nails.

 In Barricade Breakdown it’s pretty much hurdling over barricades and then trying not to breakdown as I crawl in the mud under barbed wire. I used to run hurdles in high schools. I know, I know with my falling record you would think, why? But sometimes you have to face fear head on. Did I fall? Plenty of times. Did I get back up? Yeah. I had to finish. So I’m no stranger to pain. Hurdling won’t be a problem. I didn’t break any school records, but I was a pretty quick Guat.

 The Great Warrior Wall seems like the Deadman’s Drop. Climbing a ginormous wooden barricade and then dropping or sliding down. I think they just put this one in so that your arms could feeeeeeeeeeeeeeel the burn as they hoist you and all your poundage up and over. I think I’m gonna drop and give myself 20 as soon as I finish this post. Just so my arms get used to feeling like jello after all the burn.

Last but not least is Capsized Catamaran. This one replaced a tall climb where waterfalls constantly splashed over you, like a hurricane. This substitution is unfortunate for me because the new challenge is a bitch.

I’m a little scared. It requires me to “swim, climb, stumble, and swim.” That’s a lot for one obstacle. And it’s the swimming. I’m not the best swimmer. I’m like my Dad … I’m a floater who splashes. The only way I can swim is the backstroke. When I did the triathlon I “backstroked” the entire swim. It’s the only way I made it, but this was in an Olympic-sized pool. The Warrior Dash will have murky waters and crowds of people rushing, swimming the normal way. I think I need to see where I’m going, can’t be swimming backwards. Maybe it won’t be a real swim, maybe I can tread water.

Definitely more Glucosamine needed … that and push-ups. 

Giddy up!