A Healthy Lifestyle According to a Lazy Person

Let's be honest... working out is the worst. No one actually "likes" it and if you say you do, you're either that annoying girl I hate at the gym who works out in hoop earrings or you're not actually working out. It's hard. And if it were easy we'd all be walking around looking like Gisele. Or Chyna.

I recently went to the doctor's office for a basic check-up and they drew blood to check my cholesterol levels, which came back normal thankyouverymuch. But it got me thinking... I'm 29 years old, rounding second and headed for home plate: my 30th birthday. There comes a time in one's life where they find themselves thinking about adult things like 401K's, increasing vision benefits and finding reasonable car insurance. That time for me, is now. But included in that conversation with myself (yes, I live alone and I talk to myself. Deal with it) I started thing about my blood test and why it wasn't high, especially after that burrito I ate 24 hours earlier.



I made a conscious decision to get my life in check and hop back on the fitness bandwagon. I'm starting a new series called PiYo which I like to describe as a cardio mix of pilates and yoga (how very San Francisco of me). It's only day 2 and I already convinced my lazy ass to get up early and do my workout before I shipped off to the ol' job. I would say that's a pretty solid start in comparison to sleeping in with just enough time to throw my hair in a messy bun and run out the door.

Now I'm not going to lecture anyone about getting out and running a half marathon. That's not what's happening here. I too enjoy a day of DVR bingeing just like everyone else.



But the reality is, we're all getting older and we need to take better care of ourselves. Don't get me wrong... eat some ribs or go nuts on brie and crackers every now and again. But maybe pick up a carrot stick instead of a potato chip. Or drink more water. Or get off the bus 5 stops before your usual stop and walk the rest of the way. Or not.. it's up to you.



I am a sister, a daughter, a friend, and an [awesome] auntie to many. I'd like to be around to annoy you all until I'm 98 years old. This is how I think I'll get there so I've decided to share my journey with you. Albeit a very slow tortoise-like journey, it's still a journey none the less. And I hope that maybe some of you might jump in and join me.

I still don't like working out. And I probably never will. To boot, I'm quite possibly the most non-athletic, uncoordinated person you'll ever meet. But I do like the feeling I get when I eat a hearty salad for lunch or complete a few miles on the treadmill. So get the salmon instead of the burger at dinner and go outside for walk and enjoy the beautiful weather... give it a shot with me, would ya? And have fun out there!

I Believe...

Carrie circa 2003 loved collages. I loved them so much that when I decided to chronicle my senior year of high school with a very amateur scrapbook that I would indeed make a collage out of the cover. And so I did. And when I recently fished said scrapbook out of my parents' garage, I picked through my collage cover with a fine toothed comb and caught a glimpse into eighteen year old Carrie's brain.

My collage consisted mostly of quotes haphazardly cut out of magazines such as Cosmo, Teen Vogue, YM and the like. One particular cut-out was a list of things titled "I Believe..." I remember loving that list so much and it got me thinking... what do I believe in today? What makes me tick? What advice should I have given the Carrie of yesterday given what I know today? I immediately started rattling off items in my head and decided they may be of better use written down. So here goes:

I BELIEVE...

...that you can never have too much good wine, good food, or good company.

...that binge watching a television series is a swell way to spend an entire Sunday.

 ...in being friends with your ex. It didn't work out for a reason. Be happy when he moves on.

...that champagne makes everything better.

...in investing in friendships that matter, and letting go of those that don't. 

...in eating a burger one day and a kale salad the next.

...in being pen pals with long distance friends. Since being removed from your everyday, they usually give the best advice.

...in wearing what makes you feel good. Don't judge a Louis Vuitton bag with a Target dress.

...that siblings make some pretty good friends.

...in loving your body the way it is. Ten years from now you'll hate that you thought you were fat.

...that any song that speaks to you is a great song. Even if that song is "Wrecking Ball."

...in working at a job that makes you happy. Life is too short to have a boss you hate.

...that true love can come from something with fur and four legs. 

...in continuously working on yourself to become a better person. 


Some of today's beliefs align with those listed on my scrapbook cover. Some don't. But that's what happens when you grow up. I don't know that eighteen year old Carrie would have had these same beliefs eleven years ago. And I don't think thirty nine year old Carrie will have these beliefs either. But who knows. All I know is that eighteen year old Carrie would probably think twenty nine year old Carrie is pretty fabulous.

A Single Girl's Rant

My DVR is 22% full. This is a problem considering I just cleared it with the exception of Glee's "The Quarterback"episode, eight Dateline stories for a rainy day, and The Today Show where in the 10am hour with Kathy Lee and Hoda, I am featured out in the plaza waving to the camera in my 3 seconds of fame. Based on these calculations I should only be MAYBE 10% full. Anxiety sets in. I browse my recorded shows and realize the oh-so-meh summer line up has started recording. Oh yeah, and those three movies that I decided to record after single-handedly consuming a bottle of wine last weekend because "why not?? I pay for HBO so fuck it... I'm gonna watch movies." And so my 22% is justified and thank God I'm single because I can't spare the DVR space.

This is my life. The life of a single gal six plus months away from leaving her 20's for good. The life of someone spending her periodic Friday nights catching up on Scandal or watching reruns of Sex and the City. The life of someone who orders enough take-out to last her 5 days. The life of a girl who purchases her organic produce online to be delivered to her door. This is my life. And I am okay with it.

I recently officiated a wedding for one of my best gals and her very patient now-husband. At said wedding her grandmother asked if I was engaged. Sorry Granny. Single as they come. "Oh but why? You're so sweet! We need to find you a boyfriend." It's instances such as these that I love and cherish. Sweet Granny subconsciously, and adorably I might add, boosted my single girl confidence right when I was about to enter man-hating mode for the umpteenth time. Now let me be clear that it is both cute and endearing when Sweet Granny tells me I need a boyfriend. Not so much when my 8-year-old niece points it out at family gatherings and all major holidays. Then it just becomes obnoxious. No ill will toward my 2nd grade frenemie (if you're reading this, hey girl!) but this is indeed my life and I know that I'm single. Reminders are completely unnecessary. Thanks though.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's great when people insist I meet their nephew or their cousin or their brother because we would "be just perfect together." It shows that they think highly enough of me to want to introduce me to someone else they reciprocally think highly of. But I also don't need to be anyone's charity case. Being single isn't an illness (although it may be in epidemic in this great city I call home). If I don't get married, oh well. If I don't have kids, I'll get a dog. Or two. Or three. I am a self sufficient, caring person with moderate baking skills, awesome friends, an amazing job and an apartment a block away from the most spectacular view you have ever seen of the Golden Gate Bridge. There are worse things in life than not being in a relationship and I prefer that not be what defines me.

My DVR is still 22% full. I know this because I set the next recording (Catfish). And the one after that (The Bachelorette). And the one after that (Game of Thrones). Yes, this is my life. And I am okay with it.

Why Clare from The Bachelor Sucks

Toot, toot! All aboard the crazy train! Your conductor this evening will be Clare Crawley from Juan Pablo's season of The Bachelor. This broad has rubbed me the wrong way since day one. She is everything I despise about being a young, single gal and here's an open letter to tell her why... 

1. Your name: Where's the "i" in your name, Clare? Did it disappear, along with your dignity, when you stayed on the show after JP pretty much told you (in broken English) that you were only a booty call? That's what I'm going to assume. And from now on I'm putting an "i" in your name because you're annoying enough without it.  And anyways, Cla(i)re is a fat girl’s name. Just ask Judd Nelson.  #breakfastclubreference

2. You showed up fake pregnant: You sure did come out of that limo with a bang didn’t you? Pun intended. The first night of the Bachelor is just like a first date in real life, Cla(ire). You can’t just show up the first time you meet a guy with a fake belly being fake pregnant because Cla(i)re, that is not normal.  Even on national television compared to someone else who shows up playing a piano bike. Still not normal. Author’s note: Although, Juan Pabs kept you around until the finale so maybe I’ll try this on my next OkCupid date.  #firstdatefakepregz

3. Your smug attitude: After your little escapade in the ocean, you skipped back to the Bachelor house and coyly made a cheers at the cocktail hour before the rose ceremony to “making love.” You thought you were so smart, escaping to a boy’s house in the middle of the night and getting back into bed before anyone noticed. Guess who does that, Cla(i)re? Thirteen year old girls.  Thirteen year old slutty girls.  #soaknpokefail

4. Your over accessorized finale ensemble: Chunky earrings with a rhinestone embellishment on the single strap of your evening gown is not the business.  Sort of like how many times you talked about your dead father’s DVD, which none of us got to see and was like when you read a book and they keep talking about a character who ends up having no relevance to the ending at all and I wonder why the author even bothered to waste my time. It’s just too much. That’s you, Cla(i)re. That’s you.  #simileinception

5. Your “honesty”: Yeah,  Juan Pablo’s a dick. We all get it. But you can’t go from zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds.  You tell Juan Pabs “Hey dude. I like love you and wanna be with you and I’m really nervous and my earrings are really heavy but it’s worth it to me because you’re like my person and you know where Sacramento is and I can’t wait for you to give me that free Neil Lane ring because like I love you and like I’m part Mexican but I don’t know Spanish so I’d get along with your family and like, Camilla gave me a high five so where’s the ring bitch?” then he tells you, “Yo homegirl, I’m just not that into you” and you’re like, “Fuck you, Juan Pabs. Don’t you try to hug me and ask me to assept your forgiveness after I told you I would have your babies in one year and two months and met your family and banged you in the ocean when you were dating 25 other girls who were asleep 100 yards away you lying, cheating bastard!” So there’s that.  #secondisthefirstplaceloser

And that, Cla(i)re, is why you are the fucking worst.

P.S. I’m back, bitches. 

Jesus, Take The Wheel...

I think I came out of the womb a woman scorned. Growing up listening to artists like Shania Twain and Wynona Judd, how could I not? But it wasn't until a few years back that I realized how bad my man-hating had gotten... until one fine spring day on my drive back up to Chico.

I'd been home for the weekend and my little sister burned me Carrie Underwood's new (first) album. Typically on road trips I like to pop in something I can sing along to, but this particular day I was feeling a little crazy. I figured "might as well" and popped ol' Carrie into my 1992 Saturn coup's top-of-the-line CD player. *Note: My Saturn had dent resistant doors. My friends loved to point that out. The CD gets rolling and I start to dig it. That Jesus song comes on and I belt it like I'm a choir member in the Baptist church. Great jam so I keep the party going. 

Pretty soon I'm cruising down the 5 and I start listening to the lyrics of this particular song. Sounds interesting so I start the song over. "I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up 4-wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seat. I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights, slashed a hole in all four tires. Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats." Pardon my French but... Fuck. Yeah. This was the ticket. I listened to the song for the rest of the drive and was immediately obsessed. When I got home I called my cousin and told her she needed to listen to the song. She is a woman of my own heart so she, no doubt, would love it as well. She is also the person who called me after a CMA Awards and told me that Miranda Lambert's "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend" reminded her of me. But that's neither here nor there. 

I had a boyfriend at the time and he drove a truck so when we scooted around town, I mostly drove to be more economical. He liked country music so when I went to visit him one day, I made a point to make him listen to my new favorite tune. We're halfway through the song when he turns the volume way down and looks at me. I was at a red light so I look back at him with a "what-the-hell-never-touch-a-black-man's-radio" a-la Chris Tucker look on my face. His expression concerned me. Before I could speak he says, "I need you to not listen to this song." OK, not happening. "Why?" I ask. "I don't know. I just feel like if we ever break up you might do this to my truck." Any other person/couple would have keeled over muttering "oh you!" with a friendly chuckle. Not us. We just both kind of smiled awkwardly knowing that it was kind of a joke but not really because, let's be honest, it may be true. 

Long story short, it didn't work out. 

Not long after"Before He Cheats" became a huge success, other artists like Miranda Lambert and Taylor Swift began releasing songs that made normal woman (like me) realize they aren't completely insane for thinking that MAYBE it would be nice to key a jerks car if he cheated on me. Or I'd POSSIBLY want to go home, load my shotgun, wait by the door and light a cigarette. Fellas, I'm here to tell you right here and right now: I don't care how cool your girlfriend/wife is, she's thought about these things before. But have no fear... it doesn't make her crazy. What makes her crazy is if she actually acts on it. And if she does carve her name into your leather seat, call the cops because that bitch be crazy.

I find solitude in knowing that there are other jaded women out there. I don't think I'll ever stop singing these songs in the shower or screaming them while driving down the freeway like Danika Patrick. Lord help the sucker who ends up marrying me. In the not-so famous words of this Carrie circa 2004, "Fuck yeah, Carrie Underwood. Fuck yeah." Hell hath no fury. 

*No pick-up trucks or men were hurt during the writing of this blog.

Detective Couture, On The Case

Wednesday, August 15, 2012. 4:21am:

I wake up. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sometimes I have to pee in the middle of the night. Nothing new. As I'm about to get up, I hear something outside. I freeze. Wait 20 seconds. Nothing. I sit up. A bang. Shit. Someone is on the side of my building. Panic. Wait another 20 seconds. Hold breath. Just shuffles. Is someone trying to break into my garage? Is my car alarm on? Does a thief give a shit about my 2002 Honda Civic? What if they steal the BMW next to me? It'll be a lot easier to get out of my parking spot the next few days... I get up. Slowly and carefully I peel back a curtain and with just centimeters, bend back my blinds. I see nothing. My window is at an angle where I can't see down the building alley. Rats! It's quiet for a few minutes. I tip toe to the bathroom. Still need to pee. Done. Tip toe back to bed. I reach for my cell to call 911. Crunch. The familiar sound of a crushing plastic 2-liter soda bottle. Another crack. The smashing of a beer can. All very familiar sounds to me. It's a homeless guy. Or is it a little Asian lady? Either way, if you're not trying to steal my car, I don't give a shit. Sleep. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 4:39am:

Bang. 2-liter hits the floor and rolls. Ugh. Homeless guy/Asian lady again?? Last night was cute but tonight you're just being annoying. More cans crush. More bottles crunch. Toss. Turn. Sleep.

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 3:35pm:

Texts to/from my building manager...

Carrie: Hi Jessica. Today was the second night in a row that I have woken up at 4:30am to someone on the side of our building digging through the garbage for bottles and cans. Is there a lock on the gate that we can make sure is secure tonight? Thanks.

Jessica: Oh no! There is already a lock on the gate. I wonder if it's someone in our building? I'll send an e-mail out. Thanks for letting me know. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 5:38pm:

E-mail received from Jessica. To entire building. 

Subject of email: Trash Bandit

Good Afternoon Neighbors,

It has been brought to my attention that there has been a "bandit" rummaging through the trash late at night and waking up several people in the building. Although this is not illegal, it is quite disturbing to fellow neighbors as they sleep in several ways. If anyone has any information on who this may be, please kindly ask them to extend a courtesy to thier neighbors and refrain from rummaging through the trash. I will also be reviewing the door to the alley to ensure that the locks are in proper working order to deter any outsiders from gaining access as well.

Jessica

Friday, August 17, 2012: 12:02am:

Clanking of glass. Wrestling of trash. Ahh! Thief/homeless guy/Asian lady/neighbor is back! Grab phone. Text. 

Carrie: Our thief is back! I hear them!

Jessica: I'm on it! I'll look out my window now. 

Sit up. Single eye brow raised. Perched lips. Fingers drumming together. You've been caught. Drop our cans and hit the road, Jack. Beep. Text received. 

Jessica: It's a family of raccoons!

I'm an asshole. 

Carrie: Oh... hahahaha. Well, mystery solved. (awkward) 

Jessica: Yeah there were about 8 of them. Even a bunch of babies. 

A big asshole. 

The Dating Diaries, Story #2: Paging Dr. Douche

One vague night, clouded with vodka and cranberry juice, I was out and about with some friends consuming stiff drinks and being my typical loud self. A friend of mine eagerly introduced me to “Dr. Steve” and immediately left us alone, indicating this was some sort of unbeknownst set-up. Not above making conversation, we get to talking. Dr. Steve was a nice guy… from what I remembered. What I didn’t remember was giving him my phone number.

The next morning I woke up to a relatively pleasant text saying, “Hey. It’s Dr. Steve. Hope you made it home safe. I was thinking maybe the drive-in tonight? You mentioned you wanted to go.” Apparently Intoxicated Carrie loves the drive-in. I figured since I liked him when I was drinking, he should be a decent enough guy. Plus, The Bourne Ultimatum was playing and who doesn’t want to see beefy Matt Damon in a tight cotton v-neck? So, I agreed.

Later that night Dr. Steve picks me up in a newer Jeep Cherokee. Thank God it’s not  a Chevy Nova. He’s not as good looking as I remembered but that doesn’t mean much taking into consideration a great personality.

We roll up to the drive-in and Dr. Steve hands the teenage kid at the ticket window a $10 bill. The kid looks like he’s high and an uber nerd to boot. We’re talking braces, mouth open, heavy breathing, the works. In a voice eerily resembling Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High the kid says, “Uhhh, dude? It’s actually $6 a person.” An arrogant laugh bubbles from Dr. Steve, “No. Actually it’s only $5 a person.” Without hesitation, Spicoli fires back, “I know, it’s gnarly dude. But they just raised the prices. Sorry, bro.” Dr. Steve was not having it. “I saw in the paper this morning it said $5 a person and you’re going to honor that price.” Similar conversation ensues for another five minutes, or what seems like an eternity for myself and the three cars behind us, who have begun to honk. 

At this point, I’m starting to feel sorry for Spicoli. I’ve worked in customer service before and I know the ticket increase isn’t his fault so I start to get frustrated with Dr. Steve. I reach in my purse, pull out $2, reach over Dr. Steve and hand Spicoli the cash. “Thanks man,” Spicoli says to me with a single nod. I look at Dr. Steve expecting some kind of redemption but he grabs our tickets and drives off without a, “thank you.” It’s fair to say I am now thoroughly annoyed.

As if nothing happened, Dr. Steve continued our get-to-know-you session. “What, exactly, kind of doctor are you?” I finally ask.

“I’m a chiropractor.”

“A chiropractor? Do you have to do to medical school for that?”

“No.”

“So you’re not really a doctor?”

“Yeah I am. Well, kind of. See…”

This is the point where I start tuning him out. You may think I’m stuck up for getting irritated that he wasn’t a doctor but I felt duped. The incident with Spicoli coupled with being trapped in the car for the next two hours with Dr. Douche made me want to vomit. I couldn’t tell you what the conversation consisted of for the rest of the night because my mind was reeling. I think there were a lot of "Shhh, I'm trying to watch the movie" coming from my end. I couldn’t even concentrate on the gloriousness that is Matt Damon, which made me even more pissed.

The ride home was a blur. I don’t remember much except for when he dropped me off. I didn’t even flatter the guy with a courteous, “Thanks for the lovely evening,” since I paid for a third of my movie ticket. As I gathered up my jacket, purse and unlatched the seatbelt that felt, at this point, like a death trap, Dr. Steve had the audacity to lean over and try to kiss me. “Whoa there! I don’t think so pal,” is what I recall saying. I may have just laughed hysterically. Regardless, I grabbed my things and shot out of the Jeep.

I may not have been as big of a bitch as I portrayed because a few days later I got a call from Dr. Steve asking if I wanted to meet him for another date. I never called back. Last I heard Dr. Steve was still trolling around San Luis looking for a girlfriend. Dr. Douche, maybe you’re single because you’re a rude cheap ass. Clean up your act. But that’s just my two cents… Or rather, my $2.