Workin' on My Fitness

I made the decision almost a year ago that I was going to start training for a half-marathon. It wasn't until now that I decided to put actions to my words.

There are a number of reasons why I wanted to start training. One of which was my endeavor to find a new hobby. I'm sure on week two when I'm tired, cranky and immobile that I will wish I opted for scrap booking.

It not only irritates me when people say they enjoy running, but it downright pisses me off. No one could possibly get a high from the heavy breathing and the notion that you may just about drop dead at a moments notice. No, I do not enjoy running. Nor do I believe I will grow to enjoy it. I'm doing this to create a goal for myself; to keep me busy after work and have a feat I'm constantly reaching to attain. Getting my bod in bangin' shape also helps.

You know I'm serious about an idea when I buy a book about it (hence the numerous baking and knitting books that compile my personal library). The book I'm currently reading suggests that in keeping motivated in your goals, you need to make yourself responsible. So here I am, telling the whole world that me, Carrie Campos, will complete a half-marathon. I give you all permission to hoot and holler in praise for my bold assertions. Transversely, I also encourage doubt. Hopefully this will add some fuel to my fire.

I plan on chronicling my story with you all, good and bad, similarly to my "raw diet" venture. I have high hopes this will last longer than that 4-day lapse of judgement. I have yet to reach the "diet" chapter of my book yet so I will continue to sneak pieces of See's Candy until I'm told it's on the naughty list. I read two chapters and ran 2 miles today on "the mill" (that's treadmill for those of you slow to catch on) which brings my hobby count to killing two birds with one stone. Tomorrow begins day two, 3 miles and the chapters on "The Accessories" of running (yes!), and the "Training Schedule" (eff). Time to get physical...

The Best Invention Since the Telephone and Sliced Bread.

Oh, flat iron. Where would I be without you? I got to talking to some friends the other day about life before the flat iron. Not pretty. No pun intended. At the end of the conversation, I found myself thanking the inventor of this life changing mechanism. And after stewing on the subject for several days, I decided to do a little research and find out, who exactly, I should properly thank.

I'm not much of an avid researcher, but I figured Wikipedia is a legit enough source. They refer to the flat iron as a "straightening iron" and claim its first known existence was back in 1882, invented by Jessica Tamsin and Rachel Levinson Young to style and straighten hair. Interesting enough, this device was invented even before the curling iron, circa 1890. Several versions of the flat iron were made but it wasn't until Scottish heiress Lady Jennifer Bell Schofield created the two-plated iron that we have the tool we all know and love today.

Thanks to big, frizzy hair being acceptable in the '80s and '90s, the flat iron went virtually extinct. But have no fear, after a little excavation and the death of heavy metal bands, the flat iron has come back into our lives with a vengeance. After my diligent 5 minute search for the inventor of the flat iron, I still don't know who to thank; whether it be Tamsin and Levinson Young, Lady Schofield or Wikipedia for making my unauthorized search quick and painless. But what I do know is that without it, we'd all be a bunch of hot messes. I mean, come on... I don't wake up looking this good.

Raw: Day 2

I woke up this morning feeling refreshed and ready to take this raw food diet head on.

Halfway through the day I'm craving a Big Mac. I hate McDonald's. I guess it's true that you always want what you can't have. I could also go for a nice Volcano Burrito from Taco Bell right now, but NO! I'm sticking to my guns. I did, however, accidentally put pasteurized yogurt in my smoothie this morning (I know, heaven forbid!) Breaking the rules already.

I decided to make my own pesto for dinner last night and drizzled it over tomatoes. De-lish. I may have put a little too much garlic in it though. But no big for a girl from Gilroy. I'm trying this "raw lasagna" tonight. It's pretty much the last thing I want for dinner but there's no way I'm breaking down this early in the game.

Oh what I'd do for a steak taco right now...

Raw: Day 1

I decide last night that this week would be the perfect time to do the Raw Food detox. My boss is out of town so I don't have the temptation of a free (cooked) lunch, and Ashley will be out of town so I found it opportunistic to test my own discipline.

I had a smoothie and some mixed nuts for breakfast but soon realized after raiding the fridge that I needed to hit up the grocery store for some more raw-friendly provisions. Fast forward to an hour ago: Picture me driving up to Trader Joe's. I forgot Chili's was right next door. Buffalo chicken. Eff.

Straight to the produce I pick up some essentials and decide I need something to tie me over for lunch. After scanning the entire pre-made salad collection and realizing not one of them comes sans chicken, shrimp, steak or cheese, I place my bets in a packet of edimame and some macadamia nuts. Have no fear, I got apples and bananas for that mid afternoon hunger.

Tonight I explore Raw Lasagna for dinner, recipe thanks to www.rawpeople.com.

This raw thing may not be so bad. I mean, the cavemen did it right?! Although, they didn't have Chili's staring them in the eye either. Stay tuned...

College Confession #1: The Hunky Professor, Oh Lord!

So this one time in college I sign up for Religious Studies. Not my cup of tea. Besides the familiar face of my friend Jenna, suffice it to say I was not looking forward to this class.

In a smaller lecture hall, Jenna and I take a seat toward the back. I arrange my pink Chico State notebook, pull out my pen and brace myself for a long 45 minutes worth of useless knowledge.

Class starts and up to the podium walks a gorgeous man with an ass that can squeeze a dime. Instantly I'm intrigued. In the next few minutes he calls roll and tells us that he played soccer at Purdue where he got his BA (hence the buns of steel). I am now loving this class.

Being the helpful classmate I am, I log onto RateMyProfessor.com a few weeks into the semester and start my review. Chili pepper indicating hotness factor? Check. I crack my knuckles and begin writing: "The class is deathly boring. The only thing that keeps me motivated is staring into the eyes of this Mike Seaver look-alike and, boy, does he have a nice ass!"

About a week later, I'm half-doodling, half-daydreaming when I hear Professor Hottie say, "I never check out those professor rating sites but my good friend did the other day and apparently one of you think I look like Mike Seaver and have a sweet ass." If Jenna's burst of laughter didn't point the finger at me, my slouch and beet-red face probably did.

I'll never know if Professor Hottie knew it was me. All I know is that he probably still has that sweet ass. And on my Final, he gave me an A and drew a smiley face.

Imposter

Ode to Vodka

Recently I read Chelsea Handler's “My Horizontal Life.” After nearly peeing my pants of laughter from her countless bedside adventures, I just knew I had to pick up her latest book, “Are You There Vodka? It’s me, Chelsea.” As if the title didn’t give it away, Ms. Handler is quite the fan of vodka and it got me thinking about my own adoration for the clear substance.

Back in high school, my sophomore Biology teacher told us the only types of soda she let her kids drink were Sprite, 7UP and basically anything without color. Her reasoning was, “There must be less crap in it since it didn’t have that awful caramel color to it.” I’ve decided to adopt this same theory when it comes to choosing my alcohols.

There was a brief stint where I cheated on my beloved vodka with his cousin, gin. It was a short affair ending the night after purchasing the Popov equivalent of gin at Albertson’s at the bargain price of $5.99. Long story short, it just didn’t work out. Vodka has stayed faithful to me and I plan on reciprocating that love.

I’ve never been a fan of SoCo, I’m not bad ass enough to drink Jack Daniels, Jager is just plain nasty and our dear friend Jose Cuervo makes me do horrible things such as puke on motor homes in Podunk towns after singing karaoke in a in a bar filled with stuffed ducks, bears and elk. Case and point: Biggs, California (population 1,793). But that story is set for another blog posting.

Although I’ve spent many mornings wondering just why I thought it was a good idea to take my last shot of the night while singing, “Friends In Low Places,” I’ve never once questioned my relationship with vodka. Grey Goose in all its glory both gets the job done and is also a preventative agent for morning hangovers. My new found awakening has inspired this posting and better yet, awarded itself praise for being with me on some of the best times I’ll never remember. So here’s to you, vodka, and all of your friends: Soda, Tonic, OJ and Collins. Cheers!