Hold the Zoloft

I've been catching up on my reading lately, which includes my favorite educational magazines:

Another Best Kind of Houseguest

A few nights ago, tired, sweaty and bested by an evening of attacking bodies, I limped into my kitchen to be greeted by Son, Red Roosty.

Though I could tell by the emphatic oscillation of the Red One's rear half that he was quite pleased to see me, I had neither a husband to kiss or a big, Black Furry One to ignore.

My ear caught a concoction of sounds that included the blasting of Regina Spektor's most strangest of songs, a man-child yelling, feet bounding and unidentifiable objects being hurled around the living room.

This is what I found:

Wade's dearest cousin, Bret, was staying with us while he was in town for the evening, and he had apparently remembered to pack his game face in his carpetbag.

Neither mustered a "How do you do," as I entered the room, but they continued to taunt, celebrate, analyze and chatter at each other.

Wade had fashioned a golf course with the cornhole set, and the object was to ricochet the ball off the coffee table and into the hole. When they got bored with that, they played something involving golf balls and a PVC pipe contraption that Wade had fabricated and is now vowing to get patented.

They did take a succinct and halfhearted break to eat the meal I had prepared for them, but then it was back to the task of dominating one another.

Wadey Pie couldn't possibly tell you how many different games they invented that night, in part because the rules to their diversions morph throughout the act of playing, ostensibly whenever Wade needs them to in order to win.

I sensed that my presence wasn't required, so I spent the evening by my lonesome on the other side of the house, Rooberry passed out in my lap. On into the one-digit hours of the morning, the sound of cornhole bags smacking the wooden board droned against the strains of Regina and the shouting of the boys, and every once in a while I'd hear Bret ask, "What kind of music is this?"

Bret says "Thumbs Up!" to Regina Spektor and cornhole golf.

Wade was so happy to have someone there to play with that he did his very best happy dance.

But alas, he's been spoiled. Now he begs me every night to play cornhole with him. He's even let me get close to winning a few times, in a conspicuous attempt to whet my competitive edge ("WOW, Amanda, you got SO CLOSE to beating me that time! Maybe you'll win this next time...").

Solicitation: Any ballers out there with the ability to talk smack are invited to stay at our house. I'll cook you dinner. Wade will mop the floor with you.

Dead, Lazy or Victorious?

Silence. From me. For a whole week. Post BodyPump training.

You might have interpreted my reticence in one of the following ways:

1) Wow. That training must have done her in. I wonder if she willed me anything.
2) Amanda is just being a bum like usual. Move along, people. Nothing to see; nothing to see!
3) She must have emerged triumphant from her training, only to become very depressed that she didn't take any photos of said triumph.

Well, you're all right! (Don't you hate those "games" where everyone wins? That's almost as bad as when your mother refuses to judge your living room beauty pageants. Lame!)

About those points:

1) Training, as predicted, kicked my tail. I felt ailment creeping in on Day 2, and I'm still suffering the consequences of my all-out, pansies-not-invited, physical travail. Phlegm is here and spit cup is out.

2) Yeah, you may have noticed a shortage of writings by me for the last, oh, year or so. Sorry about that.

3) Triumphant, indeed! I passed the training with soaring pigments, and my trainer even suggested I eventually pursue certification as an "advanced instructor," whatever that is. (Probably just a shiny sheet of paper verifying my greatness.) And, no, I didn't get any pictures, other than the one up top.

Here's a look-see into the training: When we weren't waving weights around in the air, we were sitting, sweaty and shivering, on the floor and listening to our trainer talk about technique, connection, coaching and stuff like that. Then we had to memorize a couple tracks, present each a few times and incorporate all the sit-down lesson stuff.

We also had a 45-minute "BodyPump Challenge" to quantify the exact hardness of our core. We had to squat, curl, dip, lift and clean & press as much weight as physically possible. Here's a mental image: three people had to help me hoist my bar onto my back for squats, and I'm pretty sure that I could have done more. But if you didn't grunt, moan and sweat enough during the challenge, our trainer would tell you to put on more weight.

So now that I've passed training, I do what I did last time for BodyAttack: take a few weeks/months to perfect my class, videotape myself until I hook a winner, send it in and hope they certify me.

Speaking of winners, here are a couple pictures of the BodyAttack girls from the launch party we had at the gym on Monday night:

What? You didn't know that back and stomach sweat are the new look?

Melissa went all out for one of her tracks, "Wild Wild West," which has a shootout at the end.

PS: One day left to vote up top. Get your curmudgeonly opinion in asap!

Master of My Heart Also Master of Prose

Work: It's like this, only behind a desk.

Reveling in the luxury of our sedentary work lives, Wade and I pester each other throughout the day with completely random, hilarious and usually non-repeatable e-mails. It's always a race to the top of Witty Mountain, and we like to throw an elbow or two along the way.

I've thought about posting some of these conversations. But the one I've pasted below was unique. Not only did it cause me to produce a hearty chortle, but it destroyed my long-established belief that Wade was uninterested, or incapable, in the art of the written narrative.

Here we go:

A: "Just so you know, we're going to the airport to welcome Em and Scott home tomorrow night."

W: "Doesn't Flemily know that The Office comes on Thursday nights? How inconsiderate of her."

A: "We will just have time to watch The Office at 8 and then meet her at the airport at 9:30. Otherwise, she'd be out of luck."

W: "Too bad this week is a 2-hour episode from 8-10."

A: "Too bad I'm going to be too sore and/or busy to give you backrubs this and next week."

(30 minutes later)

W: "Haha ... I got you! I can just see you now ... frantically checking the NBC Web site to see if The Office was indeed going to be two hours. You can't verify the time so you go to the forums and hurriedly type..."OMG, I heard The Office is going to be a special 2hr episode tomorrow night! Is this true?? This would so amazing!" Seconds later a fellow forum crawler replies, "sorry dude. don't know where you get your information, but you might want to cancel your subscription. only a 30 minute episode tomorrow night." With this news, your poor little Asian heart is crushed. You realize you've been duped by an intellectually superior mate. You become angry. Angry with your intellectually superior mate for leading on this rollercoaster of emotions and angry at yourself for falling for such a ruse. You try to remain calm, but the anger boiling inside you is too much to subdue. You begin screaming profanities in your cubicle. You take the box of cereal that you have stashed in your desk drawer for when you get the munchies and you throw it across the room. You pound your head on the desk while repeating to yourself, "stupid, stupid, stupid..." And then you write me a mean email in which you deny me the backrubs. Yep, I bet that's how it went down. :)"

Wade, be warned. You're a writer now. Your stories will be published.

Let Me Be Clear: Blah Blah Befuddlment Blah

"Wait — what's this?" you ask. Read the post and figure it out. I'm not your mother.

I'm so glad someone else noticed this. I was going to do an entire post about it (well, I've been planning to for a couple of months, anyway, but you are all very clear on how poorly I've been keeping up with el bloguito lately). So I guess I'll just let ABC do my rant for me.

I will say that I have a little detector inside my head that goes off for phrase overuse, which is one reason why I am less than convinced of our president's glorious dexterity as a speaker.

Why should cliché-riddled writing/speech cause my head to hurt? Because — and I'll be the first to admit it — I'm an irritable person.

Here are some tired, bushed and hog-whipped expressions that I've noticed in the last couple of years:
"growing like a weed"
"zero tolerance"
"(fill in blank) like a champ"
"at the end of the day"
"he/she/it is soooo amazing"

Not that I should really complain. I manage to use "awesome" in about 9 out of 10 of my blog posts. But catchphrases are not the same as clichés, right?

I mentioned my hatred of these particular recurring phrases to Dear Husband, so now Wadey Pie is going out of his way to implement them into everyday conversation.

Me: "Wow, dinner tonight was awesome."
Wade: "Yes, it appears that you defrost dinner like a champ."

Me: "Lover, you and I make a pretty awesome couple."
Wade: "Why yes, Slanty Eyes, every day my love for you is growing like a weed."

Love is sweet. Imagine someone being able to make a headache turn into a laugh. At the end of the day, all you can do is laugh. Which is soo amazing.

Am I completely alone in this? Vote up top.

If You Had Knee Straps, He'd Roll You, Too

Head on over to The Hungry's blog to see footage of what happens when The Awesome Boy gets flipped while riding an open, sit-on-top boat down a waterfall.

If At First You Don't Succeed, It's Probably Because You're Overtasking

A few weekends ago, my fellow Riviera BodyAttackers and I hit the streets of Nashville. We attacked several bodies, then called it a day. The cops are still on the lookout for five ridiculously clad women singing the latest hits to sports-inspired cardio movements.

Fall is already wearing me out with the frenetic pace that I set for myself.

Not only have a I decided to run a half-marathon, a feat which will require 6+mile runs four times a week. I've also decided that my body is ready to be pumped.

I'm going to BodyPump training next weekend, a three-day altercation with my own futility that will probably, once the tears have subsided and the Clear Eyes® drops have been administered, end with me looking like this:


Of course, I'm super psyched that my legs will look about a foot longer.

Being Wonder Woman isn't without its sacrifices. Add more awesome, and you must take some away. These are just a few of the things I've had to give up in order to keep the level of awesome at bay:

1) Cooking. Poor Wadey Pie has had to eat a lot of tuna and rice as of late. I went from trying two or three new recipes a week, in addition to the reliable regulars, to zero new things ever. I can't even remember the last time I baked a pie. Dinner has been looking a lot defrosted lately.

2) Sunday naps. I think Sunday naps are mandated in the Fourth Commandment. Exodus 20:8 might as well say, "Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy by going to church, eating a huge lunch with family, and then going comatose on the couch for three hours." Those three hours make a huge difference on my Monday morning outlook. Today's nowcast: Heavy lethargy with a 100% chance of grumpy.

3) Running with Wade. Well, it wasn't so much a sacrifice since he's pretty much sworn off running since the Cotton Row 10K. So it's hard to entice Mr. Whiny Pants to go running for an hour and a half when even a free T-shirt and the competition of 1,500 other runners didn't make for a day of fun back in May.

4) Crafts and other fun stuff. My two-quilts-a-year quota is seriously in question at this point. I had aimed to make one for each of my eight nieces and nephews. I'm just hoping the fam can put a hold on the procreation until I get bored with physical fitness and can catch up.

So yes, Wonder Woman I may be, but even I have my limits. I am currently taking applications for personal chefs who have a penchant for baking. On the flip side, I'm also open to any five-minute-meal ideas you might have.

On Husband's part, Wade is excited about building on this super hero theme I've got going here — which is why, when going through some stuff the Wellmania was giving away, he asked Amy to give him this old Halloween costume:

I think he'll look really cute in it.

Thursdays Regain Status as Favorite Weekday

Oh yeah, people. It is so on tonight.

Until 8 pm central time, this public service announcement should hold you over:

The Best Kind of House Guest

Now you know where he gets those pretty blue eyes.

We had the pleasure of spending Labor Day (I know — it was 11 days ago. Don't hassle me) with Wade's mother, Ginger, who spent Sunday evening with us and helped us paint the study a very Zen green.

For some reason, home decorating is a big deal for Wade and me, one that takes months of forethought, and we hardly give in to impulse buys. A problem of inertia, I guess.

Though Wade has been there a whole year longer than me, we have cohabited in this house for two and half years, during which time I've slowly persuaded him to let me paint each room, one by one.

That is how convincing Wade to do most anything works — slowly.

Tears may be mustered, to no avail. Feet may be stamped — to much detriment. And most definitely, patience will be wrought. But eventually, he comes around. (We did get to go to Lebanon, Egypt and Jordan this summer, did we not?)

So all this time, Wade's been saying that he liked the grimy gray of our study — the grease-streaked coat of flat paint that's been marred by unknown owners' abuse. Whether that's the truth or just the inertia talking I'll never know.

Thankfully, Ginger has offered to help us paint in the past, and since we don't get to see her as much as we'd like, it was the perfect reason to have her come up for the weekend.

Who comes to visit for a weekend and gets put to work almost the
entire time? People who visit us, that's who! Anyone free for Columbus Day?
We've got two wall-papered bathrooms and one more dull-gray bedroom to go.

We had some great discussions, we corn-holed, we painted and we ate (she came bearing food! Boxes and boxes!). We even Cracker Barreled for breakfast, which every family should do once in a while. (Because there's no better way to bond than over a slab of country ham and a stack of pancakes.)

And while she was here, she took a standout photo of the Pie Fam.

The boys look especially handsome in this portrait. I love my boys.

Lebanon: Where Children Eat Lots of Wraps

Finally, after two months, two weeks and five days, I'm back to finish my travelogue. For those of you who just recently became stalkers, Lover and I took a terrific two-week trip, with our friend Erin, to the Middle East (catch up here). We visited Egypt, Jordan and Lebanon, where we met up with Flem and Spot, who have been on the lam in The Leb for a year and a half. They've mostly been teaching English and playing beach ultimate frisbee during those months, but they've also managed to find time to smoke a hookah pipe or two.

Here's a little background info about Schlemily and Scottholomew:

First of all, they have the admirable ability to adapt to nearly environment, whether it be the tortuous tundra of Alaska, the agonizing humidity of a sweltering Mediterranean country or, worst of all, the harrowing experience of a miserable Auburn football season, despite being ranked #1 pre-season (OK, that last one just refers to Lemily's forbearance, though I'm sure Stoddy would have survived, too). So it was no surprise to see them right at home in The Leb. They had picked up the language fairly well, and assisted us in all our Arabic needs, which was a relief after having been pushed around by seedy taxi drivers and water vendors for a week.

Secondly, they both love children, and children seem to love them back. The poor little ankle-biters just don't know any better.

Third, they make friends quite easily, and not just with the kids. So whenever I've gone to visit Pem in one of her new environments, I've been introduced to an overwhelming number of people whom she has befriended.

And fourth, there's pretty much no limit to nicknames that I can give them.


So here we are in their neighborhood. (I'm a cropaholic, but I couldn't crop this one for fear that you'd miss out on some of the ambience. The graffiti, the torn-off posters. The gray dinginess that seems to characterize every photo of a Middle Eastern residential area that I've ever seen. As always, click to take it all in.)

The kids were gathered in the narrow streets every time we passed, kicking around a ball, running around, dodging rumbling, fumy motorcycles. It reminded me of South America.

Apparently these kids know Sean Macadon Sophia, the hand-slap game we played when we were their age. It involves a sing-song chant and one unlucky player being ousted per round. The little girl in pink cheated, and I don't like cheaters. As you can see, I got out early, and I was a bit sore about it. For the most part, the children we came across were super friendly, sweet and eager to learn English — once again, very much like South American children.

The road from Damascus. It's exactly what I would expect the road from Damascus to look like... you can just imagine the robbers crouching, ready to pounce.

One day our guides took us to a cave that Jesus reportedly slept in. The spot was located on the ancient road from Damascus to Jerusalem, and it would have been one day's travel from Damascus. They think that if Jesus didn't sleep there, perhaps Paul did. Either way, there's a shrine set up for good measure.

The cross acts as proof that, indeed, Jesus did sleep here.

Emily does not show reverence before the inner-cave shrine. I can't tell if Erin is annoyed that Emily is waving pointy things in her direction, skeptical about the whole incense get-up, praying or just taking a short nap.

Though Emily did cook two awesome meals for us in her tiny kitchen, we did eat out a lot during our visit — mostly because Scott and Emily kept saying, "You HAVE to try a-boula-ka-boula (or something similar sounding)." However, even though the food was always delicious, it seemed that whatever dish we HAD to try that day was a variant of a flat-bread wrap with tomatoes, onions, pickles and meat. Unfortunately, I never took a picture of any of the wraps that served as a template for all Lebanese dishes, but they looked something like this.


Here we are in a restaurant, waiting for our food and mapping out the Old Testament. We were trying to recollect all 40-something frames of a pictorial time line that we memorized in 8th grade Bible class. This photo was probably taken a bit before we rattled off our lists of helping verbs and prepositions, learned in sixth grade. Does anyone else do this with their friends? School was integral to our friendship — it's where we met, after all. And all three of us have ridiculously sharp memories. Remember when I mentioned that we sang "The Horse and Rider" in the Petra shrine? Yeah, just another example of school recitation (more 8th grade Bible in that case).


One day, we stopped in the coastal town of Saida — the new, hip name for Sidon — which we Old-Testament-reading types know was Queen Jezebel's favorite haunt before she married King Ahab and started her streak of terrorizing, murdering and falling out of windows to her death. (But those Sidonians sure know how to cut timber...)

We visited a castle built during the Crusades that, according to Wikipedia, was a lot more extensive in its day. But we got some great photos despite a few centuries of wear and tear.


The two photos above are panoramics that Emily took. If I remember, I'll post the higher-resolution versions when I can get to them.



More to follow! I think I have enough for one more post.

Poll PS: A shocking number of you think Wade is as awesome as humanly possible.