I’ve never made a dime off my blogs. Any of ‘em. I’m a real bad businessperson, and I don’t know how to monetize my work. And truth is, I love writing, and I’ll probably do it for the rest of my life, even if I never get remunerated.
But one of my babies has some challenges: Down syndrome with related defects. Little dude’ll need bowel surgery on his first day outside and heart surgery before he’s six months.
And I teach public school in the state that’s 46th in the nation for teacher pay.
So if I provide a service to you, if you’ve read my shit and it’s made you laugh or cry or think, if you’ve liked it or shared it, I want to invite you to buy it. Think about other entertainment you’ve consumed (book, movie, game), compare the amount of pleasure you’ve derived from my posts, and put a number on it.
The prideful part of me doesn’t want you to donate. It wants you to pay me for services rendered.
But in the spirit of getting over my shit, if you just want to donate, I’m gonna have to be OK with that too.
Because it’ll mean my baby can have heart surgery, and I won’t go into crippling debt about it.
Here is the link: http://www.gofundme.com/scotts-twins
Any amount is appreciated. Seriously. Any amount. If every one of my Tumblr followers gave a dollar, that’d be nearly ten grand. If every one of you gave ten grand, totally fine with me.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for giving. And if you can’t give, I also accept payment in good juju. (See? Worst businessperson ever.)
When I get down on my performance, I need to remind myself I’m wearing a 17-lb weight vest. Rx+!
Now, who wants to tie my shoes? #nosrsly
I have food issues. Have since I was little.
And I mean both emotional and physical.
Somewhere in my youth, I developed the coping skill of eating when I was sad, or mad, or jealous, or bored, or lonely, and then later—why not?—any other time an hour or three before my body asked for food. Been reading books and therapizing for a long time to deal with the problem, and I’ve had some success. Some painfully slow and marginal success.
Regarding the physical stuff, well, I’m not the world’s astutest at drawing a line between Cause and Effect. Here’s a conversation I had with my mom, after I graduated from college, about my lifetime noxious gas problem:
Me: I think maybe Cheerios don’t agree with me.
Mom: Yeah? Why’s that?
Me: 'Cause I fart a lot after I eat them. But not after I eat Grape-Nuts.
Mom: Hm. Probably has more to do with the amount of milk you consume with each. Maybe you’re lactose intolerant. What about when you eat cheese or ice cream, that kind of stuff?
Awhile back, I stopped eating gluten on the advice of my physician, and my years-long chronic fatigue went away. Now we’re learning that gluten might not be the problem—it may be some other element of wheat. And/or, as I’m sort of figuring out right now, it might be things associated with wheat that I’m eating or not eating.
For example, when I ate gluten on a regular basis, I ate gluten on a regular basis. I rarely ate meat protein. It’s very possible that I was anemic, and that was what caused my sleepies.
In addition, gluten-y products often contain a bunch of sugar, and I’m gathering a whole lot of evidence that I’m sugar-sensitive. Could be I had The Sugar-Grog*.
Probably it’s a combination of those things.
Since I’ve been pregnant, all my food weirdness has been exacerbated—my sons don’t dig dairy
and sugar gets all weird in my mouth and throat, and I feel like it coats my veins and blech blech blech.
So, I’ve been trying to lay off. Especially before dinner.
But icky gross feeling.
But mmmmmmmm, sugarrrrrrrrrr.
Anyway, Sunday morning I made some pancakes, like this: Smash a banana, beat 2 eggs, add 2 tablespoons gluten-free flour, 1/4 teaspoon each of baking soda and baking powder, and a generous spraaaankle of cinnamon. Melt butter in a skillet, and cook them sumbitches**.
And I put fresh blueberries on top. (Fresh blueberries make me happy. They make me do all the early ’90s dances in my kitchen.)
And I tasted them like that, and they were all right.
But gross in my throat and veins.
But nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. Stomp, stomp, stomp.
I just wanted a little more sweetness, you know?
But I also knew it would make me feel real bad. For the rest of the day.
And it occurred to me: Stop wanting the sweetness. That’s it. Stop wanting it. I know about a 1/4-teaspoon’s worth of Zen Buddhism, but what I do know is that one of the tenets says our suffering is caused by our desires. Let go of the desire and there is no suffering***.
Anyhow, I just ate the pancakes without syrup. And you know what happened? I tasted all the other awesome fucking flavors in the fucking pancakes. Egg. Banana. Cinnamon. Bluuuuuuuuueberry. Those are some delicious fucking flavors.
And hey, you know, file under Tiny Victories, and take with a grain of salt, because I’ve done this for three whole breakfasts. (This morning, with peaches! Mmmm-mmm.) But I’ll keep trying.
Maybe you guys try too? See what happens. Give up wanting something that you know doesn’t work for your body. (Don’t just give up the thing; give up wanting it.) Just one time. You might be all, GROSS, LIFE WITHOUT [THING THAT MAKES ME FEEL BAD] IS NOT WORTH LIVING, and I get that.
But you might just taste cinnamon as if for the first time.
*Not a scientific term—THE FAT CROSSFITTER IS NOT, AND HAS NEVER CLAIMED TO BE, A SCIENTIST.
**I don’t know if this is a recipe—THE FAT CROSSFITTER IS NOT, AND HAS NEVER CLAIMED TO BE, A COOKER PERSON.
***Or something—THE FAT CROSSFITTER IS NOT, AND HAS NEVER CLAIMED TO BE, A THEOLOGIAN.
Me: front view / side view
Redford the Dog: sleepy view / moar sleepy view
WOD (my own programming in italics)
Skill: Turkish Get-Ups
Sixteen days. The only thing I’ve lifted in the last 16 days is forkfuls of carbs to my pie-hole.
See, first I was going through some difficult shit (scroll down to the June 17th post titled “Jujubes” and read back upward, if you don’t want spoilers), and I didn’t really want to talk about it with anyone, so I was hiding in my hidey-hole.
Then my dad and I set off on a trip, and I was once again 11 miles by ferry from the closest CrossFit. I could’ve done some overhead walking lunges with a cinder block like last year, but instead mostly I just walked my dogs and cried and read books. And ate pie.
My sister kept making pies.
Point is, this is the longest break I’ve taken, by a long shot, in nearly four years of CrossFit. And in this moment, I’m feeling less-than-inclined to go back.
I know, I know—
—but dudes, I’m 22 weeks pregnant, it’s 94 degrees out, and the other day, I got winded making my bed.
Now listen, I do my very best to make you laugh or think, or to inspire you. What you may not realize is that you’ns make it way easier to keep hauling my substantial ass to the gym. So would you do that now for me? Would you say something, or post a picture, or send me some voodoo, that’ll help me go lift a thing?
Thank you, my shweeties.
A long-term study of more than 3,600 seniors found that more muscle mass was a better predictor of survival than was moderate body mass index. Christopher Intagliata reports
LIFT HEAVY SHIT, DIE LATER. FUCK YEAH.
My gym had a yoga-mobility class this afternoon. As we went around the room and introduced ourselves, I announced that I would probably be quitting part-way through. At the end of the class, someone said, “You didn’t quit!”
I said, “Oh, I quit multiple times.”
I just decided each time to start again.