Bitchslapping yourself in public…

When I say that I effing love my Crossfit community, I’m not kidding.  Below is my Facebook post to my Crossfit peeps on Wednesday of this week:

Ok gang, I’m throwing down the gauntlet… on myself. Today marks 7 weeks since I’ve set foot in the box, and I need to snap out of it. What started off as a legitimate excuse (super duper sick) has spiraled out of control and I’m back to being inactive and unhealthy. I’ve made up countless excuses over the past several weeks as to why I’m not yet ready to come back, but here’s the truth, I’m scared. I’ve gained weight… a lot of it. I’ve lost fitness, a lot of it, and I’m super self conscious to come back. But today I woke up and gave myself a bit of a bitch slap. I am the only person who can change this, and I am the only one standing in my way. I know I’m probably not alone, so I’m putting this out there to encourage anyone else who might have some negative inner monologue going on themselves. Waiting another day or week isn’t going to make it better, going to the box and DOING SOMETHING to make it better will. I’ll be there at 4:30 today. I missed you guys.


In response over 20 folks offered words of encouragement, including coach.  Five additional peeps reached out to me privately, told me they faced the same struggle, and we are now each other’s accountability partners with getting back to the box.

My first class back Coach gave me a high five and told me he missed me.  Three different people told me they were there that night because they saw my post and it was the kick in the pants they needed.

It’s just incredible.  Sure, Crossfit offers some great physical benefits.  And yeah, I’m doing it because I want to Hulk out and lose some weight and what not… but I never in a million years could have imagined gaining an entire group of people who are so amazing and supportive through just working out.

This “side benefit” if you will, is what makes this arguably the most awesome thing I’ve ever been a part of.

I mean, other than the horizontal lambata with the hubs.  But that’s a post for another time.

That dream just turned drier than the Sahara


You know what’s not awesome?  When you’re having a really REALY great sex dream, and then half way through the dream the person you’re knockin’ boots with suddenly transforms into someone you would never EVER have sex with in a hundred million years.

No Mr. Rodgers, no please.  There’s no need to take your shoes off.  I’ll just put my leather chaps and cowboy boots back on and be going now…

Man hands and handjobs don’t mix

feel safe

It’s probably not surprising that hubs and I, we have some sex.  Heck, I would go so far as to say we have some downright athletic romps thanks to my “ass to grass” squat capabilities.

Since adding Crossfit into my fitness routine, I’ve received nothing but compliments from the man.  From the changes to my body, to my stamina, to my strength in various er… positions, he’s a big fan.

And frankly, so am I.  It’s super awesome to be able to do it and not end up focused on how much my thighs are burning or how sore my lower back is because the muscles are weak and out of shape.

But, there has been one thing that has changed for the worse.  Lately, it’s been so bad that I’ve heard more than one “ow!” in the bedroom.  Since we’re not into the S&M stuff, ow is never a good word.

It’s my freaking hands.

They are a disaster.  So bad in fact, I’m banned from giving handjobs and really shouldn’t use them at all when touching the delicate bits.

This is such a shame because my grip strength kittens, it’s out of the darn world.

But my razor sharp callouses and man hand type texture just kills the mood.  Apparently no amount of callous shaving in the world is going to make them feel any less like sandpaper.

What’s a Crossfit girl to do?

It’s been a rough week for my co-workers


When I have to poo at work I have a really bad habit of waiting until the last possible minute to go to the bathroom.

I’m usually right in the middle of something important, and need to finish my thought before it falls out of my head.  Granted, this usually results in my having to walk very briskly and ignore if someone calls my name while I’m flying by, but so far it’s been a successful option.

But today, I think I waited a smidge too long.  I stood up, took two steps, and then had the five-step-walking-toots.

Every step was a fart.  And they were LOUD.

Have I mentioned that I work for a technology company in an office environment that is SO quiet that they actually added a white noise fan so that it isn’t eerie?

I took an extra long time in the bathroom and a different route back to my cube after that experience, all while hanging my head in shame.

I guess it could be worse.  I could have shit myself.

Clark Kent never had to deal with this crap

You know how I said I am a superhero?  Kittens, I wasn’t kidding.

Today, powered by nothing but the maximum velocity of my own awesomeness, I RIPPED my derailleur off of my bike frame about 10 seconds into a ride.

I ripped metal from metal with the sheer power of my thighs.

Forget thunder thighs.  These bitches are made of lightning.

broken 1
From the top. It’s not supposed to be just dangling there like that.
broken 2
See that shiny metal part that has never been exposed to the light and therefore doesn’t have the same slick black paintjob? Yeah, that’s where the metal tore away.


Nothing to see here…

Today at work I sat down and ripped the zipper clean out of my pants.

That totally happened.

Now never you mind that these particular pants are at least 5 years old, are my favorite black ones, and have been worn and washed at least once per week since I bought them.

We also should not take into consideration that the hems on both legs have fallen out more than once, and have been repaired, and even now the left one is being held on by safety pins because I just haven’t had the time to get the sewing machine out.

It’s irrelevant that all of the buttons on them are not the originals, as over time they’ve fallen off and needed to be replaced.

None of that matters.

Because right now I’m focused the fact that my fat ass sad down and RIPPED THE EFFING ZIPPER OUT OF MY PANTS people.

I’m never eating again.

No really, I’m fine. Just an accidental orgasm.

Lately I keep reading about how toes to bar causes people to unexpectedly orgasm.

It’s a real thing, I swear.  Google it.

It seems it happens in both men and women, though in women it seems to be something they know is coming (see what I did there) while in men it’s usually extremely unexpected.

I totally believe it.  It’s one of those movements where there’s a lot of rubbing and pelvic floor action, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen some accidental boners from it.

Julie Foucher doing toes to bar.  I'm pretty sure if I were a guy this pic alone would give me an accidental boner.
Julie Foucher doing toes to bar. I’m pretty sure if I were a guy this pic alone would give me an accidental boner.

So now I really really want to get toes to bar.

But at the same time, I’m terrified I’m going to be one of the people who has this superpower.

What if I can’t stop myself?  What if, three into a set I spontaneously combust and turn into a screamer?  I mean, not that anyone would notice anything strange there since I do make some weird noises when I exercise.

But, oh God, what if it’s so unexpected that I can’t prepare?  I can see it now:  I splooge and then lose my grip, fall off the bar, whap my head on the way down and end up with a concussion?

On second thought, maybe I don’t want to actually get toes to bar.

This Crossfit business is even riskier than I thought.

Since I’m not having children, you get my 30 years of wisdom


Hey mom guess what?  I actually made it to 30!  I know, right?  I didn’t think I would do it either.  At least, not with all my limbs attached anyway.

Not only that, my teeth never rotted out of my head from all the candy.

My face didn’t ever freeze that way.

And I totally jumped off the bridge after my friends, and lived to tell the tale.

So really, I’ve had a pretty great time living these past 30 years.

Now I’m not saying all your advice was bunk, mom.  Lots of your pearls of wisdom helped me along the way.   And while you did bestow upon me the mothers curse of hoping I have a daughter exactly like me, I’m not going to give you a chance to spoil my potential little puke rotten and don’t plan to have one.

It’s a shame really, because I could totally be the cool mom who passes along the knowledge that will actually get you to 30.  Rather than let it go to waste, I’ll dispense the most important lessons and advice here to be immortalized in the interwebs.

Be warned, I’m going to give it to you straight, kittens.   Here’s the top 10 pieces of advice that got me to 30 relatively sane and unscathed… hey, I said relatively.  Stop laughing.

  1.  Wear a skirt to keg parties at frat houses.  You have a built in excuse NOT to do a keg stand.
  2. If something on their man bits looks or smells funny, do not put it in your mouth.  Under any circumstances.
  3. Wearing two condoms does not give you more protection.  It gives you chaffage and a rubber band burn inside your hoo hoo.
  4. Never, EVER play “never have I ever” in a room with more than one ex boyfriend.  Double bad if the ex boyfriends have their new girlfriends with them.  Triple bad if their new girlfriends are boring and easily made jealous.
  5. Make a few close friends that you can count on and who can count on you.  It’s not cool to have to call your mom for bail money because you got caught peeing on a wall in New Orleans when you were supposed to be volunteering to build a home for Habitat for Humanity in Pensacola for the weekend.
  6. Oh and don’t pee anywhere publicly.  That’s a big no no.  Boys too.  Whipping it out where other people can see it will go on your permanent record if you get caught.
  7. Go to Mardi Gras at least once.  Preferably when you’re old enough to drink legally but not so old that you’re the old skeezer just there to see perky young boobs.
  8. Find something classy you like to drink.  “Natty Light” might sound cool in college, but in the real world someone who knows their tequila or scotch seems just a tiny bit classier.
  9. Make decisions sober and don’t allow yourself to go back on them once you’re drunk.  I have no idea how many bad situations I’ve avoided by writing down on the palm of my hand “sleep in your own bed tonight you asshole” before leaving for the party, and actually taking my own advice.
  10. Find someone who gets your crazy and put them in your pocket and keep them forever.  I’m not saying go out and get married or fall in love or any of that crap.  But find someone who really GETS you, who vindicates and validates you, and supports you through it all.  Hell that person can be YOU if you’re super duper awesome, or it can be someone you find in someone else.  Either way, find it.  Having someone to make it to 30 and beyond with really does make all the difference in the world.

So what about you readers?  Any advice for how to make you first 30 years great?  What about the next 30?  Somehow I think the fun has just begun for this girl.

My ass isn’t cooperating


My right butt cheek has been twitching for the better part of an hour.

I’ve tried walking around.  I’ve tried doing a few discreet air squats in the rest room.  I even tried sitting on my LX ball to see if I could pressurize the twitch into submission.

No such luck.  That cheek just wants to dance apparently.

I think it’s because today I’m doing something I don’t usually do during the week.  I’m taking a planned rest day from exercise.

I set myself a goal to get to the box 20 times in the month of October, and as of today I’ve been 13 times.  I would say I’m tracking darn well.

That said, I’ve been exceptionally sore this week and made a commitment to volunteer to help to build a playground tomorrow.  The project is slated to take the better part of the day, and I will be expected to pull my weight.  I’m super thankful that I’m strong enough that I won’t need to be a delicate flower and can help to move sand bags and wood and what not (or ya know, whatever you actually do when you build a playground), but wanted to be sure that I was fresh and capable.

So I didn’t work out today.

No Crossfit.  No lunchtime bike ride.  No gym bro sesh.  Nothing.

The most activity I’ve had today is doing my hair.  Well, and walking back and forth to the bathroom 100 times because I drink so much water I really do think I pee every 15 minutes.

And now my butt is twitching.

I know that rest is important to recovery, but someone needs to tell my overactive cheek that.  I guess it could be worse, they could both be twitching.  Oh my God, they could be twitching at different frequencies.  I could be sitting here bouncing around like a have a pogo stick shoved up my bum and I can’t keep my backside firmly planted in my chair no matter what I do.

Note to self:  prep both cheeks for next rest day.  It can always be worse.

Cha cha cha channnnges

Brace yourselves readers, I’m flexing my technological skills over here and actually creating *gasp* some pages here on the site.  As much as I know you all adore my sarcastic drivel, I thought it might be helpful to categorize my posts for easy accessibility to sarcasm and random commentary, fitness and Crossfit, as well as box reviews and upcoming gear and product reviews.

All the same great content is here, just available through the new and improved menu for your convenience.

Because I realize that sometimes yo yoing between my workouts and my sex talk is just a little *too* much whiplash for the average bear.

I’m totally open for any comments or suggestions for the site, and hope you enjoy the new additions.

Keep reading kittens.  It only gets better from here.