L-bombs and F-bombs


On Friday, it will be 10 official years since hubs and I dropped the first L-bombs on one another.

I’ll honestly never forget it.  We were laying in bed in my minuscule one bedroom apartment watching an episode of “Whose Line is it Anyway” on my 12″ tv/vcr combo that had come with me when I moved from college just a few months before.

Something on the tv made me laugh so hard I snorted.  And not cute dainty snort either.  We’re talking full nostril-hair-shaking-there-might-have-been-a-little-snot snort.

He looked over at me with this amazed look on his face and said, “Well fuck.”

Assuming something was wrong, or that I had inadvertently shot a snot rocket at him, I anxiously asked, “what happened?”

He replied, “yeah, I just realized that I love you.  Damn it.”

We had been playing the we’re-just-really-close-friends-who-sometimes-have-sex-but-have-no-interest-in-a-relationshp game for close to two months at that point, and I think we both had realized it was something a little more.

Kudos to him for having the balls to say it.  I sure as hell didn’t at first.

Fast forward to a little over 4 years later.  We were in Florida in my hometown for Christmas walking on a beach that I had played on as a kid.  Somehow the conversation turned to where I would want to get married, if we ever got around to it.  As it turned out, which he totally knew, if I had it my way I would get married in pretty much the exact spot we were in at the moment.

Imagine my surprise when he did the whole drop to one knee maneuver and asked me to marry him.

Need some help painting the beautiful picture?

Well, my response was “oh fuck?  Are you fucking kidding me?  Don’t you have bad knees?  What are you doing?  Fuck.  Seriously.  What the fuck?”

And you know how I know this man is perfect for me?  His response, “Well that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word.  So is that a yes?”

Fucking right it was.

** Bonus points for anyone who gets the movie reference.** 🙂

But it’s a GOOD cult!

I hear pretty frequently that Crossfit is a cult.  Sure, it’s a “good” cult (is that like being a good witch) but it’s a cult.  I can dig that.

What I don’t think these people realize is that Cycling is way more of a cult than Crossfit has figured out how to be yet.

And as someone who does both, let me tell ya, sometimes these cults are in conflict.  In Crossfit you drink only gluten free hard cider where as in cycling you drink beer.

In Crossfit you eat steak and kale, in cycling you carbo load with pasta and Gu.

Luckily, both cults share a love of bacon, so I can deal with the rest of the conflicting messages.

As someone who is relatively new to both sports, I’m really lucky that both come with a rule book.  In regards to Crossfit, just google “Crossfit House Rules” and you will get thousands of options of boxes around the country and their respective codes of conduct.  They’re all similar.  Work hard, push your limits, check your ego at the door.

In cycling, there is really only one rule book.  Published by the infamous Velominati, the keepers of the cog, new and seasoned cyclists alike can appreciate the 93 rules of riding the road.

Granted, I don’t have a ton of experience with cycling clubs, but speaking for the one I ride with pretty regularly I can tell you, we know our rules.

Not only do we know the rules, but we regularly reference them.   In the middle of a windy ride, someone might just yell “Rule 5”  as they’re pulling the paceline and hammering away.

When I asked about a tri or racerback tank top to go with our new team kits, I was simply told “Rule 7”  and it was left at that.

Most recently, after my epic derailleur fail, I decided it was time to push the new bike conversation husband and I had been having recently a little further.  Don’t get me wrong, I loved my Allez, but as I bought it nearly 10 years ago now before I knew what I was really looking for in a bike, I had been itching for an upgrade.

Yes, I have a full carbon very fancy tri bike.  No, it’s not the same thing.

As it turned out, hubs was more than willing to not only have the conversation, but to buy the bike.  So tomorrow I will be getting fit on my brand spankin’ new Specialized Tarmac SL4 Comp Ultegra.

I’m so excited I could pee.

But wouldn’t you know it, not 15 minutes after they called me to tell me that my new bike has come in, I received a second call from the shop telling me that they had figured out how to FIX my Allez!  For “only” $180 I could have her good as new and still be able to ride her from time to time if I ever desired.

I’m sure you all see where this is going.  Husband didn’t quite understand it.  Luckily for me, I was able to reference “the rules” and help him to know the reality of how this works.

According to Rule #12:

“While the minimum number of bikes one should own is three, the correct number is n+1, where n is the number of bikes currently owned. This equation may also be re-written as s-1, where s is the number of bikes owned that would result in separation from your partner.”

Lucky for me, 3 bikes does not equal s-1.

So as of tomorrow I will have my original road bike, my tri bike, and my fancy new bike (yes they all have names), and only one ass to ride them with.

What’s a cyclist to do?

Mastering the Kama… eh, whatever

Weekly Writing Challenge:  Dialogue

Find the full challenge here: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/16/writing-challenge-dialogue/

Summary: Nothing draws me into a post like an opening scene with dialogue. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing fiction, nonfiction, memoir, or even journalism: Drop me in the middle of the action. Make me a fly on the wall. I guarantee I’ll be instantly engaged, wondering who these people are. Or write as if you’re a character in your own story, and you’ve pulled me along for the adventure.

“Where is my leg supposed to go again?”  I said, balancing precariously on the edge of the mattress.  It was spectacularly difficult to try to appear sexy and graceful while also trying to do what felt like advanced yoga while naked, sweaty, and attempting to keep his penis inside me.

“Um, I think it goes on this side,” he replied, gesturing as he studied the drawing in the book.

I shifted my weight.  The arm that had kept me delicately dangling on the edge of the bed gave out.  He caught me as I collapsed, falling off the edge of the bed into a fit of giggles.  His hand under my head braced my fall and he landed gently on top of me just where he belonged.

“That was a close call,” he whispered, voice husky.  My giggles disappeared and I became suddenly, beautifully aware of how perfect this moment was.

“Not close enough,” I replied.

The conversation ended there, replaced instead with the most beautiful, inarticulate symphony I could ever hope to be a part of.

My ADD strikes again

I just discovered a pair of my husband’s underpants in my gym bag.

I have no explanation for this.  His clothes and my clothes don’t even go in  the same dresser, and this particular pair of boxers don’t even resemble anything that I own that might cause me to think they’re mine and stuff them in my bag right out of the laundry.

Following this discovery I dumped out my entire gym bag in my cube at work just to double check that the three different pairs of knee high socks that I can only seem to find one of didn’t end up in there as well.

They didn’t.

But I do have four sports bras, three pair of socks, a pair of my own underpants, my cycling kit a change of shirt for tonight and sneakers.  I like to be prepared because I frequently forget an item or two when packing at 5:30 a.m.  Like I apparently did today.

Notice anything missing?

Yup, pants.

So it’s possible I’m going to have my post-ride beer in my husband’s underpants.  Because I’m that awesome.

Kiss the bicep… kiiissss itttttt

It's a really REALLY good thing I'm not a boy.
It’s a really REALLY good thing I’m not a boy.

Have you ever caught a glimpse of yourself out of the corner of your eye and somehow just end up staring mesmerized?

Yeah, me either.  Until last night.

While out to dinner with the hubs at our favorite sushi spot, I reached across the table for another bite of tataki.  As I did, I caught a glimpse of my bare bicep and shoulder out of the corner of my eye.

It was like a cat with a shiny object.  I was hypnotized.

I can’t believe my arms look this… good?

When have I ever thought my arms look good?

Hubs caught me oogling myself and laughed.  His response?  “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to arm wrestle you either.  I don’t like to lose.”

It took pretty much every ounce of self control I had not to tackle him to the table right then and there.  You know… to prove how strong I am.

Eye contact at strip clubs

I went to a gentleman’s club for the first time ever this weekend.  I loved the shoes.  And the fishnets.  And the amazing fake eyelashes.

The guys I was there with said I was totally missing the point.  They were also shocked to learn that the dancers have shoes.  Or eyes for that matter.

Maybe I was missing it, but I have boobs of my own so I can oogle them all I want.  I do not, however, have 7 inch clear platforms that lace up to my knees and have crystals in the heels.

Not yet anyway.


I was also really impressed by the athleticism of some of the women.  I won’t go so far as to say that I’ve never seen pole dancing before, but in person, it’s pretty spectacular.  As someone who is scared of heights seeing naked women shimmy to the top of a pole on a stage and then plummet back down by nothing but the strength of their inner thighs is pretty thrilling.

So I guess you could say I enjoyed it.

Minus the moment where I accidently made eye contact with a good friend who was getting a lap dance.  Let’s just say, I now know the man’s O face.  Awkward

Let me count the ways

There are a million things that might make someone “the one” for you.  According to my husband, he married me because I copped a squat on the side of the interstate on our third date.  (What?  The highway was freaking SHUT DOWN and I had to PEE like woah!)   He knew in that moment that I was the woman for him.

For me, I knew it the first time I watched him clean out his ears with Q-Tips and I didn’t instantly vomit in my mouth that I must be in love.  About 6 months into our relationship we went to Taco Bell and ordered $40 worth of food, I ate more than my share, and he still slept in the same bed as me that night.  That would be the moment that I knew we would end up together forever.

Last night, as I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling and trying to drown out his snores that sounded more like a giant tractor plowing an uncooperative corn field in the middle of our bedroom at 4 a.m., I thought about all the things I love about him.  Then, as he inhaled with such gusto that I swear my hair started swaying from the pillow in the direction of his piehole, I contemplated the things about him that drive me crazy.

In the end, I put on the “white noise” app on my phone and drifted back to sleep, reminded that good or bad, all of his qualities are just that, uniquely his.  Whether I love them or hate them, I absolutely adore him.

And earplugs.  I absolutely positively adore earplugs.

Old Time Rock n’ Roll in my underpants


Evidently, I’m super fun even when I’m not drunk.

At least, that’s what my husband told me last night.

What a relief!  And I mean that seriously.

Before starting this Whole 30 thing, I’m not sure I realized how much alcohol I was consuming.  I mean, obviously, I knew that we are really social and go out 4-5 nights a week.  I also knew that going out meant drinking beer and hanging out with our peeps.  But I’ve got to be honest, I never really sat back and processed just how many beers I was drinking per night, or how important alcohol is to my social activities.

The first few times we went out during the first week of Whole 30 were really hard.  It was instinct to order a beer, or a glass of wine to compliment my meal.  Ordering water or unsweet tea just felt funny, and the fact that the bartenders at my favorite hangout spot looked at me like I had 6 heads didn’t make it much easier.

My friends at first were understanding, but mostly because I made up excuses.  I would say I had a hard workout and was just really thirsty, or that my stomach hurt so I didn’t want to pour beer on top of it.  But after the first week when I continued ordering water with lemon, they knew something was up.

One of the “boys” called me on it while out at dinner this week.  I admitted that I was doing Whole 30 and wasn’t drinking for 30 days.

He surprised the shit out of me when he said, “that’s really cool.”  We talked more, and not only did he respect what I was trying to do (after some serious ribbing and teasing), he left me alone about it for the rest of the night.

I don’t have the juice right now to psychoanalyze the reason why I didn’t just tell my friends I wasn’t drinking for 30 days.  I’m pretty sure I don’t like the idea of being the “girl on the diet” and figured by not saying anything, I wouldn’t end up in that sterotyped role.  I’m sure I also fell into the trap of thinking I am more fun, outgoing, and exciting to be around once I’ve had a few drinks and loosened up.

Over the past two weeks of this challenge, I’ve learned that’s not the case.  In fact, last night my husband and I went out and had more fun together than I think we’ve quite possibly ever had before.  The night culminated playing pool upstairs in our home, singing along to classic rock songs in our underpants.  And laughing harder than I have in my entire life.

Sober kids.  Stone cold sober.

It’s amazing the things I’m discovering along the way.  Maybe part of this is just finding myself.

Pretty sweet weight loss challenge idea

reduce weight

My hubs is a pretty cool dude.

Obviously, I’ve been struggling with motivation here lately.  Just like the rest of you, he reads my blog, and came home yesterday wanting to help.

He knows me better than anyone and knows that I (1) can’t resist a challenge and (2) kinda love money.

I’ve done the whole “put money in a jar every time you cheat” challenges, and they always ended up not going well.  I would start writing myself IOU’s and then arguing with myself about whether an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s constituted one cheat or four- since there ARE four servings in a container.

Knowing that I don’t do well with negative motivators, he had a brilliant idea.

And because he’s in sales, he presented it all fancy like.

It’s called “Make it a $6 Day.”

It works like this:

Marry a super awesome guy who has some money he’s willing to throw at you.
Set up a jar.
Every day that you workout, husband puts $1 in the jar.
Every day you eat clean and paleo (ie, no grains or sugar for my purposes), husband puts $5 in the jar.

He knows when you workout because he sleeps in the same bed and is well the heck aware that you’re not getting up at 5 a.m. for any other reason.  You report in nutritionally each night to help keep yourself accountable, and he calls BS if you’re chugging wine or making grilled cheese sammiches for dinner.

At the end of 30 days you have a potential to earn $180, AND get back into the healthy habits that have carried you this far.

I am really loving this challenge.  I love words like “earn” and “potential” and boy does he know it.

The challenge started today.  It’s on track to be a $6 day.  Let’s see how much shopping I get to do in 30 days.

Who’s your daddy? Mine’s the one who is pretty awesome.

I have a pretty great dad.  I have more than my fair share of memories of happy times growing up, and while he’s always been goofy and a little bit off, he’s always been everything he knew how to be as a father.

I don’t plan on having children of my own, and because of that I recognize I will never know the joy and hardship that is parenting.  I likely will never understand my dad the way that he perhaps understood his later in life, but I will always appreciate his hand in raising me, as I know I wasn’t exactly an easy kid to parent.

I really wanted to post some funny dad stories to honor him a bit for this weekend’s holiday, but as I sat down get this out on paper, I realized, I can sum up the entirety of who my dad is to me by just telling this one story.

I broke my ankle two weeks before my wedding day.  I had been on crutches and in one of those fancy Velcro boots, staying completely off of my foot leading up to the big day.  The doctor had recognized how important it was to me to be able to walk down the aisle and dance my first dance, and the day before the wedding cleared me to do so without the boot.  He also gave us the warning that someone needed to be holding on to me at all times so that I did not support my entire weight on my foot if at all possible.

Needless to say, it was a stressful few weeks leading up to the wedding.

In addition to all that, my mom had decided to do the wedding on a budget, and was pretty much the planning and executor for every piece of it.  When the big day finally came, tensions were running high as the entire wedding party decorated the hall, set up the furniture, even laid out the “aisle” on the beach, and constructed the gazebo where we would say our vows.

By the time the ceremony was set to begin, pretty much everyone was chewing each others faces off, including my soon to be husband and I.

In hindsight I realize, you can only juggle so many family members and personalities before something has to give. 

We each went to get ready in our respective areas, and as I put on my dress and made finishing touches to my make up, I was near panic attack.  My amazing sister, bless her heart, was fanning me head to toe and trying to talk me down, assuring me that everything would work out and no one would kill each other in the 30 minutes it took me to get ready.

When my dad opened the door to lead me down the aisle, I just wasn’t ready.  Between the pain, the fear of faceplanting while walking down the aisle in front of a camera, and the fact that the last things the groom and I said to each other were bickering words, I didn’t want to do it.

My dad took one look at me and knew it was up to him to parent me one more time.

He linked his arm in mine and pulled me into a corner.  No one could see us, no one could hear us.  He gave me a hug and with tears in his eyes told me how absolutely beautiful I look.

And then, he said something to me I will never forget.  He said, “Nikki, if this isn’t exactly what you want, tell me now.  I will carry you out the door, load you up in my car, and drive away.  For the next 30 seconds I’m still your dad and I will take care of you if that’s what you need me to do.”

That was the turning point.  That was the moment I was absolutely certain that I was going to walk down that aisle and marry the only person who had ever loved me more than my daddy.

I hugged him, took a deep breath, and told him I was ready.

As we walked down the aisle linked arm and arm I whispered to him, “don’t worry, even once he signs the ownership papers, you’ll always be my dad.”

We arrived at the alter laughing and crying, and happier than I had ever been in my entire life.

So thanks Dad, for always seeming to find a way to say exactly what I need to hear.  Especially at the most important moments.