I bled everywhere and passed out at Crossfit!*

* (I wrote the title of this post before I went, fearing the worst. I refuse to change it. Attention-grabby, no?)

Yesterday was Free Crossfit Thursday at the local box. After much encouragement from Jiggy, I collected my darling powerhouse derby girl, Drea, to join me. We looked death in the face, and we laughed.

(image source)

The warmup was harder than my usual complete workout — and then we actually got started. The meat of the workout involved weighted squats, a relentless rowing machine, crunches, and step-ups onto Satan’s own enormous wooden boxes.

At every turn, I thought, “what fresh hell is this?”

But I made it, with exaggerated grunting (I wanted to fit in) and zero wheezing (thank goodness).


I dare say I actually enjoyed the experience.

While it was happening, I was screaming obscenities and flailing weights around — which is a little fun. (At normal gyms, this is forbidden. At Crossfit, this is allowed. Even encouraged.) At the very end, while I was struggling, a guy stood next to me and told me I could do it, which was nice. The coaches were awesome humans. Drea and I gave each other a giant high-five when it ended — our camaraderie had leveled up.

When I left, I was at peace. I’d found the bottom. There was absolutely nothing that could be worse than what had just happened to me. Dog chronically pulling on the leash? Whatever. Husband preoccupied with new video game? Okay. Book I want checked out of the library? That’ll happen.

I have problems, but I don’t have any real problems. Exercise is solid. I can slam my muscles and drip my sweat onto it. Over a four mile run, buildings go by and smells permeate different areas and sun gradually tints my skin.

When I come home, I’m grimy and exhausted. I smell awful.

And nothing matters.

Crossfit is just one tool of many to attain that state. I can’t imagine doing it all the time, but maybe cross-training with it every few weeks. There’s a pay-by-session option at the box which I may consider. I don’t know yet, but I like it as an option.

If you’ve tried a new exercise style lately, Internet, feel free to tell me about it!

Goths at the gym, vampire birds, and crickets for dinner

Wanna hear the “scream of 1,000” corpses? Try this death whistle.

Speaking of creepy science: vampire birds.

15 Foods to Add To Your Diet in 2015 — Spoiler: it’s crickets.


It’s okay; I wasn’t emotionally ready for the Little Prince trailer, either.


The diametric opposite of that trailer is this one involving Zombie Christ and, from the same movie (apparently), Hitler riding a T-Rex.

Screen Shot 2014-12-13 at 9.08.13 PM

Health Goth: When Darkness and Gym Rats Meet — Why doesn’t my local YMCA have a Nine Inch Nails cycling class on offer? (Photo via Danai Moshona.)

Come make fun of white people: The 2014 Hater’s Guide to the Williams-Sonoma Catalog.

Spring has sprung, and boy, do my lungs know it.

I haven’t posted in two weeks! Does this blog still exist?

(pokes Internet)

It does!

Hi, guys!

Your normal posting schedule (like, 2-3 times a week) will be resuming shortly.

My job’s been hopping, but, just as importantly, I have been hopping.


When you think “jock,” I know that I’m the thing that typically comes to mind. I can’t blame you.

Truth be told, I wheezed my way through both of these events (this spring is not fucking around).

But I shaved 8 minutes off my previous 5K time, and, more importantly, I did not die at either event. Nice try, pollen.


My spring flowers were mostly bulbs planted by the previous owners.

I guess between that and hitting bars with my beautiful visiting-from-Texas Ginger, you can stop filling out my sainthood application.

(Can we take a moment and discuss how I almost wrote “tainthood application”? And how my mom reads this blog? Sorry, Mom. If you don’t know what a “taint” is, do not Google it.)

But now I’m done with exercise for a while, and the plants are, for better or worse, in the ground, so I can settle back for illustration.

Here’s a sneak preview:

Screen Shot 2014-04-26 at 8.18.13 PM

I dare not say more.

How to be Firm, Fit, and Jacked Forever

So many articles give conflicting information about exercise and nutrition. Will Crossfit destroy your body? Is Paleo historically accurate? Should we all be wearing those funny five-toe sneakers? Juicing sounds horrible; is it good for anyone? Which comes first — chicken or egg, strength or cardio?

Doesn’t all that make you want to lie down under a blanket with a bottle of wine and, like, never talk to anyone again? Especially people who know about sportsball and all that? 

I know. Yuck. That’s why I follow the Leah Lucci Super Starling Fitness Model.

Read on to be a Size 12 (or whatever, I don’t care) Superstar.


When exercising outside, dogs are your indication that it’s time to rest. Unless it’s a zombie apocalypse, you can feel free to stop and pet the dog. Breathe. Recuperate. Then get back in the game. Or not. Consult a physician.

Try not to eat a giant cookie the size of your head every day, like I used to do. These cookies are available everywhere. The cellophane crinkle upon opening is exactly the same pitch as Satan’s giggle. I’m not saying to cut them out — god no. Just, like, start at 6 days a week and maybe work your way down.

It’s okay to switch from running to walking when you’re tired. When the song changes to something good, run again. Or don’t. I’m not here to tell you what to do. But eventually the back-and-forth running-walking will turn into more running and less walking. If you care about that sort of thing.  (A 2-mile walk and a 2-mile run are different. But no one’s sure which is better. Enjoy reading all the evil, contradictory literature on this. I’ll wait.)

Water’s pretty good for you. Drinking it is boring, and then you have to pee all the time, and then people make fun of you for it. But scientists seem to agree on water. Down the hatch! 

You probably shouldn’t be chugging soda. But it’s delicious. Especially when mixed with spiced rum. So… I’m not going to lie to you, that’s tough.

Booze: the jury’s out. One or two a day is better than none, apparently. But a whole lot means your liver fails and/or your parents are disappointed. So you might want to err on “less.” 

It’s better to make your food at home. A lazy-ass peanut butter sandwich is healthier than almost anything you’re going to eat while you’re out. Even if you order from the “700 calories or fewer menu,” you’re going to wreck it by slamming approximately five Cheddar Bay Biscuits™. You and your husband will “jokingly” try to find out who can eat more biscuits in a meal. This battle cannot truly have a winner.


Television fucking rocks, so spend the first half of any show you’re watching idly doing leg lefts or flailing around with a kettle bell. You will be sweaty and your dog will try to get in on every single yoga pose. But you will feel superior to the couch-sitter beside you.

When you’re done working out, lay on the floor and finish watching your show. Drip sweat onto the floor. Assume a pose like you’re going to resume your workout at any second. You might! You’re down there in stretchy pants! It could happen!

If all else fails, just photoshop your body onto a fitter person’s body. Most people don’t see you in person; they see you on Facebook, which is online. Online, you can be anyone! ANYONE! 


Find a hobby that’s really fulfilling. The fitness thing is just so you don’t have to be cut out of your house when you die. In the meantime, now that you’re fairly healthy and like yourself okay, focus on what matters. Like catching all the Pokémon, for example. A lot of people seem really into that.