Exercising my Options

After an initial humiliating experience in the Conditioning class at my Krav Maga studio (which, I notice, I failed to mention on my blog at the time in a stirring act of self-censorship), back at the end of September, I was finally convinced to attempt it again by the instructor about a week and a half ago. Thought I'd only be able to make it halfway (the first time I lasted 20 minutes), but the instructor and some of the other regulars in the class talked me through the entire thing, until I found myself at the end of the hour, trying to support myself with my weak, shaky arms through Downward-Facing Dog and the cooldown stretches. Yes, walking (or any movement, really) was difficult for the next four days, but I was so damned proud of myself. You'd think I'd won the New York Marathon or something, instead of just making it through 60 minutes of full-body movement.

I went again this past Thursday, partly to convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke, and mostly to try and make this into a part of my regular weekly routine. The Cute Guy was there, and he and I finally had a conversation while waiting for the class to start. Found out that he delivers wine for a living (access to wine = big plus!), but we also spent most of the 20-minute conversation discussing his new '07 Toyota Camry (car talk = somewhat of a minus). Not that he'd ever be interested in someone like me — I'm probably lumpier than the type of girls he'd generally go out with — but for some reason talking with him made me feel much more like a regular and a part of the "Krav Krowd". I made that term up, by the way. But if I do somehow become popular at the facility (hahahaha), I'm totally making a FB group called that.

In other news: Today I missed taking the Krav Maga test to move up to Level Two. I think I was ready for it, but I was also supposed to help my grandparents move out of the house they've lived in for almost 60 years into their new apartment at a retirement community. I was kind of torn, since I really feel like I'm ready to move on after about seven months of going pretty religiously, but you know how it is — sometimes you have to put things off in favor of the more immediate need ("family first", yadda yadda).

Except it turned out they didn't need me, so I should have signed up and just taken the test, anyway. Now I have to wait three months until the next one. Not that I'm peeved or anything. No way.

The day turned out to be not so much of a waste. My sisters called up to see if I wanted to hang out, and I drove down to Mountain View for a few hours to do breakf- err, a late lunch at Sizzler and shopping at Cost Plus.



Call me crazy, but any time spent with my nephew just seems to make life better. Does this mean I'm getting old?

The Final Payment (cue the Europe, please)

I promised myself a lot of things this year. I have finally fulfilled one of those promises:



Yes, that is me scheduling the final payment on my credit card. I've had this debt for almost a decade — ever since I got that Discover card, my first real credit card, back in college. My college trip to Europe was on it, and my hotel rooms in New York; I've bought groceries with it, and transferred the debt to a card with a better interest rate, gotten close to paying it off only to put more purchases on there ... and now, finally, it's gone. That doesn't necessarily mean that I've completely learned to live within my means (thank you, Bank of Mom and Dad), but I would like to think it means that I've started down the road to financial stability.

Now if only I could pay off that student loan debt ... that would be a dream and a half. Only $34,000 or so to go on that one.

Waiting for the Melatonin to Kick In

Apparently, I over-slept this weekend. No, I don't mean I slept until I missed my fun and exciting plans for the day. I mean that I slept more than the necessary amount needed to keep my body healthy.

The result: insomnia when I finally have something I'll need to wake up for (work).

I've popped a dose of melatonin, and while I'm waiting for it to do its magic, I'm going to tell you one of the many memories that has been going through my head this evening: the first time my heart got broken.

I was 10 years old, not quite yet blossomed. His name was Marc, and he was 13 when we met. Our fathers had been friends back in the day, and when my family moved to Connecticut, which is where he'd grown up, my dad got back in touch with his and the families made dinner plans to meet up. He and I got along fabulously from the first; we spent the entire evening up in his room talking, playing games, wrestling over my slap bracelet (this was when they were all the rage ... the first time around). He taught me how to play MasterMind, and the strategy behind it (after thrashing me a few times). He was older, and nice, and funny, and I thought he was the coolest person in the universe. And he really seemed to like me. What else could I do but fall for him?

It was my first real crush, and at the beginning things seemed to go well. His family lived in a different part of the state (I think) than we did, so we didn't see each other often. This was before the internet was widespread, of course, but I think we did speak on the phone once or twice. When our families visited with each other I think we spent all the time together that we could.

But then one day, some time around when he turned 14 and before I turned 11, it was just going to be him and his mom, visiting my house for the first time. And my mother, knowing that I had a crush on him and knowing, too, things about teenage boys that I was oblivious to, made me promise to keep my bedroom door open the entire time he was there. I made my promise, and did as I was told. He came over and we immediately went up to my room to hang out and look at my stuff. It was warmish that day, and the window was open in my bedroom, so I spent a lot of that visit catching the door as it blew shut and opening it up again. He told me to leave it alone, but I was nervous (and a good girl) and just kept opening it whenever it closed.

I still think that's what it was. I think the door-opening reminded him of just how much younger I was than he. The visit didn't end terribly well and, if this hadn't been my first time in this situation, I should have been forewarned.

A few weeks later our families had a barbecue at one of the few public beaches in CT, and I went excited at the prospect of seeing Marc and maybe even holding hands while we walked down the beach — something silly and girlish like that. Instead, he was cold and distant when we talked, didn't want to walk down to the water with me at all, and basically did what he could to avoid me for the duration of the picnic. A couple girls from his class happened to be there while we were, and all I could do was watch helplessly as he flirted with them ... until I couldn't take it anymore and went to go sit on a bench by myself.

I think I remember being too embarrassed to even cry, so I sat there being miserable for a long time until my mom finally found me and sat down next to me. I forget what she said to make me feel better — something along the line of he wasn't ignoring me because he didn't like me, but because he was embarrassed to like someone so much younger. Somehow she convinced me to get through the rest of the day; I ignored him and pretended it didn't matter until we left, though later when I got home I'm sure I cried myself to sleep for a week.

That was the last time I saw him. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, even though — almost 20 years later — thinking of the humiliation and hurt from that afternoon can still make me cry.

Don't know why I was thinking of it tonight. Just one of those things that surface from time to time, I guess.

This Weekend: Mostly All About Food

Almost two weeks after someone smashed a hole into my car and raped her of all the worthless electronics, I've finally got her back from the shop, all fixified and shiny (and me $330 poorer).

The first thing I do once I get my wheels back? Take her to the grocery store and buy a chicken.

Most of today was spent in the dismembering and preparation of that chicken. The breasts and wings got salted, peppered, dry herbed and roasted in the oven with some beets for tonight's dinner and tomorrow's lunch. The thighs and drumsticks are currently marinating for tandoori chicken. And finally, I threw the back and giblets (the chicken came with two hearts ... ah, Foster Farms, I love your craziness) into a stock pot with vegetables to make broth, which is currently jarred and sitting in the fridge, waiting for some future use. Considering the whole bird was about $4, I think I'm getting some good use out of my keen budgeting and kitchen skills here.

Before picking up the car yesterday, I took the bus up to Atelier for some yarn, and ended up finally hitting up The King of Falafel on Divisidero, which I've passed often and never went into. I'm generally not a fan of falafel — something about the sauce, and the balls I've had were just kind of tasteless — and went in there intending on getting something lamb-based, but the girl behind the counter shoved a free sample of the falafel into my hand and I was converted. Now I almost understand all those people who randomly crave this stuff; maybe someday I can even join in the lusting fun. At any rate, if you're looking for decent falafel in the city, try this place and tell me if it's as good as I think it is.

And that's been my weekend. Food, poverty, and more food. No wonder my posts are few and far between — maybe I need a new hobby, like boar hunting. Something that would be fascinating to write about.

On a side note: I know at some point that I'll get sick and tired of spending my Friday and Saturday nights at home alone, but after the fabuloso of my trip to NYC, and considering that next weekend I have been invited to three Halloween-related events, it think it does me good to have a little inside time to myself. Hopefully. I'll let you know if or when the cabin fever starts to set in.

Broken (Into)

Let's start with the positive: I had today off via a shift switch with another coworker, so I convinced my baby nephew to visit (along with his entourage of his mother, my mother and my other sister) for the afternoon. A picture of him sleeping on my bed — innit he cute?



Now the negative: While we were lying around waiting for the entourage to gather energy enough to drive back home, I got a knock on my apartment door — a rare occurrence in this fourplex — that turned out to be my neighbor telling me that my car had been broken into over the weekend.

How lovely.

I went downstairs with my mother to check it out. It's actually almost laughable: they smashed the back triangle (that wee one behind the rear passenger's window) and reached around to unlock the door. Which probably means they at least scraped up their hands and arms a bit to reach to the far side of the main window and get at the back door lock. On top of that, the only things that they took were my CD stereo — and the CD function was broken; my old cell phone — which was completely worthlessly dead and broken; and the small coin purse I kept my bridge toll cash in since my coin drawer had been ripped out by the last person to break into my car — and the coin purse, while not broken, was definitely broke.

So, dickhead that violated the sanctity of my vehicle: was it worth it? Because frankly, there wasn't really anything of value in the car in the first place (lesson learned from the first break-in), and it really peeves me that it'll take more cash to fix that tiny back window than the entire value of everything that you took. I hope the cuts you got end up gangrenous.

Cringing Trip Down Memory Lane

So recently, I co-presented on a webinar that was broadcast live and recorded for work. I've had a few compliments on my performance — mostly, the fact that I sounded confident and conversational (people seem most taken with the phrase "quick and dirty" ... is that really such a risqué expression?). I attribute this all to the four years I spent as a DJ on the college radio station at UCSB.

Most of my stint on KCSB was on a late-night show. I started on the 2 - 4 a.m. slot, and pretty much stuck with it most of my four years. There was a 10 p.m. to midnight show at some point, a late-afternoon show for another quarter, the awful 6 to 8 a.m. — or was it 8 to 10? — slot I slogged through for another quarter (hated it). One quarter I had two radio slots in the week, to pick up for someone who dropped out — I called that second show "Outside", which had always been my secret back-up name for my normal radio show, "The Dynamic Groovy Music Hour" (thank you, David Tanser, for the name). I was always Sarah the Great, though.

At night, I kept most of the lights in the station off. Most of the time I was by myself; generally until the person with the following slot would stumble sleepily in. There was just enough light to read the CD booklets while I picked the next song, to see the board, to read my notes if I had to study for a test the next day (rarely did that last ... was too distracting from my DJing). I would blast the in-studio speakers on my favorite songs and dance around like an idiot. A couple times someone walked in unexpectedly and caught me at that. And when the phone light flashed, indicating I was getting a call, from an actual listener, that was the best.

A few listeners were regulars, and would call every week. I went on a date with one of them the first year, just before he moved to Portland. Two of my later regulars were truck drivers for Trader Joe's, and one of them had a crush on my voice. He would request the same song every week, Mephiskapheles's "Bumble Bee Tuna Song", and I always called him Eddie, forgetting that his real name was Ernie.

I taped several of those shows, but for a long time I had no way to play those recordings back, since with the death of my old boombox I no longer had a tape deck. I kind of stuck the tapes into a box in the depths of my closet, and semi-forgot about them. But suddenly, with the departure of Geof to the East Coast, I have the ability — for he sold me his entertainment system, including a combo turntable/CD player/AM-FM radio/tape deck.

The webinar and its aftermath of fame and fortune (ha. ha. ha.) had me thinking about those good ol' days, and I finally remembered those tapes. Got home tonight and pulled some of them out of the closet — the collection includes not only my very last show (which my dad listened to on the drive down to help me move out of my apartment, since I was on the air while he was on the road) but also the very very first shows I ever produced, on the training station (KJUC) that every DJ on KCSB was required to do at least a quarter on before moving to the "big time". I popped the tape of the first show into the player while dinner was cooking, turned it up, and braced for the worst.

I was totally unprepared for how awful I was. No idea how to work any of the equipment (as evidenced by songs that would suddenly cut off in the first minute and then start over again ... or continue), no idea how to use the mic or pot up the volume (my voice was about half the volume of the rest of the sound), no idea how to talk on the air (all mumbles) ... but at least my taste in music was there. I found myself hearing songs I haven't listened to in years, good songs that I shouldn't have stopped listening to. It's like a mix tape I made just for my future self ... eleven years ago.

To make myself feel better, I quickly popped the recording of the final show in before moving on to KJUC Tape #2 and listened to myself after four years' experience. Much better. Clear voice. Good use of the mic and sound board. And I sounded confident. Back to KJUC Tape 2 showed improvement already — only one cut off song, and I'd learn how to pot up the mic volume. Wonder how long it took for me to stop mumbling.

I'll probably work my way through the rest of the tapes over the next few weeks. It's kind of nice to do, reminds me of all the awesome things I've done, and can still do.

How did I get here?

While waiting for my 7:30 Tuesday Krav 1 class to start, I was talking to one of the random guys I see regularly at the facility. We were both watching the Conditioning Class, which starts at 6:30 and basically involves 15 or so people being run into the ground for an hour straight. It looks pretty hardcore — and not just to me: I've heard a lot of the "tough" guys (one of whom told me he did a stint in the armed forces) talking about how "brutal" that class is and how they are too scared to take it. Which makes it sound all the more pleasant.

At any rate, while we were watching people verge on collapsing from exhaustion (and loving it), Random Guy and I were discussing the other fitness classes, and I mentioned I hadn't taken any of them. He himself was waiting for the kettle ball conditioning class, and talking about how I definitely should try it, as well as all the other things. Then he started talking about his fitness regime ... this is a guy who runs 3 miles every morning, does a couple hours at the Krav facility most days, and plays soccer on the weekends. Between this he rides his bike around the city (that is, the circumference of SF, not just back and forth) at least once or twice a week.

"Yeah," he said. "I exercise a lot."

My response: "No kidding."

And then he asked me if I rode my bike to work, and I had to stare blankly at him before telling him I didn't have a bike, can't really afford one ... and I live UP a hill. "That's no excuse," he told me. "Bikes are cheap -- you can get one thirty, forty bucks. How about running? How much do you run?"

Another blank look from me. For perspective: while I have tightened up a bit in the last couple months, I'm still a dumpy, roly-poly boobalicious female. Add to this image the fact that I was hunched over the sock I was knitting at the time, working a cable pattern. Six months ago, exercise for me involved walking the two and a half miles to the bar in the Mission where I was meeting my friends. Downhill. The fact that I can get my arse to Krav — and love it — is pretty daring for lazy ol' me.

"I haven't run in forever," I finally said. "And I don't have good shoes."

"Again, no excuse," he said, quite seriously. "Shoes you can get for another thirty bucks. People run in all kinds of shoes. They run barefoot. Anyone can run."

Clearly, this man is insane. But somehow, as he was extolling the virtues of running and biking, something stirred deep inside of me. My knitting slowed, my back straightened, my eyes unfocused as I imagined myself leisurely pedaling through the city.

I don't know how he did it, but this man made it appealing. I swear, the next day I almost went online and started looking for a bike. I'm still tempted.

Oh, and that Conditioning class? I'm starting to think I should at least try it once. I mean ... what's a little near-death in the name of good health? Plus, I've heard that a couple months of taking that class once a week cures you of any fat you might have had lurking around your body. (Also, there is a cute guy that takes it ... I'd get to watch him sweat up close. Hawt.)

Good gracious ... what's happening to me?