Gene Spa or Why I'll Never Work Out in Public

Review- My dad's face pain face:
My pain face (and sharp non-pigment contrast):

Anecdote Behind the Dad Picture Search

With my new recent foray into attempted ripness, I can't help but be concerned that out of the severe multitude of traits I've inherited from my father (i.e. the above and all dorky awkwardness), his approach to exercising is one I can do without.

Now, my dad's pretty good at being active. He goes on hikes, walks, swims, plays tennis in the morning, all that good stuff. Of course, being my dad and not giving two craps about what people think, he always proceeds to do it with whatever second-hand 10 year old clothing choice my mother picks out for him. Case in point, the gigantic Fob visor complete with embroidered fancy flower print. Or the super tight Speedo swim shorts with neon blue striping. In general, mildly embarrassing, but still falls under the "what parents usually come up with to mortify their oversensitive children" category.

The cause for worry typically comes around when he suddenly comes up with some newfangled "routine" all on his own that will get him his daily dose of cardio and strength training. I've heard it's pretty common around Asian men my dad's generation to harbor a ridiculous stubborn streak, so the conviction that he has that some random technique he comes up with will work? There's no way of breaking it. Including taking my 5 lb. dumbbells and flailing around in all directions while watching his NCAA game. Nick tells me I need to go into stealth mode and steal them away from him to preserve his dignity. But where's the fun in that?

Sample Dad Quote: "I'm working out my arms, Alice! Look how good I am!" (General cockiness apparently goes hand in hand with the stubbornness).
Me: "You're not doing it right, dad. You need to keep your upper arm still."
Default response to any criticism: "This is the engineer way!"

As amusing as that is, the tipping point of full blown genetic panic actually occurred during the winter time a few years back, when my dad's intense fear of catching a cold meant finding an alternative to his freezing walks. So, brilliant mind he is, he decided, what better exercise is there than performing "laps" in the 5-ft diameter spa? Of course, this meant that every morning while eating breakfast, I was privy to the scene of him splashing furiously with his arms and feet, complete with intense goggle induced muffin top hair bobbing action. Basically, for a period of one month, he was our personal mini tidal-wave creating machine in the backyard. An ongoing game I had with my mom was guessing how low the water level would be after my dad was done with his moving-but-not-really spazzing routine. Thankfully, this particular display of the engineering way, though impermeable to continuous fat jokes from smart-ass family members, was no match for the balance of the water heating bill. Frugality beats Stubbornness on most days, I guess. Now to figure out a way to convince him using 5 lbs weights is bad for his wallet.

Epic Fail

Yesterday was the first day of P90X. The basic breakdown of activity:

40% spastic jerking. I'm too busy staring at the tv, trying to match my uncoordinated limbs to what Pam the Blam is doing and failing miserably. How are you supposed to keep your eye on the target and see what's going on at the same time? Focus on form, my ass.

40% flailing and collapsing. My bunny hop was basically a panting Grapevine shuffle. The superman pose translated to my personal interpretation of a human Twinkie (I'd say log, but even wood is probably in better shape than I am now). Lending further hand to the indignity of my soft, mushy unathleticism was the fact that with every face plant I endured from a failed push-up, I got the added bonus of being covered from head to toe in dog hair. Time to vacuum.

10% gawking. I don't care what the infomercial says. There is NO WAY in hell I'm ever going to get around to doing a Chattanooga running push up.

I knew I was in for trouble when my butt started hurting all sorts of severe during the basic warm up. To think, I was haranguing myself for failing to steal back my weights from my dad. Ha. What a joke.

Results: arms and legs are pretty sore today. I can only imagine what it'd be like if I actually did the recommended number of reps (correctly).


Whoo Sharks!

[edit] Jess kindly noted that I've lost all ability to count to 100. I blame it on lactic buildup around my brain.

Heat Wave in April

Has gotten me waxing nostalgic over last summer. Capitola was a lot of fun.

At the moment I'm suffering from a mid-20s crisis. I blame it on the Sharks blowing it.

Shallow...

...but, Rupert Everett, WHY?

Baby elephant tears are threatening to shed over loss of English adorableness

Setting Myself Up For Failure

Nick recently ordered the P90X Workout DVDs that are supposed to be some at-home boot camp. They're currently on their way and I'm going to give them a shot. Below is a photoshopped image of what I'm expecting to turn out at the end of 90 days. The ceiling eyes come with the package, of course...and the apologies for the induced nightmares.

All kidding aside, it would be pretty cool if this thing turns out to really work. To motivate (or embarrass) myself some more, I figured I'd take the opportunity and use good ol' blogland to document my process. Still pumping myself up towards taking the Day One "before" pic. Ugh. In the mean time, another exaggerated photoshop to take it's place:

Elvis has NOT Left the Building

The last I will say of the matter:
Saying "frak" in conversation is like having sex with your bra on. It serves its purpose in appeasing the FCC but loses all practicality in real life. So PLEASE STOP SAYING IT.


This weekend, I happened upon an enjoyable episode of TV. Of course, being me, it was a cartoon. Featuring teenagers. (cuing "OHHh Alice") A little Canadian gem called 6Teen.
General defensive response for viewing: My guilty addiction for teen TV is just made all the more better because the actors actually don't get old and I don't have to deal with the show jumping the shark when they go to college. Plus, it's funny. I enjoy funny.

Premise of episode: Nikki hangs out with with boyfriend Jonesy at his home and suddenly has stomach issues. Feeling the pressure of not being gross, she first attempts to use the downstairs bathroom (locked), then just bites the bullet and goes in the bathroom next to Jonesy's room, complete with gross-out farting sounds and pained expression that she just KNOWS he's hearing it all. More hilarity ensues involving the door opening, toilet clogging, water overflowing, Jonesy's freak out, etc. Plus another side plot of a guy farting to test his secret girlfriend's affection.

Hence, my enjoyment: It's the first time I've seen any form of media realistically show that girls have digestive issues and fart. And not in the "Battleshits" extremism ala Harold and Kumar; or the censored Sandra yelling really loudly from Two Weeks Notice. No, it's squishy, it's awkward, it's loud, and made even more embarrassing because boys like to believe that it shouldn't happen.

Overall, the show's pretty immature/tween-geared and I'm too fixated on fart humor. Even so, I definitely get some kind of weird pleasure watching females engage in equal-opportunity awkwardness. Just relate so well, I guess.

Will You Please Take Me To The Restroom?

Another quotable (for whenever I'm feeling particularly dull and uninteresting) courtesy of Ghost Town:
"We just get the one life, you know. Just one. You can't live someone else's or think it's more important just because it's more dramatic. What happens matters. May be only to us, but it matters."

If I were to be really honest, I could just morph the above as another poorly rationalized reason to be more into myself because, goddammit, I matter. Even if no one cares. Ha. How convenient.


Last week, my co-worker asked me what "opt" meant in an e-mail he received from a colleague. The three letters appeared familiar to me (in terms of I knew they appeared in another e-mail before), so I assumed that they were part of a work-related acronym. Professional person that I am, I went to the handy dandy always accurate source of Urban Dictionary and in all seriousness, told my co-worker it meant "Oriental Person Time". Smooth. Turns out, it was "opt" as in "choose", and I was confusing "OPT" with "PTO". Acronyms really blow.

Don't Be Afraid If You Hear Voices

Every three to six months the black fuzzy outgrowth on my upper lip hits the right level of distracting in the car mirror and I decide it's time to wage another battle on my mustache. Of course, whatever attempt I do to make myself slightly more feminine becomes a moot point when unbecoming peach fuzz is replaced by either: A)gigantic red welts from waxing/threading; or B)gleaming pink blisters along my lip line courtesy of the Nair Corporation. Last night, I opted for option B. The point of this paragraph? Not much really, except that I now look like I mistook my curling iron for lip liner and it's therapeutic to acknowledge it formally.


Jess came up this weekend (yay), which translated to my quarterly allotment of having a life and being more interesting than normal (aka not much). Between attempts at Gossip Girl marathoning and the typical GH rounds, we've managed to squeeze in a trip to SF and eat delicious dinner at Butterfly on Pier 33. General highlights of the evening:

1. Poster girls for "Beware the MyFace Angles": After the initial confusion as to why a group of mildly over-aged/weight women were dressed up in extremely under-age/sized clothing with beauty pageant sashes (Mrs. America contest was brought up as a potential explanation but nixed quickly), drunken shrieking cued us in that one lovely individual was getting married very soon. The two stall bathroom at the restaurant, unfortunately, meant that odds were against us in terms avoiding the crossfire of champagne infused estrogen overloading hysteria. My first trip to the restroom, I was privy to an improvised performance for the restaurant staff of "Yankee Doodle" which included plenty of jiggling and clapping. ("Party in the haallway. Doo Da. Doo Da.") A second trip meant that Jess and I are now officially in the know that Girl XXX has been cheating on her husband with Guy XXX and that is SO WRONG. And a blue Jessica McClintock is THE BEST prom dress ever paired with half strap/half shoe silver shoes. Especially when compared to the slutty stuff teenagers are wearing today. (Their misquoted words, not mine).

2. What Personal Hygeine? Stupidly, I decided that it was a great idea to be all "fashion over comfort" for once and don on incredibly blister-inducing heels. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and opted to walk in my bare feet along the Embarcadero. My nostalgia for our Japan trip increased tenfold with the heightened awareness of the copious amounts of spit on city sidewalks.

3. Dessert Had my first beignet ever. Oh. My. God. Mentally kowtowing to Jess's cousin Liz as of this moment for hooking it up. Anyone who actually knows how to make them - be my friend please?