I’m afraid of a lot of things. I don’t like to think of all the things I fear because then I start counting them, and fear I fear too many things.

Mainly, though, I’m afraid of all athletic challanges. So let’s talk about that.

You want me to knock on the door of a man facing murder charges and ask for an interview? I’ve done it, and I wasn’t afraid. Tell me to jump onto something or do a handstand? I panic.

You know, it took me almost four years of crossfiting to feel semi-comfortable jumping on a 24-inch box. It’s like a mountain to me.

I fell once, and have a scar on my leg to remind me. It hurt a lot. It still hurts if I touch it.

Now I have to jump once or twice near the box to remind myself I can reach it. It’s almost like a tic.

A coach who believes in me kept pushing me to try a few months ago; I almost cried, and I’m not a crier. I came to terms with the fact that I would always just jump on a 20-inch box for a workout, and that really was alright. Then, out of nowhere, I decided maybe a 24-inch box jump was a possibility for me.

Crossfit has taught me something intresting about myself— I’m a pessimist. I’d say I’m a realist, but isn’t that what pessimists say?

I see only everything that could wrong: I could fall. It could hurt. If I try, I could break something. I have before.

I think it’s ok to be a pessimist in that way. Let’s call me careful.

Despite my reservations, I’ve also learned I can still achieve many things that seem so impossible. I just take more measured steps.


“I only go to the gym to watch myself fail at doing easy stuff later.”

I read that on Instagram once. It’s funny and applies to me after this weekend. I competed in my first Crossfit competition on Saturday and two days later I’m still beat. 

Me competing is ridiculous all by itself because I vaguley remember swearing up and down I would never compete. It’s not that I don’t have a competative streak, I very much do, but I also know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. Did I use that metaphor right? Anyway, the point is I’m not very good at Crossfit and I hate to lose. 

So, why the change of heart? Well, just a few months ago I finally figured out pull-ups, and that was a game changer for me. I’ve also had more time to work on Olympic lifting and it’s made me more comfortable around weights. 

A friend was going to be unable to make it to a competition she had signed-up for months before, so I said I would cover for her. That’s how I found myself at Girls Gone RX in Denver. 

I was wildly nervous. Some of the workuts didn’t go how I’d hoped, but others went really well or even much better than I thought.

I learned a lot of things. Like, even though I can do it, clean and jerking 95lbs still feels really heavy. It seems to feel even heavier when there are 30 of them and the amazing women next to you are moving so quickly while you set, re-set, think, hold your breath, pull, push, breath again…slowly and deliberately every time. 

My favorite event was a GHD ball toss. I felt strong and happy for those 6 minutes, and that was unusal because I normally feel terribly tired in the middle of a workout. I think I’m turning a corner and I like it. 

My team finished in 82nd place out of 91 places. It feels like a win.



Some eyebrow raising incidents happened to me the week of America’s birthday, and none of it was my fault— except when, you know, it was totally my fault. 

I accidentally exploded a bag of poppers in front of a fireworks store and a drunk man spit on me when he was trying to articulate a thought. Luckily, those things didn’t happen on the same day, otherwise my face might have melted form the ridiculousness of it all. 

I spent that week working on a lot of firework related stories. By a lot, I mean three— I’d say that’s a lot for a week. I wasn’t the only one who thought so. One of the producers at work started singing Katie Perry’s ‘Firework’ song when I walked into work. That was awesome….but neither here nor there. 

Anyway, on some sunny day my photographer and I were prerecording a segment about what people could buy other than fireworks to enjoy the Fourth. I decided to get creative and use some of those poppers for the stand-up. I bought a box, but I apparently have too many muscles because  when I tried to open it, the bag burst launching all the poppers to the ground.

I yelled. My photographer laughed. Everyone stared. An employee watching form a window came out and brought me another box. I opened that one more carefully and successfully did my job.

One thing has stuck with me, though. The employee said, “I’m glad you’re such a nerd.” I don’t know what that means, but I’m happy she’s happy?

My second misadventure happened during the big municipal Fourth of July celebration.

I was scheduled to do live shots at a park all day.

It was hot, like ‘I wish I had a hair tie’ hot. I always lose piles of those things, apparently, so I didn’t have one.

Anyway, I sitting in the live truck with the door open and my legs hanging out the side.

A drunk old man missing some teeth walked up to the truck and started telling me the history of the station where I work. I’m pretty good at getting away from the crazies, but I was cornered in the car. My co-workers were off somewhere, and I was stuck talking to this smelly drunk until they returned. He spit on my face twice as he continually asked me if I was impressed by his ability to remember history. He wouldn’t leave even though I was making this face the entire time:


I wanted to scrub my face with steel wool. No such luck, though. I had like an hour left at work.

After all was said and done, I dragged myself home, ate my body weight in hamburgers, showered, and went to bed…at 9:30.

I forgot to watch the fireworks, but managed to regain some sanity. I’ll call that a win.


I went on a hike, alone. I convinced myself it was an excellent way to find some inner peace, but I also didn’t want to be a part of a 127 Hours scenario, so I sent this text to some friends:

They didn’t seem too concerned with my decision. I took that to mean they thought I could competently hike Red Rocks Open Space on my own — or they secretly wanted me to be crushed by a boulder— so off I went.

The first 10 minutes were nice. The sun was out, the breeze was welcoming, and there weren’t that many people. Then everything I liked became a worry. Did I put on enough sunscreen? Why is the wind throwing dirt in my face? There aren’t that many people!?!

Then this happened:

Two roads diverged, if you will, and I wanted the one MOST traveled. I panicked for like 20 seconds and then went left. I didn’t die or anything so I guess that’s good, but I could have done without the anxiety.

In my attempt to get away from all the noise in my life and find peace within the silence, I found the silence makes me most uncomfortable. That’s probably because wildcats were plotting my demise, I’m sure. If I had a therapist she’d probably say that means something. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to keep busy….until the end of time.


I’m messy. I don’t mean emotionally, I mean there is a lot of crap all over my house, in my car, and on my desk at work. It’s not that I don’t mind living in some state of filth, because I really do, mostly I’m messy because I’m lazy. 

There does come a point, however, when I can’t stand the mess anymore, and I clean EVERYTHING. That happens like every three weeks in my home, every couple of months on my desk at work, and every year in my car. What I’m getting at is that today was the day I got sick of having a messy car. 

The Rio is pretty clean now, and I found a few interesting things in there. There was a lot of paper— stuff I thought was too important to throw away for some reason. It was now sun bleached and useless, so out it went. There were also pens, like 20 of them. If you’ve lost your pen, it was probably in my car. 

Then, it got weirder.

There were like 10 water bottles under the seats, and most of them were half full (or half empty— for my pessimistic friends). That’s pretty gross considering I resolved to buy less bottled water, and have been using a glass water bottle for months. 

Best of all, I found rocks in my car. Not pebbles— they were rocks. There were a lot of pebbles in there, I guess I drag them in with my shoes, but there were like three or four hand-sized rocks in there. I don’t know where they came from or how long they’d been there, but I can only imagine I’ll be getting better gas mileage now.

The trunk is still a disaster, and full of clothes I meant to take to the Goodwill last year, or the year before that, I can’t remember. The point is, I never look in the trunk, so I probably won’t do anything about it. 



It’s been a while since I last entertained you with my bloggy goodness. I could delight you with stories about how wonderful and perfect my life has been since I last tumbled, but that would be a lie and boring as all get out.

Don’t get me wrong, life’s good…but we all prefer stories about a bad day. If you don’t, you’re too much of a goody goody and we can’t be friends.

So, I’ve had my versions of  no good very bad days, and I’m going to list them for you because I know you care. Now, listen here…before I even type these words I know I have a raging set of first world problems on my hands, but let me wallow.


1. This one day I was eating a cookie, and all the chocolate chips kept falling out. I mean, what? Seriously. I was annoyed about something way too personal to talk about here, but I saw this cookie, and I was like, “Why hello, you circular piece of non-paleolitic sexiness. I know you can fix all my problems. Get in my face.” Then all the chocolate chips kept falling ON THE GROUND. I was really sad about it. Like texting friends about my sadness sad. Also, there is a chance I have an unhealthy relationship with food. 

2. Nextly (not a real word, but why not), I went to to get a bagel sandwich at this shop. The employees were kind, too kind, as if foreshadowing disappointment to come, and that is, in fact, what happened. I ordered this awesome turkey bagel sandwich. The employee says, “Um, we are out of bagels.” I almost started crying because that’s a normal reaction. Then, when I asked her to put the sandwich on white bread and toast it she says, “Um, the toaster’s broken.” Rage, Disappointment, and gross 7 dollar sandwich I didn’t eat. Bruegger’s, we’re fighting.

3. Lastly, did you know I’m a graduate student? I’m a few weeks from getting my M.A. and will be obnoxiously demanding everyone call me Master. In a non-racisty way, of course. This is great news, except for the part where I need to finish a huge paper/study that’s due Tuesday. As a journalist (how annoying does that sound?), I work well under pressure, except when I don’t. This is one of those don’t moments. I’m slamming my hands against my laptop writing this post instead of slamming my hands against my laptop finishing the results section of my content analysis.

What fixes annoying problems that are unimportant relative to other things going on in the world? Wine. Just kidding Mom, I don’t drink. But seriously, where is that fermented grape juice.


I #heart this sweater. #valentine #fashion


I’m pretty sure I was a Grade-A douche to people that were just trying to encourage me today. I wish I could say it’s a rare occurrence, but it really happens anytime I’m in a foul mood.

You know what puts me in a foul mood? Burpees. 

I think I ought to start at the beginning. What you just read isn’t actually the beginning of my story; it’s more like the middle. 

I had gouda soup for lunch today— there, that’s the beginning. 

Anyway, the soup was good, but hours later it would betray me. I didn’t feel awesome, but went to crossfit anyway because I’m trying to be better or something. The workout started with 5x3 deadlifts at 85%. Be impressed.

Then we moved on to burpees. 7 minutes of them! My generally dizziness would get no better, but I went ahead and launched myself on the ground anyway. Really nice people were being very encouraging, and I just looked at them like this:


I did a pitiful amount of burpees and left. 

Thanks for being encouraging fellow crossfitters, even if I’m mean to you while you’re doing it. Now, excuse me while I drink a tall frosty glass of Pepto Bismol Max Strength. 


You’d think this title is about the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but it’s actually about me.

However, if you haven’t heard of the flying spaghetti monster, do yourself a favor and Google it. It’s totes ridic brosef.

I really wanted a diet Pepsi this afternoon. I know they are terrible for my health/teeth, but you smoke and I drink Pepsi sometimes, so give me a break.

Did you know it costs $1.25 to get a drink from the vending machine at my work? Thievery! Anyway, I took my quarters down to the break room after I made peace with the fact I am horribly unhealthy. Quarters were in, the button was pushed, and I heard the familiar thunk of the soda being dispensed. One problem, no soda! And I was all like…Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?

I had more change, but I didn’t want to pay again for a soda, only to risk it getting stuck for a second time. I thought maybe the world didn’t think I should have a soda. Perhaps the world thinks I should be healthier and this is a sign. Then, I thought, FU world— I do what I want.

I wanted that soda, dammit. So, in my cute pencil skirt and fancy shoes I knelt down and rammed my hand into the soda machine hoping no one would walk in and that I didn’t lose my arm in a freak vending machine accident, of course.

FYI- There are a lot of flaps and levers inside a soda machine. My squishy little arms managed to fit far enough into the machine to find the soda and unhook it from whatever it was hooked on.

Victory. Noodly Victory!

But seriously, don’t tell my dentist.



Did I just witness the death of the English language? Yes, the answer is yes, and it was a sloppy mess.

Now, I make no claims of being a master of the English language. In fact, people that are really well spoken are wildly annoying when I’m hanging out with them at a bar. I’m looking at you Nick— so I used who instead of whom, stop apologizing to the strangers sitting next to us.

Anyway, my ability to string together coherent sentences can be hit or miss, but some young-ens are doing far worse. I’m taking a cross-listed class with a whole mess of undergraduates, and their words would make English teachers everywhere question their career choice.

I’m sure these students are well meaning. Actually, I’m not sure, but I don’t want to sound like an ass. Anyway, let me list for you some of the things that have really boggled my mind so far.

1. I have no problem with curse words (sorry mom), but I do think there is a time and a place for colorful language. One young woman was explaining some of the consequences of not fitting into gender norms in a discriminatory society. One could have said that if a man does something outside of his cultural gender norms others might question his sexuality. Instead, she said, “People will call him a pussy.” Even if I ignore the fact I consider that term wildly sexist, I’m still left surprised and confused.

2. When discussing the importance of breaking the stereotype of the submissive woman, and being appropriately aggressive in a business environment, a young man decided to say, “Yeah that is what I always say about my mom. She is a feisty Latina and she is always barking like a little Chihuahua, and it gets things done, so just keep barking.” I think I don’t have to explain why this is ridiculous, right?

3. Another woman insisted on using the word pecker to describe a man’s genitals. Yeah.

Anyway, this class is an all day thing for the next couple of weekends.

I want to think that many of these students are at the beginning of their college careers, and that it is classes like these that will help shape their minds for the better. And I figure that once they take an advanced public speaking course, English might make a comeback.

So, English might not be dead, but I’m pretty sure it suffered some sort of cardiac arrest last Saturday.