Off the request line.

I owe someone a little something from a few posts ago, so this one's for you, Jacket.
That's my muscle, fools. I've been working on it.

I'm just over a year into my Going to The Gym to Get Ripped Initiative and I've hit a bit of a plateau. I worked with a trainer for my first month and a half; this was as much as I could afford (it is a swank, swank gym that I can only attend through the miracle of My Big Corporate Employer's health care plan subsidy). I'd been doing that plan--with results, no doubt--but I was starting to feel like I wasn't making more progress. So I took a preview class for a little something they call BURN. Which burns, by the way. The miniclass was 30 minutes and I was sweating like a sweaty pig--I can only guess that in the full hour class I would have been in a pile of sweaty soreness on the floor. But I felt great afterwards and, just like the trainer predicted, I find that my body is craving the increased heart rate, the sweat, and the deep breaths that I get from the cardio portion as well as the soreness and wrung out feeling from the weight work. So I've been picking up the literal pace of my workout. This fast walk/jog/run/jog/walk/run/jog/run/walk flies in the face of my prior attitude to moving at anything other than a swift walk. I have even been known to express the sentiment that I don't even run to catch a bus, if I'm late for work. But I do now, because damn if it don't feel fine.

Success; failure

This is embarrassing.

I know I put it out there like I'm some sort of kitchen demigod, at least, but I must tell you, some days it just does not come together. Tonight was one of those...days.

In the last few years, my facility in the kitchen has progressed such that I rarely fall flat on my damned face, cooking-wise. In the past, major failures have been the fault of the cookbook; the repeat offender was so consistently disappointing that we threw it away after the Nth consecutive disaster (celery soup...seriously? Seriously). But anything that goes awry now is pretty much all my fault.

I was getting fancy with some risotto this evening, and through a series of steps that I'd prefer did not enter the public record, I produced pretty much the same effect as if I'd made up a pan of Campbell's Tomato soup, cranked in a little pepper, and then made risotto in that. *shudder* It felt like the Methodist church potluck version* of some bastard risotto: "Creamy Rice Casserole with Cheese." Oh, the cheese--another in a string of shameful missteps. My laziness often allows some really excellent improvisation, if I come up short of an ingredient list, but in this case, I'll just say that Monterrey Jack cheese DOES NOT belong in risotto, even under duress. Even if you're, like, camping, do not sub in this cheese if you value your personal definition of risotto--it will so harm the definitional integrity of the concept of "risotto" that the eventual, inevitable result will be that you find yourself whipping up some "risotto" for an evening dinner party by thwumping a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom, a can of skim milk, one diced white onion, 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder, and a jar of mushrooms (drained) into your slo-cooker in the morning, cranking that puppy to "low," and heading off to work, whistling that delightful theme from the André Riu special that aired on the PBS last night**.

In short, this dinner sits at the top of a very slippery slope. The planovers will only remind me of my failure, so I am abandoning them to my partner, who did not find dinner nearly as offensive as I did.

+ + +

As for my success: it's been just over a year since I joined the gym and I am still going. This is major, as you may recall. My results are result-y, which is good because I went in with only one explicit goal: get ripped. I'm pretty ripped, I gotta say, and it's less difficult to haul ass up the hill on my bike. I have gained and lost no weight at all, which is interesting but not at all important to me. I find, however, that it is harder to keep pushing myself to do more, to max the envelope, as it were, without the encouragement of a trainer. I had one for about eight weeks when I started and I'm thinking about signing up for a few more sessions now that I have a little more experience and focus, routine-wise. Not that my liiiiifting isn't awwwesome, dude. So go me, go gym, go triceps!

And a second success: the following represents the final payment of one of my student loans, so take THAT, University Accounting Services!

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* I must assure you that I love and respect the Methodist church's tradition of the potluck, and if you do not believe me, ask me for my Tuna Noodle Casserole recipe.
** I have only one beef with violinist André Riu: WGBH plays the stuffing out of his insufferably bland, occasionally absurd concerts during pledge drive week(s), causing me to miss things like Masterpiece Theatre or, worse, Nova. This prompts me to only half jokingly call him "that André Riu fucker." Special message to Mr. Riu: Sorry! I know it's not your fault; I should be calling them "those WGBH fuckers," but that does not trip as lightly off the tongue.

Forgive me this terrible pun, but...

I've spend the summer so far meeting my (ice cream) maker.

Hee.

This week it is a cream-enriched frozen yogurt, sweetened with honey and then brightened with a pint of blueberries and a bit of rum, from a recipe on Apartment Therapy. I'll make it again, but next time with less cream (mouthfeel too rich in the original iteration) and with a stronger flavoured honey. The ice cream maker may be a unitasking appliance, but I think it is worth the space up which it takes. Seriously, there is no easy way to get ice cream home from the store on your bicycle, without packing coolpacks and concertedly hauling ass.

In a great segue from hauling ass, I've joined a gym. It all started in the winter, when I lost some stress weight. I didn't mean to lose it, I don't feel like I needed to lose it, but with it gone, I realize I am in bad shape. And I am getting older. And I am less active than I was in Chicago. So I'm taking advantage of My Big Employer's Corporate Health Plan-sponsored gym discount, and of two free summer months. My first complimentary personal training session is Wednesday. It's really taking a lot of mental energy to make myself commit to this--I mean, the last time I was in a gym was my required year of phy ed my freshman year of high school, and I clearly recall the stereotypical set of feelings I had about the situation at that time. Luckily, I am no longer 13, going on 14.

+ + +

From our department of "the hype is kind of mostly true, in my opinion," I drove a Prius today. The best part might have been just being behind a wheel again--any wheel--but the distinctly precious and toy-like nature of the Prius was pretty beguiling. Though I don't really like the push-button start; call me a traditionalist, but I do so love to turn a key. When I filled up the tank (gas included in the car share! gas included in the car share!), the attendant at my local station (full service) was totally hitting on me. An older Pakistani gentleman. As a holdover from my busted-ass-car-owning days, I still think it's a good idea to be on excellent terms with your local service station, so though I will not be taking him up on his offer to let me borrow *his* car whenever I wanted, I will be waving when I walk by and getting fuel there henceforth.

+ + +

Do you think that John Waters knew that his original "Hairspray" would be adapted to the stage and then back to the screen in this manner? I'm going with no.