This post is not about the gym...

It's about the J_______ (aka, the date I had tonight). Let's just say it was relaxed, fun, intellectually stimulating, and just what I needed.

And I'm excited for the prospect of date number two.

Until that happens, keep holding your breath for the mother of all posts about the gym (I need to do some reconnaissance and hope to get up early tomorrow AM and do that for you, my faithful friends).

Sweet dreams...

How I think it got there...

My residence hall in college was a ten story building. I remember I had friends that lived on around the third or fourth floor. You could look out their window and see the rooftop of the cafeteria in the adjacent building. I was always fascinated with what you could see on that roof--after a weekend it would be empty beer cans, after a term finished it would be books, and at the end of the year it would be big ticket items that lazy guys wouldn't want to move, like couches and mini-fridges. I never knew how they got some of those things out the small windows, the windows with what we called "suicide bars" that were put there so despondent kids wouldn't jump. It was college, we were invincible, and where there was a will there was more beer... which usually lead to a way of getting a ratty old couch out a window.

The other day when I was at the gym, admiring the view from the elliptical, I noticed that I also had a view of the rooftop of the building next door. It was pristine--very unlike the Centennial Halls cafeteria roof--except for one item. On the roof there was one compact disc. It got me thinking about the random things I'd see on roofs in college and I imagined stressed out students, strung out on caffeine and No-Doz, post-final, thinking that the best way to celebrate and stick it to that Organic Chemistry prof would be to launch the book out the window. I'm sure they must have felt some release somehow. Take that, O-Chem!

I imagine the CD must have met a similar fate... one of the aerobics instructors must have had a particularly frustrating step class (no, I said grapevine, step, clap, what's wrong with you people?!), had a major meltdown (I picture steps and risers scattered everywhere in her wake), and sent her CD filled with Jock Jams, More Jock Jams, and Even More Jock Jams, soaring.

Note to self: Save yourself. Stick to the elliptical. Avoid the crazy step classes.

Critter Watch 2007

An update for all those concerned individuals out there, my you-know-what-traps are empty. Maybe that means the critter (mouse, rat, freeloading squirrel) was outside the house when I covered up his or her point of entry.

All I know is I still don't like going down into my basement.

Oh, and I didn't have to go out and buy a new hammer (but I also didn't bravely march downstairs and get my good hammer that day either). I happen to have my "Do It Herself" toolkit from college upstairs in my house and it happens to have a "Do It Herself" hammer that I gladly used to hang my item. Now if only it had a "Do It Herself" pest remover, then we'd be in business.

The gym for the privileged

Over the past six years, I've belonged to five gyms. And that's not to say I'm that picky about where I workout, because I'm really not. All I need is an elliptical machine or a treadmill, free weights, and some space to do crunches and maybe a push-up or two--I do love a good exercise ball but that's just icing on the cake.

When it comes to working out, I'm a minimalist. Which is why the gym I belong to now is a bit overwhelming. Is it the fact that when you walk in the door the smell of rosemary and lavender waft through the air? Don't get me wrong, it smells peaceful and lovely and not at all like the sweaty damp socks mixed with the metallic smell of dumbbells (or the smell of the 17 meat heads likely named Blade, Laser, or Blazer at the Globo-esque Gym I belonged to first). Or is it because in the lobby and in the locker rooms there is actual art, fancy art? Or that when you change into your workout clothes, you hear classical music? Again, a far cry from the death metal I'm used to at most other gyms.

It's not the equipment, in that arena it's like an average gym--the weights aren't plated in gold or anything. Maybe it's the view. Yes, the gym has a view. It's situated in a building on a hill that overlooks the Space Needle, downtown Seattle, Lake Union, and on clear days the Olympic mountain range. Um okay, I'm used to mirrors. And as much as I love to see my haggard work out face chugging away on a treadmill--oh wait, I don't. And perhaps one of the coolest things about this view is that on the second floor of the gym, it's the "dimmed" workout room. I don't know if it's dimmed to create harmony and zen on the treadmill, or if it's for people that are self-conscious working out in bright fluorescent lighting, but they don't turn the lights on and in the morning or the night, you workout in the dark and you just see the whole city in lights. Hmm, the last gym I belonged to was actually a really nice gym, but it was in the basement of an Italian restaurant.

Yes, this is the gym for the privileged. And the only reason I have the privilege to workout there is because it is completely subsidised by work. I don't feel like I belong at the gym, which is crazy to me because I am a gym girl, a jockette. I actually feel like I need to have nicer workout clothes, make-up and a nice smooth ponytail to be there. But I don't, and I won't, and I just can't. So I will continue to be the girl at the gym in a rumpled old t-shirt, with stray hairs sticking out of my half ponytail-half bun, and will be the minimalist amid all the excess.

Note to self: All I need is an elliptical machine or a treadmill, free weights, and some space to do crunches and maybe a push-up or two... and maybe the smell of rosemary and the view of the Seattle skyline.

Working out my workout

Outdoor running season is over; I think we're in for a rainy winter. So this means it's time for me to head back to the gym. And this is good for so many reasons:

1. The obvious reason--I stay in shape, and keep that body all those fitness magazines promise me in their table of contents.
2. The not-so-obvious reason--the gym is rife with potential blog posts, in fact I have three percolating in my mind right now. Just you wait... I think one of them may make some of you pee your pants.
3. The I-can-justify-anything reason--by going to the gym I will decrease my carbon footprint and keep Al Gore off my case.

Now hear me out on that third one.

You all know that I love showers. And that my love for showers drives me to take ridiculously long, excrutiatingly hot showers. Well, I don't really like to take showers at the gym the same way I do at home. I stand there in my flip flops (yes, carry overs from public showering and fungi fears in college) and they get all slimy, so I tend to be a little bit quicker. Plus #1: I use less water.

Now, it matters not where I shower, I still love them scalding HOT. But at the gym, they have a ginormous water heater. They have to with all those showers. Plus #2: I never have to worry about the hot water running out during my shower.

And finally, showering at the gym means I don't use water or gas to heat the water at my house. Plus #3: My bills decrease, ka-ching!

Note to self: Get in shape, girl!

Thus begins a series of posts that will revolve around the gym.

Scaredy cat

Just a note...

I have something to hang in my living room, and my hammer is downstairs, on the workbench, near the you-know-what traps.

I'm tempted to go to Lowe's and buy a new hammer just so I don't have to go down there.

The ghost of Nutty past?

It's December, and it snowed in Seattle.

If you grew up, or if you live in a climate where it snows regularly, that sentence is not a big deal. But in Seattle, when it snows, it's the only thing anyone can talk about for the week. I'm sure that tonight, if I were to watch the news they would already have a snappy logo and a catchy nickname for this storm, like "winter storm blitz 2007," complete with dramatic music too.

For those of you worried about Nutty... I think he may have survived the raccoon rumble. Either that or his ghost, or maybe one of his peanut babies grew-up and like Pinocchio dreamed one day of becoming A REAL LIVE SQUIRREL.

At any rate, here's evidence of Nutty, or his progeny, or his ghost, plotting his revenge on me in the backyard.

And somebody has been digging through my planters on my front porch. Peanut babies everywhere.

But as I've mentioned before, Nutty is my nemesis. I firmly believe--if he was not eaten alive by raccoons--that he will stop at nothing to get into my house. And something is in my house.

Last night I hung more of my shelves and when I returned my drill and tools to my workbench in the basement, I noticed pellets on the bench. I've been dreading the day when I'd find a creature down there and now I'm one step closer. Based upon the size of the droppings I'm not sure if they are from mice, rats, or maybe a vengeful squirrel?

This afternoon I was hanging out with a couple of friends and I told them about what I suspect has taken up residence in my basement--it was determined that I needed to get a mouse trap RIGHT AWAY, so we drove to Lowe's in the snow. If anyone ever wondered if I am a girlie-girl, talk about rats and mice in my house and the fact that I have to trap them and then dispose of them, and then you'll have your answer.

After I danced around the mouse trap aisle (although I'm convinced it's a rat), I got the most humane trap I could stomach... one with glue and a nice anesthetic--so that as the rodent struggles to free himself from the sticky puddle he steps in, he just has to count backwards from 10 and he'll fall into a deep sleep. I shudder just thinking about it all. But the trap I have is a mouse and rat trap, if it's Nutty in the basement, I'm not sure the glue or the anesthetic will be strong enough. And I already know the exterminator will not do anything for squirrel removal, so if it is Nutty and the glue doesn't work, I may have to adopt a raccoon for the basement.

I just set up the traps and now I don't think I'll ever go in my basement again. Ever. Except that's where my washer and dryer are.

Note to self: Reread Little House on the Prairie to get ideas about how to use washboards down in the creek effectively.

I have recruited help (read: my friend's husband, presently the most dependable man in my life), and hope he'll be available to come by anytime I need to go downstairs to see what's waiting for him, I mean me, in the trap. Stay tuned...