Tag Archives: sports

Two for me.

26 Oct

I’m not sure how this happens to me twice in a row, but last night after drafting up a big fat blog post, it vanished once again, without a trace. Argh! ARGH, I say. I forget everything I said yesterday, so I guess I’ll just let you know what’s going on today.


I bought a gigantic sack of candy bars for the trick-or-treaters on Halloween. The mistake I made was buying Twix bars. I’m not sure what I thought I was doing buying my biggest vice in the Mars candy world. Twix are my achilles heel. If the Romans built a prison of Twix bars around me, I could eat my way out in hours. I love Twix, okay? Anyway, to my surprise, I have so far been able to leave the giant sack of delicious chocolate covered caramel drizzled shortbread cookies alone for nearly a week. Six more days to go before Halloween, though. If I break, I’ll be handing out Milkbones. Stay strong, Switz.

When August arrived this summer, I was feeling like a lazy bum being sedentary and not doing anything active with my body. Unfortunately, it was 118 degrees all summer long, and running was simply out of the question for me. I’m just not that hardcore. Team sports and I go together about as well as dill pickles and chocolate syrup, so that was out. I looked into some martial arts, but the karate clubs nearby had weird schedules that wouldn’t work for me. Then I found a Title Boxing Club like 2 miles from my house. They have a free class for newbies to try, and I figured what the heck, let’s give it a go. I went in, and before even trying the free class, I decided I may as well go ahead and join. I signed myself up for a year-long membership, got my gloves and wraps, and took my place next to one of the 170 pound punching bags, ready for class to begin.


Class starts, and I’m already feeling like an energized badass. Montell Jordan immediately starts playing in my head, and I’m bopping around like Million Dollar Baby. We start off with some cardio—jumping jacks, mountain climbers, sprints. “Aw yeah,” I say to myself, “You got this shit.” Not five minutes later, I am going into cardiac arrest, feeling like throwing up all over my neighbors and myself, and yawning continually due to lack of oxygen to my brain. This was no joke. They were beating my ass. Inside my head I was saying things like, “Becca, you’re a lunatic—why did you ever sign up for this? A YEAR OF THIS? You’re going to die.” Regrets.

I had 55 long minutes left.

By the time class ended, I found myself laying face down on the floor, motionless, and in need of a stretcher to deliver my carcass to my vehicle. The next two days were absolutely brutal. My body was bitch slapped. They bitch slapped my entire body. I am not exaggerating when I say that I literally could not walk down the stairs. I could hardly put on my pants. I had trouble getting into my Jeep. It was rough.

THANK GOD! That’s what I signed up for after all. Boy do they whip you into shape up there. I am feeling and looking fit as a fiddle, you guys. If you have a Title Boxing Club near you, I highly recommend going. 

The only downside is that I’ve really torn up my poor knuckles. My hands are starting to look pretty haggard. People probably think I fight bums in the street for crack because of the way my knuckles look. Tradeoffs.


So I’ve been cooking a lot. The photos of my meals have been getting a lot of attention lately, so I think I might start throwing some easy recipes on here every couple of days. THOUGHTS? Tell me how you feel about it. They are all low calorie, super simple and delicious meals. 

Ok bye.


B:  “YOLO!  ….I don’t even actually know what that means.”

C:  “You only live once.”

B:  “Oh. I thought it was some sort of salutation.”


Take me out of the ball game.

22 Oct

Mother. F-cker.

I just wrote a GIANT blog post, and then it VANISHED!!!! I am devastated. I guess I’ll just do it again.


I think football has officially taken the number two seat on my “most hated sports” list, being replaced with gusto by baseball. It’s so boring. I don’t understand how people watch it. It’s like watching someone make a bed. But for six hours. It’s like watching a maid make beds for six hours. America’s favorite pastime, get out. Baseball does not pass time. Time passes it. Now, live at a baseball field, maybe I can see it—there’s beer, gluey nacho “cheese,” people watching, hooting and hollering—fine. But baseball on television? That’s torture. I’d rather watch the Catholic Channel.

People keep saying things to me like, “GASP – you don’t like baseball?! But you live in St. Louis!”  I don’t care if I live on the moon, baseball is not going to get any more exciting because of my geographical location.  “You’d better learn to like it if you’re going to live here,” they say. No. I won’t. The world series is interrupting my X Factor schedule, and that is the only glimpse of baseball I will be catching on purpose, f’real.


I haven’t written a blog post in forty-five years. I forgot my log-in information. It’s been a while. I’ve been busy cooking, exercising, and failing at baking. “Cooking? YOU!?” I know. One year ago my diet was made up almost entirely of Velveeta shells & cheese, spaghetti, cereal, McDonald’s, and Chinese takeout. I’m not sure how I didn’t turn into Kirstie Alley. Somehow I managed to maintain a normal physique. This year however, I am cooking up a storm! Salmon, tilapia, broccoli, sweet potatoes, squashes of all sorts, shrimp, chicken, brussels sprouts, quesadillas, salsas—WOO! I’m actually pretty good at it. Baking though, that’s a whole other “ball game.”

HA! Get it? I say “ball game,” because like baseball, it’s f-cking terrible. I’m not sure why. It’s disastrous. Recently I got the recipe for these incredible chocolate chip cookies made with Jello to make them extra soft and moist and delicious. I went out and got all the ingredients, and set myself up in the kitchen to get to baking. Have you ever had those biscuits at Red Lobster? Well they came out like those. Except not, because those biscuits are terrific, and these cookies sucked. They had a biscuit-like texture. They were like chocolate chip English muffins. What’s worse is that the recipe yielded over 70 of these non-cookies. I was depressed.

Next I attempted butterscotch oatmeal cookies. Easy enough, right? Apparently not, because mine turned out flat and runny. You had to eat them with a fork. I’m not joking. They still tasted good at least, unlike my Red Lobster Cheddar cookies. Nobody will be calling me Betty Crocker any time soon. At least as far as cookies are concerned; for whatever reason, I have had luck with cakes, so at least there’s that.


Halloween is right around the corner. This is the first year I am living in a house in a high traffic neighborhood and not in a dark, seedy apartment, meaning children by the dozen will be stopping by expecting fistfuls of candy. Or iPods and iTunes gift cards, whatever it is this spoiled, greedy generation expects from strangers on insignificant holidays these days. To avoid what happened last year, I have already purchased two large sacks of bulk candy. One of those bags is filled with Twix bars. Purchasing it ten days in advance may have been a major mistake. We’ll see how many of those Twix bars are left come Halloween night. I’m a bit of an addict. Once that bag is torn open, there’s no telling what might happen. If I binge eat all those Twix bars, I guess I’ll just have to hand out batteries.

I think it would be funny to hand out ice cream sandwiches. At first the kiddos would be like, “Aw yeah!! Score,” initially not recognizing the negative consequence of stuffing frozen treats into their sticky trick-or-treat bags, until they get home and find their Reese’s cups and mini Snickers floating in a soupy vanilla ice cream puddle.

I’m twisted.

WELL, I would write more but I’ve already written all this twice. I hope I didn’t forget any funny, snarky comments I had in the first one. Sigh.


A:  “I need to charge my phone.”

C:  “Well, I would let you plug yours in but mine is currently plugged in. How low is your battery? I need a number. Give me a percentage.”

A:  “57.”

C:  “Okay, mine is like 96, so I guess you can charge yours.”

UFC you later.

22 Apr

I have been cooking a lot lately. My vegetable consumption has skyrocketed. My countertop is covered in fresh produce instead of a Jenga tower of Velveeta Shells & Cheese boxes. It used to be really tricky for me to buy fresh fruits and vegetables, because they would spoil and grow a toupee before I ever got around to eating them. Now I can barely keep my veggie stock full. I feel like I’m buying spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes and lemons nearly every day.


I wish I had a garden. Then I wouldn’t have to watch my food go bad. I could just pluck things fresh off the vine. Strawberries, for example, get moldy before they even reach my home from the grocery store. This pisses me off. I like potatoes though. Potatoes don’t go bad. They just grow more potatoes. I wish the other vegetables would follow suit.


I’m in a room full of people watching a UFC fight. The two fighters in the cage right now happen to be Canadian. People in the room keep saying, “Becca, these guys are Canadian! Don’t you want to watch?”  as I type away on my computer. No. I don’t know why everyone thinks just because I am from Canada that I should give a f-ck about other people doing things who also happen to be from Canada. If there was a quilting convention being broadcasted on television and the two geriatric women needling away were both from Missouri, would you give a shit about that, Greg? I didn’t think so.



Speaking of the Canadian thing, when people find out I’m Canadian, it is not uncommon for them to say something like, “Hey, I went to school with a guy named Jordan who was from Canada! Maybe you know him?”  Canada is f-cking huge. It’s larger than the United States. What makes you think that I would just happen to know one of the 34 million people from there? Good lord.

These UFC fights are insane. This guy’s face is completely f-cked. His eyes are more swollen than a pregnant woman’s feet after a walk for heart disease. I don’t know how he can even see. It looks like he got hit in the face with a pumpkin. Like he was standing under a building and a pumpkin got dropped off the roof and hit him square in the face. I don’t know why people sign up for this. I generally like to avoid pain, and by generally I mean as a rule of my being at any and all costs. Four minutes later, this man’s face looks like he got slapped with a weed-whacker, and there are lemons beneath the surface of his skin. This is a bludgeoning. They just stopped and put a giant bag of ice on his face. There is no other option at this point. He looks like Quasimoto.



I am typing this in real time as I watch this match. The other dude’s nose is a wreck. It is completely smashed. I would be bawling like a baby. At this point, my body would have taken over and forced me to pass out to protect me from any further suffering. Holy shit. His face looks like a steak that just got tenderized with a spiked mallet. His upper lip is so swollen, it looks like a chalkboard eraser. There is blood everywhere. It’s like he got sprayed in the face with hot sauce. This man is going to need 4 Vicodin, a shot of morphine, a bottle of Goldschlager, and several pounds of ice when he goes home. A coma is the only way to perservere through this beating. Put this man out of his misery. It looks like somebody dropped him off a house and he smacked his face on the curb.

Well, I guess…..that’s……it. That’s it. Bye.


B:   “Oh. T.I. has really nice teeth.”

T:   “T.I.’s got enough money to have any kind of teeth he wants.”

A cut above the rest.

8 Feb

Well, I trust you all enjoyed the Superbowl this past weekend. I didn’t. In case you’re wondering why, you can find a nicely arranged list of reasons here:  http://wp.me/pNzT7-ZJ

Superbowl Sunday does not give me a hard-on like most people. I despise football more than Lindsay Lohan apparently despises not being in jail. I did not watch the Superbowl, but I ate like I did. On Sunday I busted out a big ass block of Velveeta, a pound of chorizo, and a can of Ro-Tel and fired up the ol’ crockpot in preparation to whip up a nice fat pot of queso dip to enjoy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until it ran out.



After cubing the Velveeta and frying up the chorizo, I took the can opener to the Ro-Tel. Moments later, I stuck my finger under the lid of the Ro-Tel can to remove the top and dump out the zesty tomatoes and chillies, when -SLICE- , the stubborn aluminum lid sliced straight across my right thumb, leaving a deep cut that bled like a bitch.

“YYEEEEOOOOOWWWW!!!!”   I yelled (kidding, it was more profane). It was pretty deep, and bleeding profusely. Unfortunately, my father who usually stitches up my wounds is back in Iowa, and would be unable to tend to my gaping thumb cut. I had to act alone.

After applying pressure for about ten minutes with some tissues, I painted on some liquid bandage, and then tried to figure out what to do about the fact that my thumb was split wide open.



I super glued it.

Duct tape is so 2011.

I am back in Colorado for a few weeks to enjoy some snowboarding. Unfortunately I have not  done any physical activity since March of last year. That’s eleven long months of being completely sedentary. Not even a jog. Not a single jumping jack.



My body was not prepared. Day 1 was spent riding hard for six long hours at Breckenridge, followed by a three hour session at Beaver Creek the following morning. My body = destroyed. I need a wheelchair. My hamstrings, knees, and spine need some serious TLC. Won’t someone bring me a hot tub and some Percocet? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I hate it when people say  “slightly obsessed.”   Like,  “SoOoOo…I’m slightly obsessed with Glee.”   First of all, Glee sucks. Second, you can’t be slightly obsessed. That’s like saying you’re “slightly pregnant.”  Obsessed is an extreme. You’re either obsessed, or you’re not.

The Voice is back on television. I am absolutely jacked for a number of reasons. One, I love singing. Good singers give me a woody that could scrape the skies. Two, Adam Levine. Adam Levine is the sexiest man on planet Earth. He just is. I want to scream it from the top of a mountain. I love this show. Christina’s tits are as big as ever. They’re like beach balls. They have their own center gravity. They are just obnoxious. Blake Shelton, for some reason I like you, and I am happy to see you again. Cee-Lo, you have midget arms, but you say some funny shit.

Well, time to watch 11 more episodes of Dogtown. Talk to you fools later.


“If I get strep throat, I’m gonna mail you some anthrax.”

The Golden Age.

21 Oct


don’t let anger ruin your life

^ Another search term that someone used that landed them on my blog. Clearly they came to the wrong place. If anger didn’t consume my life, I would have very little to talk about. You’re welcome.

Drove by (okay, through) McDonald’s today. Looks like the McRib is back. When are they going to stop crying wolf about the McRib? Every time it comes out, it’s “out for a limited time ONLY!”  McDonald’s is to the McRib as Brett Favre is to football. Either retire it or don’t, McFavre.

We only have 3 more days to play McDonald’s Monopoly, boys and girls. This means that I have a legitimate excuse to go overboard with large fries and medium Dr. Peppers this weekend other than “I’m fat” or “I deserve it.” My amigo Alison, myself, and my cross-country friend Mr. Kocourek decided to join forces to increase our odds of winning.


I would like to win a million dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win fifty-thousand dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win a car so I can sell it for twenty-thousand dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win free McDonald’s french fries for the rest of my life. If that’s not possible, then this isn’t America.



I am ghost-like. My tan is fading rapidly. I am beginning to resemble a person in hospice. All the colorful life draining out of my flesh, death slowly taking over. I need to start tanning. I am leery of sunless tanning lotion. A girl I know has been using it just on her face and neck, and she looks like a bronze goddess. The only problem is, I imagine that when she is not clothed, her tan head looks like a brown paper sack on a white ghost body. Then again, it’s not like I’m parading around in the nude for everyone to see my color progression. At least not on weekdays.

I recently dug through about a thousand old photo albums from my late high school/early college years. Boy are they something. I was fatter, drunker, and whiter, if you can believe it. I don’t understand how we all partied like we did back in those days. We were unstoppable binge drinking machines. Nothing could get us down. Not even a .34 blood alcohol content or the police.


In those days we would start drinking at 2 pm, doing beer bongs in the shower while we got ready, and taking shots well into the night. Somewhere in the midst of blacking out and doing keg stands, we would rally a gang to go tearing through Taco Bell in a loud, drunken stupor, barfing all over their single stall bathroom and stealing an unnecessary amount of mild sauce packets. We would scream with disbelief when bar-close came around, complaining with excessive foul language that the night was still young, returning to our respective dorms/apartments and continue to throw booze down our pie holes, blaring DMX at an ungodly decibel until 3 or 4 in the morning when we finally decided to go to bed.

Now I have two drinks, I’m hammered, and I sneak away and go to bed. I even get hung over. How did this happen? Next thing you know, we’ll be applying for social security. Olds.

WELL, time to go. Goodbye everyone.


“That’s the hot water, turn it off! TURN IT OFF!”

“I’m SORRY, I’m not used to using my foot as a HAND!”

It’s the most dreadful time of the year.

3 Sep

It’s here again. Football season. I will hear nothing but football chatter, stat comparisons, and Fantasy draft banter day in and day out in my home for the next several months. The television will constantly be bogarted and nothing will cross that screen except large black men chasing a pigskin ball. If there are 365 days in a year, football is on 400 of those days. It seems as if the season never ends.

To help ring in the 2011/12 football season, allow me to again list things I would rather do than watch it.


Things I Would Rather Do Than Watch Football – 2011.


1.  Eat an entire roll of fiberglass insulation.

2.  Sprinkle poison ivy in my salad.

3.  Run a marathon with nothing but warm Vitamin D whole milk available to hydrate with.

4.  Wear a diaper under my pants every day for the rest of my life.

5.  Babysit.

6.  Clean toilets for a living.

7.  Wear overalls to a wedding.

8.  Get slapped in the face with a cactus on my birthday.

9.  Shit a cheese grater.

10. Use a keyboard that blasted an air horn with every letter that is typed.

11.  Eat a roll of toilet paper.

12.  Listen to nothing but Kidz Bop CDs for the rest of my life.

13.  Give birth to a minivan.

14.  Naturally smell like sulphur.

15.  Saw off my own head.

16.  Bitch slap Chuck Liddell.

17.  Sing a Nicki Minaj song in front of my grandma.

18.  Get stranded in the desert with nothing but a gallon of maple syrup.

19.  Only be allowed to use the toilet once a week.

20.  Live out of a Ford Tempo for an entire year.

21.  Drive a Kia Soul.


You get the idea.



J:   “I just ordered Pizza Hut online. In the ‘anything else we can do?’ box, I said, ‘Draw a dragon on the box.’ I’ll keep you posted.”

Pop Tards.

30 Mar

Listen, Kellogg. Don’t put two Pop Tarts in each package and then tell me that a serving is one pastry. That’s just not fair. You know I’m going to eat both. What am I going to do, tape up the little foil package and save the other one for later? I’m not. I’m not going to do that. Just say that it’s 420 calories instead of 210 and stop pretending that one Pop Tart is even feasible.

Also, unfrosted Pop Tarts are a joke. Why were they ever created? It’s widely known that children and adults alike tediously break off the tiny unfrosted edges of each pastry before consuming them. Unfrosted Pop Tarts are like un-milked bowls of cereal. It’s like mashed potatoes without gravy. It’s like chips with no dip. It’s like spaghetti without sauce.

You get the idea.

I don’t understand it when people have six variations of the exact same profile picture, but each one cropped just a little bit differently. Usually these are all in a consecutive row, right next to each other, to make matters even more annoying. Pick a crop you like, and stick with it. Don’t do this to me. I don’t have time.

My brother and I play this game called “The Onesie Game” while we’re out snowboarding on the mountain. Onesies are running rampant during gaper season in the spring. Olds bust out their neon and florescent uni’s and ski their little hearts out. The game consists of spotting people wearing one-piece snowsuits (“onesies”) and then calling them out. Example: “ONESIE!” Like so. You get 1 point for calling it, 5 points for touching it, and 10 points if you give the person wearing said onesie a hug.

I got 63 points today. I uh…I won.

You don’t want to call out a onesie though and then discover that it’s not a onesie. That’s a negative point. You have to look for the giveaway belt around the middle of the suit.

Hugging small, defenseless children is onesies is really the key to racking up the 10 pointers. They can’t do anything about it. If you’re a male participating in Mustache March, however, I would caution against going after the young ones in front of their parents or other family members, unless you want an Amber Alert called out immediately. Just a tip from the pro, that’s all.

Well, time to get weird. Peace.


B: Butterfaces are the absolute worst. They’re such a disappointment.

R: There’s nothing worse. Sooo close, but no cigar.

B: Grenades.

R: Speaking of grenades, did you watch the roast of Donald Trump on comedy central? “The Situation” from Jersey Shore had a bit in it, and he was so horrible. He got booed. …Bood? People went “boo” at him.