Tails of Dogtown

Even my dogs are weird.

I had one named Motagus. Pronounced Mo’ Tay Gus. My dad named him and then proceeded to throw him against a fence when he pooped in the house. It only happened once. My mother threatened to leave her animal abuser husband if it happened again, which created an unwaivering fear my dad had for that dog whenever he happened to be lingering about.

From then on, my dad was relegated to poop patrol, nightly feedings and telling “Gus” what a good boy he turned out to be, this for the sake of saving the marriage. Gus knew he had a pass for life after the “incident” and one could argue, took advantage of the situation . He ate my stuffed animals – gutted them, actually –he climbed on the bed, couches, ate scraps off of the dining room table. Even ate my mother’s beloved bull scrotum purse (see A Really Stupid Gift, June 18, 2011.) He was punished with a good old fashioned rub behind the ears and an “atta boy”.

Gus had a bad habit of approaching company without them knowing, and stelthly placing his unit on their crossed legs, their dangling feet. This didn’t bode well when my mother ran for city council and had her supporters over for coffee meetings. Gus would sneak under the kitchen table and sit frozen against a campaign manager or fundraiser’s foot, panting, hoping not to get caught. Invariably he did which caused my mother to uncomfortably explain that Gus was “fixed” too late in life and she's really sorry for the inconvenience.

I remember when Gus was fixed because I couldn’t write about him anymore in class. I was seven. I had just finished an essay about his large body parts. This is the actual class assignment:

Gus died happy and of old age. We missed him for his peculiar dog ways, for molesting our guests and for teaching my dad that hitting and throwing living things were not okay.

Then we had Misty, the Border Collie who would rather play ball than eat. My brother and I would test her to see if she would ever give up by throwing her beloved tennis ball for hours. We went for half days sometimes – summer was boring in Livermore; it was either test our dog’s athletic prowess or watch Huey Lewis and the News MTV video reruns until our brains throbbed with pain.

After her paws were bloody and worn and the tennis ball was but a fuzzy piece of rubber the size of a nickel, my mother would yell from the kitchen window for us to quit torturing the dog.

Misty developed bad hips but she would drag those hips to chase what we threw at her. The last straw was when I threw one of my brother’s “action figures” (read: dolls) for Misty to retrieve. She returned it while dragging the second half of her body back to us for another toss.

Then there was Max. I bought his pure bread highness for more money than I had shortly after I graduated from college and moved into my own place. He was a black pug with a sinus problem. He kept me up most nights with his snoring and he wasn’t altogether potty trained. He crapped in my roommate’s closet several times. I was grateful for this because my roommate was a little messy and didn’t find the poop until it was dried and pushed aside by her big clown shoes. Another blessing – my roommate had skiis for feet. Her bigfoot shoes covered Max’s doodies quite well until they were hard enough and thus, didn’t leave any smelly remnants behind on the carpet of our rented house where the security deposit was vitally important for when the house got too stinky and we had to move.

Come to think of it, I don’t rightly believe Max liked my roommate all that well because he never seemed to soil my room and I recall a few times where he took the opportunity to climb up on her bed and pee on her freshly clean sheets. Perhaps the warmth of the sheets made him want to pee, similar to the adverse effects of warm bath water.

I learned a lesson from Gus that I applied to Max. As soon as he was old enough, I made an appointment to get him fixed - whacked, as it were. I happened to impulsively mention this to my father in one of our “how’ve ya been?” conversations.

Me Pops was mortified.

In the days that followed said conversation, the old man left me thirteen voice mail messages. Let me clarify. They started off addressed for me. When I refused to return the calls, they were aimed at Max. The messages went something like this:

Beep: “Amy, how could you do that to such a spunky, smart sweet dog? He won’t be the same.”

Beep: “Amy, it’s dad again. How could you make my granddog a nutless wonder?”

Beep: “Amy, if you know what’s good for you, don’t take this dog’s manhood away. Remember what happened to Gus?”

Yeah, he leg humped our guests.

Beep: “Max, this is your grandfather speaking. If you can hear me, run for your life. Just find an opportunity when your mother opens the door for pizza and skedaddle out the front door.”

Beep: “This damn answering machine must have cut me off. Max, I will be waiting for you at the end of the street. Ruuuunnn.”

Beep: “Max, did you get my last message? Bark if you did. Or crap on the kitchen floor in protest. Don’t let her do this to you.”

If those messages didn’t seal the deal, nothing would. So I took the bastard in at the first available appointment. And when we pulled up to the vet’s parking lot, in true form, he peed all over the passenger’s seat. The only solice I had was that my roommate usually rode shotgun. I would keep this little secret from her.

As I signed the papers and payed the astronomical fee to have these little gems plucked – can’t you just tie a rubber band around them and wait for them to fall off? – I asked the receptionist if anyone has ever kept the testicles once they are removed from the dog.

Apparently, all the time. She responded as if I were asking for routine flea medication. She made me fill out some additional paperwork and said they would be available by the time I picked Max up.

“Perfect, I’ll take ‘em.”

Is it bad to admit that I was more excited to pick up the specimen than the dog?

The little meatballs appeared in a jar full of formaldehyde with a label that read, “Specimen: testicles. Patient: Max.”

This was the coolest thing I have ever owned, and that included the full suspension mountain bike on which I splurged impulsively the same year I bought Max.

I stared at the nuggets for the longest time. Not excessively long, though, that would be weird.

Max was sedated, and pleasantly calm in his pet taxi which allowed me more time to examine these little octopi.

“Interesting, huh?”

My roommate thought I had lost my mind especially since I used them as a centerpiece on our kitchen table. Not for long, though, I had other plans for Max’s peanuts.

Christmas, 1997, I found a little box in which the balls fit perfectly. I tied a bow and headed to my folks for dinner and gift exchanges. Hardly able to contain myself through dinner, I rushed through the meal to proclaim that it was gift giving time. And I was destined to go last, which almost became the death of me. My patience was wearing thin while I sat there through unwrapped china plates, new baseball gloves, scented massage lotion. Borrrrriiinng!

And as if time stood still, I asked Dad to reach under the tree for that last little gift.

“Especially for you, dad, from the heart.”

He tore the box open and held it to the light. He squinted to read the label. The next verbal exchange is not for public consumption. After his bombastic verbal vomiting, my Pops broke out in song,

Pug nuts roasting on an open fire.

Thanks, Jim

I am thankful for many “things” that I have in my life. Some of these things are actual things – my house. My job. My Southern Living Big Book of BBQ. My bathtub.

Most of these things are people. Putting aside for a minute (and it goes without saying), that I am thankful for my husband, Pants, our beautiful boy Yack and all of the family and friends I couldn’t live without, I focus on one individual who made me look at my life and those around me in a whole new way.

His name was Jim.

I met Jim in the lot where I parked my car for work. Jim lived in an abandoned garage about 10 feet from where my car resided for eight to ten hours a day, five days a week.

Jim bugged me. But I was successful in ignoring him for several months. He was dirty and he smelled bad. He always asked me what my name was, asked for money, food. This daily barrage forced me to be thankful that I had a job. If only Jim could get one too and leave me alone.

And then on a dreary winter morning, Jim inched his way into my cold narcissistic heart.

He did this by being funny.

“So what’s your name, darlin’? I keep seeing you every day, don’t you think we oughta be on a first name basis by now? Maybe you could muster up a 'hello' or a 'piss off'?”

What would typically be an averting of my eyes, I decided to look at him. Jim had a kind but worn face. I sized him up and figured he wasn’t a threat. I answered his question by giving him a five dollar bill and a smile. Perhaps this was my non verbal way of letting the homeless man know that I wanted to be left to my own selfish daily routine.

“Thanks, darlin’. I’m Jim. I figure your name is darlin’.”

Jim extended his hand.

I smiled nervously and walked away.

The next day, Jim was waiting for me as I pulled into the parking lot. It was a Monday and I know this because I had just spent all weekend snowboarding the powdery slopes up in Tahoe. You could do things like that when you had a job.

Since it snowed all weekend, my car was a dusty mess. You had to squint to see its true cherry red color.

“Hey darlin’, this car is a mess. Where have you been?”

I didn’t answer. I just reached into my purse to pull out whatever money I had left over from the beer soaked weekend.

“I don’t want your handouts. I want to earn them. Let me clean your car.”

And so goes the first conversation I had with Jim:

Me: What are you talking about? How are you going to do that, Jim? You don’t have access to a hose.. or soap, obviously.

Jim: She speaks. She stings when she speaks. Just because my appearance doesn’t lend you to believe I have access to soap, doesn’t mean I can’t get it. Look, trust me on this, when you get back from work, this car will be shiny new.

Me: If you have this car cleaned by the time I come back this evening, I will pay you $20. In fact, take the $20 now because you made me laugh on a Monday, which is a hard thing to do.. I won’t even ask for it back if it’s not clean.

Jim: Ma’am, I am an honest human being. I want to do right by my country. See?”

Jim then pulls out a credit card from his Velcro wallet. He explains that he can’t use it anymore, but he did and that’s what counts. He’s a good American. That credit card is his reminder.

Me: “Have a resourceful day, Jim. And P.S. My name is Amy.”

Jim: “Hells bells. Amy. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Amy.”

We part ways after we shake hands.

And I don’t wash my hands when I get into work. I cease to see Jim as dirty.

That evening walking back to my car, I figured I lost $20 to Jim and still had a dirty car. I made a mental note to hit up the carwash on my way home and perhaps give Jim a verbal lesson in over promising.

I saw the car before I saw Jim. It was spotless. Not a smudge in sight, as if I had taken it in to get it detailed. Unbelievable. As I circled the vehicle slowly, careful not to touch it, I began wondering how Jim did all of this. How did he get the water? The soap? Towels? Did he spit shine this thing? Pee on it?

I saw Jim sitting on the curb, arms behind him, watching me with a smirk on his face.

Me: “How, Jim? How did you do this? It’s beautiful.”

Jim: “I told you I would be resourceful, darlin’, er, Amy.”

I prodded Jim further to tell me how he managed to clean my car in the middle of a public parking lot but figured that his resistance in telling me was probably for my benefit. Being a coconspirator in some code violation or misdemeanor theft probably wouldn’t be too good for the rep. So, I didn’t push it further.

Our subsequent days together, Jim and me, were filled with banter, story telling, some cash exchanges – one way, of course and hugs. Big bear hugs. I remember looking forward to having my moments with Jim when my work days started and ended. He even walked me to work a couple of times but stopped a few blocks short in fear of my being seen with him. He instinctively made the decision to skedaddle before he felt I had to ask him to, saving us both the humiliation of that happening. Funny thing, though, I wouldn’t have been embarrassed having been seen with Jim, more protective of him. He was my friend.

About a year later, the abandoned garage where Jim resided was torn down and in its place went an upscale restaurant. I boycotted it for a few months until I tried their fried zucchini chips. I rationalized that the restaurant owners had little clue that they took a friend away from me.

Jim was gone. No goodbyes. Nothing left behind.

When I was downtown, I made it a point to look in places where I thought Jim might be. A couple of times after a nice dinner out with Pants, I would order and extra pizza and have Pants drive me to the church steps. I would get out of the car and ask those cold homeless people huddled together in sleeping bags if anyone had seen Jim.

Invariably, they all told me that he had stepped out, that he would be back shortly and yes, they will make sure my uneaten pizza will get to him.

Several months later, I was in the passenger’s seat of my coworker’s white pristine 5series BMW. We were en route to pick up some expensive fish and a new light for her tank at work. As we rounded the corner, I happened to look over at the bus stop and saw Jim amidst his peers.

“Stop the car.”

My friend asked why. I answered her by pushing the automatic window button and yelling out the car, “Jiiiiimmmmmmmm.”

He popped his head up among his crowd, saw that it was me, and came running.

“Amy, where have you been? Ha, I should answer that question. I had to leave. That restaurant was built and replaced my house. I have missed you. Still parking in the same lot? Heyyyy, nice car, and who’s this you’re with?”

Jim had his head inside the car window and was ogling all over my very pristine coworker and her very pristine car.

Coworker: “Um, Amy, what’s this about?”

Me: “This is my friend, Jim.”

While we were chatting, Jim’s friends all gathered around the parked car to get a look and by look, I mean touch. Their hands were all over the hood. And they were heckling Jim by asking if we were his girlfriends. I affirmed that we were.

Then Jim started to take off his shirt.

Coworker got nervous.

Jim said that he wanted to show me something. “I still wear the gift you gave me.”

I didn’t recall giving anything to Jim except for my loose change and dollar bills from my wallet.

Jim took off the six shirts he was wearing, one at a time, until he got to the very last one. It took awhile and coworker was getting impatient. He finally removed his remaining shirt and grabbed the pin that he had fastened to one of them. It read, “I’m broke.”

I am a lot of things, but mean spirited isn’t one of them, at least not since I have met Jim. I let him down gently by indicating that I didn’t get him that pin, and that I tended to disagree with it.

Me: “You’re not broke, Jim. I think you’re a very rich man. You have given me many wonderful things. I am forever indebted to you.”

Jim: “Well, when I make my first million, I am going to come find you and marry you.”

Coworker: “Can we go now?”

That was the second to the last time I saw Jim.

Five years ago, I was walking out of my hairdresser’s shop and I saw a shell of a man that resembled Jim. I yelled his name as if I was asking a question.

Jim turned around and belligerently asked, “who wants to know?”

It’s Amy.

Jim’s eyes were filled with yellow. He slurred his expletive laced words and stumbled down the street. His pants, holey and worn, were held up by a rope. He reeked of garbage and cheap booze. He told me to go eff myself. I got into my car and cried.

I think about Jim a lot, especially during holidays. He inspired me to spend my spare time at a homeless shelter where I help those without jobs put together resumes and 30 second, “tell me about yourself” pitches. I am not supposed to ask them about their past, what got them to this place, and I certainly cannot pretend that I know how to get them out. I am simply there to show compassion and be a friend. After all, I learned these special skills from Jim. I might as well put them to good use. It's the least I could do.

The Dog Days Are Over? Not If You Know Camilo

One would think I had learned my lesson two months ago when I decided to step up my workouts with Midtown Strength and Conditioning’s devil in disguise, Camilo by getting a little mano y mano time.

The last time I got Camiloed, he ruined the way I saw the world. My thighs, my piriformis (if you don’t know what this is, google it. It’s a muscle I didn’t know existed), my belly, my traps - these body parts haven’t been the same since. But they, along with my brain, have short term memory loss and convinced me to come back for another beat down. And since I never travel alone, my dear friend Tye, who seems to be game for any hair brained idea, was with me last time, and agreed to join me for round two. Poor Tye.

Similar to child birth, we forgot the historic pain and decided to have another two on one. Besides, we were stronger. We were rugged. We just finished Tough Mudder. Bring it, Milo. Seriously, you won’t be able to tame these guns..

Tye and I had been shoulder deep in work, having just successfully put on a well attended seminar on public retirement (yawn) and even though our minds were tired, our sedentary week needed a jump start.

“I have an idea, Tye. How about tomorrow morning, we get Camiloed before work.”

Tye wasn’t sure he was mentally prepared, but who is after hosting 150 seminar attendees?

And really, did Tye have a choice? For the sake of me calling him names that resembled weak animals and crying babies, he relented.

Camilo, having already drunk a concoction of Red Bull, some amino acid sprinkles and something else that I am sure is not legal in the States, he had that crazed look in his eye when we entered the gym.

Listen, caffeine-hopped-gym-boss, we're going to dominate today.

Typically, Camilo starts his popular noon classes off easy (which I attend on a regular basis) – a little mobility, stretching, a slow two-block jog.

But like a seven on the richter scale, he launches into the hell that will consume us for the next hour.

He barks, “35 kettle bell swings.”

I should have ducked and covered. Instead, I grabbed a 26 pounder. He yanks it from my cold dead hands and replaces it with a 44 pounder.

I start to sweat. I glance at Tye who is sweating more than me, and mouths, “I wasn’t f%$%% ready for this.”

Tye doesn’t typically swear. This is where I determine that he’s mad.

We finish and I water board myself under the spigot. This sucks.

Camilo tells us we have 30 seconds to rest. That’s enough time for me to do absolutely nothing except for think about the next round of pain.

The next 45 minutes were a painful blur. They involved more burpees than my age. (Note: I will be turning 40 in May. I should not be doing burpees at my age), prowler pushes with more weight than I can add in my foggy head, and medicine ball twists, slams, lunges and keg tosses, which made me think of beer, which then made me want to puke, which then made me want to lie down in front of the big industrial fan and sleep.for.30.more.seconds.

I peered at Tye only a few times. His sidewinder sink-eyes were almost worse than the push presses we had to do.

Sorry, Tye. Really, I am.

Let me to discuss the elephant in the room. I think I am capable of more than I actually can do. It goes back to the inflated ego thing. And every time I decide to prove it to myself, getting Camiloed humbles me. It’s a test of wills, a mental game I play with him, the gym, Tye, me. And I lose. Every single time.

I walk into the gym as a gorilla.

I walk out with a baby monkey on my back.

And it’s not without good reason. I have accomplished what I have set out to do physically, kind of..

I have completed the ever elusive double under jump rope.. embarrassingly so. In fact, if you blink, you may miss it and end up witnessing a tangled mess of rope and hair and a subsequent launching of whatever is in my hand at the time – water bottle or jump rope. Just make sure you are not within range.

I have completed my second Tough Mudder, but just barely. It took five and a half hours, 6 bandaids, 1,255 cuss words, and a couple of friendship enders.

With this extensive repertoire under my belt, you’d think I could handle Camilo by now.

Not so.

I just have to figure out how to master his workouts without him knowing it so he doesn’t decide to ratchet it up.

I don’t know if that’s going to happen. He’s too stealth a poker player. He won’t let me see his hand.

Devil

There was an incident recently in an elevator. I was at work. I was making my way from one floor to the next in the state capitol. I was lobbying. I was trying to convince law makers to vote a certain way on specific legislation.

It was during this one innocent little elevator ride where my mind went from an analytical, focused, politically charged bullet train to a crazed maniacal food fighting mess hall.

In a scrupulous attempt to make eye contact and small talk with my fellow elevator patrons, I caught the glimpse of someone of whom I had seen before. This wasn’t a fellow politico. This was a T.V. face or someone I had seen on the silver screen. But I wasn’t altogether sure. Perhaps I had seen her on a mail hit piece for a campaign, or in my bookmarked favorites on the Internet. I did what came naturally. I stared at her.

I also eavesdropped on the conversation she was having with her entourage to see if I could pick up on some hints.

The woman spoke. “I think that gentleman back there recognized me.”

And that’s all I needed to hear to capitalize on an opportunity and solve this little mystery. I faced her eyeball to eyeball and proclaimed, “Well, I recognize you too. Are you quitting the acting gig and moving into politics?”

To which she replied, “No, my dear. I am doing both. I am here to help our SAG union members.” (SAG is the acronym for the “screen actors guild” for those who aren’t in the biz, FYI.)

Aha! I knew it. She was an actress and one that I had seen a million times before in movies… or was it T.V?. And if you give me a minute, I can name what she’s been in.

Just give me a minute.

Due to pride and the timing of our elevator visit, I didn’t ask this actress, who looked a lot like Shirley Maclaine, what she had been in. I thought that would be rude and would show what a terrible spectator of pop culture I was. It was as if I wanted to give this stranger the impression that I was completely down with her career, and even came across as a devoted fan.

Besides, someone in the Capitol had to have run into her and picked up her name. I would therefore be able to answer the rest of my questions through a private Google search... what the heck has she been in?

Strategically, I used my work to sneak in a few frenzied inquiries. “Hi, Senator, please vote no on this nonsensical piece of legislation and by the way, did you run into an actress today in the Capitol? Why, you ask? Because I know I have seen her on something and it’s just killing me that I can’t figure it out. What has she been in? Well, I am not altogether certain. Perhaps a T.V. series or a movie. I can tell you one thing, she looks an awful lot like Shirley Maclaine. Have you seen anyone like that today? No? Okay, well thanks. And please vote no. Oh, and don’t forget to ask your colleagues if anyone matches that description.”

Was I a lobbyist or a CSI detective? I started embarrassing myself.

What an idiot. Let this go.

But I couldn’t. I began a furious texting campaign. Alert, Alert. Anyone with any information on an actress who was in the Capitol today, please notify me immediately.

I wondered why I was so crazed about solving this mystery, because really, on the grand scheme of things, who gave a crap?

I did. It started affecting my already unsteady mind.

I started having flashes of this woman. I closed my eyes and played out scenes that she had been in, asking my memory bank to send me any clue - was it Phenomenon with John Travolta? Was she the replacement to Ms. Garrett in Facts of Life? Was she Roseanne and Dan's neighbor?

That night on the way home, as I painfully focused on this mystery woman, I came to the conclusion that she was on Big Love. No, ER, that’s it. Or was it Six Feet Under? How about the movie Breakable with Bruce Willis?

Something in my brain always took me to the obscure semi creepy shows. So I did what came naturally. I started a Google frenzy. Here’s what I searched which was a complete time suck – I am ashamed to admit it’s two hours I will never get back:

Actress lookalike to Shirley Maclaine (I googled this three times)

Redhead actresses (there is an actual website dedicated to all beautiful redheads in Hollywood. Problem is, the pics portray young 20 somethings. This woman was slightly older than that.)

Favorite redhead moms

Crazy aunt actresses

Funny mother, silver screen

M. Night Shyamalan moves, character actor

John Travolta movies

Wikipedia, Facts of Life

Cast of Dexter

Shirley Maclaine looks like this actress (thinking that this would be different than the first entry).

You may be thinking that I have better things to do. This is a fact. I had to put my sweet son Yack down for bed. I had to pay some attention to my husband, Pants. I had to get my head in the game for tomorrow’s Capitol brawls.

But none of this happened.

My last resort was Facebook. I posted the following as my status: I am going nuts trying to figure this out. Ran into the actress today at the capitol who looks just like Shirley MacClaine. She and I chatted but I was too proud to ask her what her name was. Please, anyone, let me know who she is or I will lose sleep tonight.

I received 66 responses, which included such entries as: “was it Lily Tomlin?”

Come on. Does Lily Tomlin have light red hair and look like Shirley Maclaine? No. Please. I know who Lily Tomlin is and I would bow down and kiss her feet right there in the elevator if it were her. I mean, really, who didn’t see The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe?

And then my Facebook community really started to let me down with responses such as: Bo Derek, Charlotte Rae, Carrot Top, Shirley Maclaine – are you sure it wasn’t her?

Don’t get me wrong, I was very appreciative of the 66 responses and accompanying support, but help me solve a problem, for the love of…

I dreamt about my mystery woman that night. I saw her in a court room. She was a defendant. She was crazy. Too bad I didn’t dream about who else was in the court room. Their faces were all smothered in Vaseline. My mind was playing tricks on me. My mind was the court jester.

I woke up pissed.

I had to find a way to put this behind me for the sake of my family and my job. I grabbed my phone and began re-texting everyone I knew. “Dammit, I deserve this. Find out who this mystery woman is STAT.”

I showed up for work the next day actually worse for wear. Eyes bleary. Head foggy except for the actress’ face clear as day, taunting me with her flirty, patronizing eyes.

Go away, I don’t care anymore.

Oh, but I did.

I arrived in the halls of the Capitol with the firm commitment to not think about Mystery Actress. That is until many people swooped down upon me, “did you find out who it was?”

No, and I lost sleep.

That’s the thing with Facebook. My problem becomes your problem. Very comforting, until you want to forget the obsessive nature of your mind. And so I was reminded..

“Oh hi, I was thinking it might be Cloris Leachman?”

“Was it Sofia Loren?”

“I have been thinking about your dilemma. Did you find out which offices she was visiting?”

No, no and no.

And just as I was about to throw in the towel and seek psychiatric help, I saw the SAG lobbyist.

“I will pay you a lot of money if you can tell me who the actress was who happened to be wandering the halls of the capitol yesterday.” – Eww, I sounded like a crackhead.

“Oh yeah, her name is Jenny O’Hara.”

Excuse me? I lost sleep over a woman by the name of Jenny O’Hara?

I began to shake between the time this sweet lobbyist guy uttered her name and the time I pulled up my iPad to search her image. (only thing an iPad is good for).

And there she was. As if we were back in the elevator having our brief but meaningful encounter.

There you are, Jenny O’Hara.

Now the real question had to be answered, why was I so obsessed? Why the reaction? Why the dust up? I searched the Internet Movie Database and read her filmography history.

And then it hit me. I had recently watched a movie called Devil where a group of people find themselves trapped in an elevator. The Devil is amongst them and the lights keep going out. Each one gets creamed during the course of the movie. The premise seems rather sophomoric but to tell you the truth, that flick kept me up for two nights straight. It’s bloody. It’s heart pounding. There's brutal death. And, (warning, spoiler alert) that crazy Jenny O’Hara had something to do with it.

That blasted movie had caused me to have photo flashes of Jenny O’Hara’s character in the rear file cabinets of my brain ever since.

And get this. It was written – not directed – by M. Night Shyamalan. Now, how does my subconscious know this?

Let me tell you, it doesn’t. It was just scared shitless seeing Ms. O’hara in an elevator.

I’m just glad I got out of there alive, and fully understood later who I was dealing with.

The Ego Strikes Again

There are many things I have resolved not to do – most of them predicated on the fact that I simply can’t do them. Take running a marathon. That’s a nonstarter because my old man knees and webbed duck feet will give out on me on mile fourteen. I know this for a fact - I have actually made it to thirteen before my feet ballooned up like Grandma Vera’s. It didn’t go well when a couple of days later, I had to go to work.. I tried putting on my high heels. It appeared as though I attempted to stuff bread loaves into little party hats. And my knees merely couldn’t hold up that kind of pressure.

Spelling bees are also out. I have to spell check words like squirrel, rhythm, and weird. Trivial Pursuit is out too until I am 80 years old and can only pick the pop culture option. I’m a dummy on the fartless facts front. For instance, ask me where Cyprus is and I will likely tell you it’s a music station as opposed to a country in the Eastern Mediterranean.

Oh, and I will never skydive. Messing one's drawers at 10,000 feet in the air just doesn’t seem like a very good character builder.

Double unders were also on my “do not do” list too and for good reason which I will get to; that was until my ego got the best of me and I impulsively challenged a sweet, getting-into-shape unassuming 13 year old boy to a duel of sorts.

Blame it on my ego, or my father. But I've got a little swordfight on my hands.

Before I get to how I poked baby bear in the snout, let’s get to what these dreaded little physical challenges are and why I refused to do them.

Double unders, ah yes, think regular jump ropes on steroids. Instead of swinging the rope around one’s head and jumping to somewhat of a tempo once the rope nears the feet, one must circle that rope around the entire body twice before landing. That’s right. This is known as the elusive and un-teachable act of jumping one time per every two swings around the feet. I’ve seen it done but only by elite and exceptionally coordinated athletes at the Torture Chamber known as the Midtown gym. I have also tried it, almost repelling my head into a brick wall after my feet got hog tied in the rope. This unfortunate incident happened twice. Perhaps three times. Not so cool looking. Not to mention it took me years to master the patting head rubbing belly move. This seems way more complicated.

The most daunting aspect of this tangled mess, aside from receiving permanent facial scars from rope lash, is the sound. The jump rope is whipped so fast, it sounds like a 70 mile an hour wind tunnel on the top of a mountain range. Of course, I couldn’t make this sound even if I tried, but again, I have witnessed it and yeah, it's scary.

It’s pretty understandable that the double under was filed into my “do not do” folder for the sake of public humiliation, and also my life.

Back to how I am planning to crush this punk kid.

So, there’s this new trainer at the gym. We call him Irish Ed. He can whip up several double unders without breaking a sweat. I am unclear as to where he learned this skill, but if it was back in Ireland, I’m glad the double under isn’t an official Olympic sport or we Americans would be SOL.

Out of the kindness of his heart, or maybe the need to curb his wincing from seeing me try, Irish Ed has taken it upon himself to teach me how to master the double under. I have publicly given up on it about five times, not shamed to declare defeat. Again, there are some things I am just not cut out to do. But Irish Ed thinks I have potential. He apparently thinks that 13 year old kid has potential too because right after I waved my hand in Irish Ed’s face and told him to go coach someone else, the Kid, under Irish Ed’s tutelage, did a double under right in front of me.

That’s it. Come here, kid.

I can’t sleep at night with that on my conscience.

I asked the Kid if he had any money to his name.

He said no.

I said, “well find it, kid, because in a month, you and I are going to have a double under off and I am going to take $20 from you.”

Several gym patrons (read: rats) offered to spot him the dough.

And now it’s game on to see who can do more.

Problem is, Irish Ed is coaching both of us and Kid has a leg up. I may have to call foul and point to “favoritism by coach” if I happen to lose.

Problem #2: if I win, I appear to be a jerk for picking a fight with a kid and strutting around thinking I am the cat’s pajamas for beating him. And if I lose, well, that’s just pathetic.

So here I am, feeling regretful for opening up my egomaniacal mouth and deciding that something on my “do not do” list should be pursued because some punk kid can do it.

I need therapy.

The Force Of Nature

One of my greatest pleasures is hiking in the mountains – the cool, clean air, the fresh pine smell, the blisters like little badges of honor. When I gave birth to Yack, I was destined to not let this little bundle of joy take away one of my favorite pastimes.

At first, hiking with the little man was easy. I plunked him in one of those baby bjorns, threw my hiking boots on and charged up the hill. After five minutes, the rhythmic bouncing of my stride rocked him to sleep and I was at peace with a baby boy who was subconsciously appreciating the same sounds and smells as I was.

This went on for a good year.

And then overnight, my one year old turned into a three year old. And he didn’t want to be strapped into a bjorn, or any other suspension devise. He didn’t want to hike at all. He broke my damn heart by wanting to watch Sponge Bob instead of hiking. Was this kid even mine?

He didn’t care about the singing birds, or the way our dogs sniffed for animal waste on the trail. He didn’t care about hiking the way I did. He only cared about Sponge Bob.

But as any good parent would, I forced him. Fresh air should be mandatory. Exercise should be required. Talking about the beautiful surroundings should be a part of one’s own moral fabric. I was destined, forced, to shape this kid’s psyche.

Even if it made him hate me.

The hikes thereafter were memorable, alright. They consisted of crying, tantrums and clenched teeth. Looking back, I am so ashamed of how I behaved.

I began to hate hikes.

One of the options was to drop him off at a sitter’s and trudge on without my little offspring, my sidekick. But knowing that I only spend limited time as a working mom with the little man, I didn’t feel right about leaving him while I enjoyed nature. Plus, I had to capitalize on the time when I had positive influence over him, not to mention influence over his English language. I vividly recall one hiking highlight where he picked up a large tree branch, jabbed me in the gut and said, “mama, mira, una pistola,” to which I retorted, “that’s not a gun, Yack. It’s a stick,” to which he replied, “ah, un palito”.

These are the moments that make me realize he is spending too much time at Nena’s, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

These hikes were my lifeblood. I had to think of something fast to comingle my son with that I thought was a mandatory educational experience, nature.

So, I did what came naturally. I bribed him.

First off, there’s only so much trudging up the hill I can do with him strapped to my back, and since my child toting backpack only allows for about a 25 pound kid, we are well over our max. So is my back.

This recipe for success may be criticized by my well read “PC” parental friends; to you I say, I don’t give a rip about your opinion right now. All I know is that my kid and I are at the top of Bear Valley so go pound sand.

Here goes: I take a large zip lock plastic baggie of Gummy Bears, which I usually replace with those organic fruit pieces. He’s three. He can’t read. He doesn’t know the difference.

I put these little nuggets of gold in my pocket and as if I were Hansel leaving a bread crumb trail. I explain to Yack that if he just make it up to that big tree log at the top of that bend, he will get two.. yes, two Gummy Bears. I may even pull them out of my pocket to show that I am serious, letting him follow his nose like Toucan Sam.

And then he runs, no, he bolts of the hill, with candied treats on the brain. He is usually at the tree before I am, hand out, waiting for his reward.

I am pleased. I like hiking again. But this feeling is fleeting.

“I am done hiking, mommy.”

But we have only gone 100 yards. I offer more Gummy Bears until he is completely comatose on a full blown organic liquid cane sugar rush.

“I don’t want anymore Gummy Bears.”

I ask Yack if he’s thirsty. And I question which way my moral compass is pointing if I am withholding water from my child as an incentive to soldier on. I have only mild regrets when I say the following, “you can have water, Yack, when you reach to that second redwood right above that ridge.”

And then he starts to sprint, with what is likely a mild onset of dehydration.

But I am enjoying hiking again.

When Yack has finally had it, he faces me, pink cheeked, sweaty, pleading for me to pick him up the rest of the way.

“Why don’t you get in the backpack?”

It’s too small for him, he explains. It’s for babies.

And it is. But I give him a choice: walk, or get in the backpack. (Leg cramps? He’ll get over them. I will be the one suffering from carrying him, no?)

He chooses the backpack. His legs flop well over the foot rests. His shoulders peek way over the top of my neck. He has undoubtedly outgrown this thing, but how else am I going to hoof this 35 pound ball of three year old muscle down the hill? I ain’t gonna pick him up, that’s for sure.

And so it goes. He sees a bird here, a lizard there. He wants to get out of the backpack five minutes after he is in it. I bribe him to stay in. “If you stay in the backpack, I will give you more Gummy Bears.” He says no. He starts resembling a Gummy Bear. Perhaps it’s the delirium I am experiencing as I struggle to put one foot in front of the other.

This punk is heavy.

As luck would have it, we reach the car. We’re exhausted. By the time we are done, he has gotten into and out of the backpack at least a half dozen times. It takes us twice as long to go half as far. He’s seen the requisite things I would like him to view on a hike – the birds, the large trees, the mountain monsters that live in the “jungle”.

We dust off and get into the car. Yack says he wants to watch Sponge Bob on my iPad. I hand it to him without saying a word as we drive off.

I am happy. I like hiking... today.

Getting Camiloed

It’s coming up on a year since I started frequenting the Torture Chamber. I shoulda quit when I had the chance – when I finished the Tough Mudder race last October and lived to tell about it. That was one opportunity. The other was when I threw my back out picking up a barbell “like an idiot”. I was out for an entire week and would have felt justified if I never returned. Or when budget negotiations were steaming up at the Capitol and I didn’t have time to even eat, let alone peel away for a butt kicking. That’s, let’s see.. three times at least within the past year that I could have easily said, “See ya, Midtown. Good riddance. Nice knowing you and your stinky kettle bells.”

But I keep returning.

I hope it gets easier.

It hasn’t.

I search for a day when I walk out of there thinking, “hey, what do you know, I don’t feel like my breakfast is going to come back up and land in the parking lot.”

And that’s why I continue to go. To one day say that I not only survived Camilo and his ridiculous sandbag throwing, dumb bell raising, sled pulling workout, but that I also did something relatively productive afterwards.

I’m not real bright, I'll admit. Case in point: every two weeks or so I dare myself to survive a little one on one training session with Camilo. This is after three days a week of his group class. I do this not because I don’t get enough during the classes, I simply want to see if it’s any easier than the last time we met eyeball to eyeball, barbell to barbell.

Well, one of two things is happening. Either I am not improving, or he keeps quietly ratcheting it up on me. I can’t tell either way.

That’s because Camilo is quiet. Uber quiet. Sometimes, I have to strain to hear him and the only way I can tell if I am being a good student is if I get the obligatory fist bump. I like the fist bump, also known as Fo’ Knuckles. Getting the Fo’ Knuckles makes me feel super sweet, like I could probably hang with Camilo and his old baseball teammates from college without them thinking that I am a dork tomboy wanna be. Yeah, probably not.

This past week was an especially humbling workout with Camilo. That’s because my ego was bigger than my mobility. You see, I may have bragged a little to a coworker friend of mine about how he probably couldn’t survive one of Camilo’s workouts. He just started at the gym because he is doing the Tough Mudder race with me this year (yep, not too bright). And I mentioned that having alone time with Camilo is not only reserved for veteran Tough Mudders but also for those who have strong inner strength. I was basically calling my friend out as a pantywaist.

My friend reluctantly decided to join me.

“Okay, Tye, but I have to warn you, throwing up is okay, quitting is not.”

He gave me his “whatever, bring it” look and away we went.

Camilo was already preparing for us when we showed up, buzzing around in fast forward. Tye looked apprehensive at best. I think he even whispered to himself that he wasn’t ready for this. I approached Camilo and gave him a friendly shot in the arm. Perhaps a little non verbal sign that I was bringing my A game today and my buddy Tye was there to try and keep up.

Camilo then picked me up, put me on the back of his shoulders and squatted me five times, just like that.

Uh oh. As I was being swung in the air, I started having some doubts. Camilo was onto my inflated ego.

We started off slow which was a good thing, because I was worried about Tye, would he be able to keep up with my stellar physical capabilities? Tye ain’t no wilting flower. He has muscles on top of muscles but this was a different type of workout. I wondered if his heart muscle would be able to keep up with my heart muscle.

We started off the hour with “squats” and “clean and jerks” and finished off with several sets of “snatches”. (I often wonder about the guy who made up the names for these moves.. and yes, he was most certainly a guy.)

While Camilo was working on Tye’s form, I stayed steady with my reps, hoping that if I finished before I was noticed, he wouldn’t add more weight to my very comfortable barbell.

Grab those 25s over there, Brown.

Here we go.

After a few of those, I felt blood vessels popping in my face. I wondered if they would be permanent. Does Botox fix perpetual eye bulge and varicose face veins?

He kept telling me to keep my heel down and my knee out while I pounded out my reps.

I reminded him that I have a club foot and have some limitations in what I am able to do.

He shrugged. “I don’t see any limitations. Just keep your heel down and knee out.”

Apparently, there’s no room for pansy-ass excuses, so I kept my mouth shut (very challenging) and did what I was told.

Tye, on the other hand was making me look bad. He was dead lifting like it was Christmas.

You just wait until we get to the conditioning part, Tye.

Next, Camilo had us do burpees. Fifty of them. If you know what a burpee is, you feel bad for me right now. Camilo showed Tye the proper form since he was unfamiliar with the movement. Camilo jumped in the air like a flying squirrel, landing on feet and hands, knocked out a pushup and then shot in the air clapping his hands overhead. Burpees are dreadful. Don’t try them at home.

After thirty burpees, I wanted to hurl. Tye was sweating enough to fill a water cooler, but he was keeping up. This pissed me off. Tye was supposed to have collapsed by now, with me doing my last set of burpees over his dead body.

Camilo then made us to sled pulls along the wall of the gym. Next, he made us do medicine ball slams – too many to count. Then he told us to get a set of kettle bells. I went to pick up the 44 pounders - my comfort zone. Camilo took them out of my hands and handed me the 62ers. I let them fall to the ground as my shoulders about fell out of their sockets.

He told us to go outside and start walking. Chest out. Holding the boulders from hell in our brittle aching fingers. He told us to walk to T Street – a half block away. Tye and I exchanged “I hate you” looks. He hated me for getting him into this. I hated him for keeping up.

I couldn’t make it to T Street. My arms felt like they were being pulled off. Tye stopped too. I don’t want to know why.

Camilo asked if we needed a short break.

No, we’re standing here because we like the way that orange tree glistens in the sun.

“Well, we might as well make the most of this time. Ten jump squats.”

How about ten kiss my butts, Camilo? How about that?

Tye and I realized in short order that every time we stopped, we would have to perform these excruciating leaps. Not to mention how imbecilic we looked to the passersby.

We suffered through to T Street. Camilo said we were now to walk to S Street. I wanted to take the kettle bell and put it in his mouth, but I couldn’t lift it past my hip.

You’re lucky, Camilo. One of these days I will be able to reach it to your head.

After five sets of jump squats – yeah, do the math, that’s five breaks – we made it to S Street. I placed my kettle bells down with authority, elated that we were finished.

That is, until I realized that these hunks of metal were somehow going to have to get back to the gym.

Camilo, you have a truck, right? We aren’t taking these back.

Camilo just smiled and told us that he has a surprise waiting for us if we get these kettle bells back to the shade. The shade, my friends, was only 10 feet away. I love surprises. I imagined him having a Snickers bar in his pocket. Or maybe he was going to offer us a cold glass of what my son, Yack refers to as aqua de limon.

“The surprise” happened to be ten sprints up and over the hilly lawn. Camilo stood at the top, egging Tye and me on to go faster. “It’s Tough Mudder season. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

I don’t like surprises anymore.

After the sprints, I refused to make eye contact with Camilo. I took my boulder sized kettle bells and sprint walked back to the gym. And yes, Tye was right there with me. I couldn’t shake this knucklehead. He was like a bad penny.

When got to the floor of the gym, we rolled out our backs and shoulders with Styrofoam tubes. Camilo approached both of us with his Fo’ Knuckles. Tye put his hand out to show me he was shaking. He was speechless.

Good, he got Camiloed too.