Yoga by the Fireplace (alternative title: Seriously, I need friends)

Okay let's talk Barcelona Marathon, folks. We have officially entered the training zone. I'm on week 2 of 18 in my running plan and bread roll 47 in my carbo-loading plan. It's never too early to start storing those carbohydrates...at least that's what I told myself when I had 4 snicker doodle cookies for breakfast this morning. oops.

For the running inclined out there, I am using my homeboy Hal Higdon's Intermediate Training Plan as my guideline. Every week, my plan consists of 4 regular runs, 1 long run, a rest day and cross training. I've seen some more complicated plans out there that incorporate speedwork like tempo runs and fartleks (the 13 year old boy inside of me thinks that's such a funny word. fartlek. heh heh heh). I'm not concentrating on my speed for the Marathon though, my main concentration for Barcelona is to not to die on the side of the road. If that happens, I hope some kind citizen will pull me to the sidelines and start mainlining tequila down my throat. Go big or go home right?

I had a bit too much fun creating my training plan on Google Calendar. In fact, I was so smugly enjoying my pink labeling system that it wasn't until entering Week 15 that I realized I had mis-numbered them and had to start all over again. The sickest part? I wasn't even upset about it. I was pumped and just started all over again. (why yes, I amin fact a huge nerd. Thank you so much for asking). I'm sure my schedule will change over the next few months, but I did my best to work in the holidays and the hangovers where necessary. If you're interested, you can download my plan here and try it out for yourself. (You know, just in case you're bored one Saturday and feel like taking a 15 mile run for fun)



Besides running ridiculously long distances on a weekly basis, ole Hal strongly recommends some form of cross training. (Because heaven forbid Sundays be used the way God intended: nursing your hangover and making it a personal goal not to change out of your pajamas before 4pm) I've decided to pick up Bikram Yoga again...90 minutes of forcing my body into positions it was never meant to bend in all while being subjected to 98º heat and the guy in front of me who keeps grunting and forgot to put spandex on under his shorts. (Downward facing dog will never.be.the.same.again.) Apparently I was a masochist in my past life. Being the glutton for punishment that I am, I will be doing yoga twice a week during my training. By the end of these 18 weeks, not only will I run a marathon, but hopefully I will finally be able touch my toes. and make it through the "ommmmmmm" prayer at the beginning of class without wanting to burst out in laughter. (seriously lady, you're from Chicago. your yoga pants were $75 from Lululemon. Stop with the Ghandi)

This is where Yoga by the Fireplace comes in.


I am planning on packaging photos of all my yoga moves into a series and giving them out as stocking stuffers this Christmas. This beauty will be on the cover of the album. I will also be changing the names of many of the most popular stances. Like instead of Savasana, why can't we just call it like it is? Pass out on the floor for 5 minutes because you're out of shape

First:
Shit! I'm going to fall into the drying rack

Instead of Garurasana
I'm calling this one: okay, I got myself into this twisty mess...now how do I get out? Seannnnn? HELP!


Hidden Tiger, Crouching Girl who needs to stop playing with Photobooth and make friends

Pretty amazing stuff, right? Would you believe this isn't my first venture in yoga photography? There is one pose I really like doing. In fact, I like to spontaneously break out in this pose whenever possible...say after a night of drinking at some random kid's house in Boston. Suuuuuure why not.





A few things you can learn from my yoga poses:
1. The best way to achieve this position is to act like you actually are Superman. Drinking about 10 beers before helps a lot with the superhero complex
2. It isn't official unless you are making a completely ridiculous face like the ones seen above
3. Don't refer to it as its real name: Dandayamana Dhanurasana (Although, who could actually pronounce its real name, especially after all those beers?!). I like to call this my Christmas pose, because I get so excited whenever I do it that I'm like a kid on Christmas morning. Just look at that face, sheer joy.

So there you have it. I'm training for my first marathon and starting a lucrative career as a yoga model. Be nice boys and girls and maybe you'll get your very own limited edition Marie posing like an idiot poster under your Christmas tree this year! and just in case you are feeling ripe with envy over my yoga abilities after this post, I want to also share another talent of mine I have. I like to call this one: Girl runs in hat, sweats like a beast, and creates a Snooki poof without even trying.





Be jealous. Be very very jealous.

An open letter to my lover

I've made it known time and time again on this blog that I have a wee bit of an obsession with Google. Today, I am taking the next step and making it official. I am going up to the rooftops and shouting it out for all the world to hear: Google, I freaking love you.

Expressing one's undying love for someone (or in my case, something) isn't a new concept. Authors, poets, and drunk college kids have been doing it for centuries. William Shakespeare and Elizabeth Barrett Browning were the original gangsters of the love letter movement, comparing their lovers to a summer's day and whatnot. Then there was the guy who wrote "Roses are Red, Violets are blue, sugar is sweet and so are you". Dude, wherever you are, I think I speak for everyone when I say thank you. I don't know how any of us would've made it through Elementary School without your poetic words of wisdom. Of course, we can't forget Big's letters to Carrie after he left her at the altar. Oh wait. Big didn't actually write those letters. He just retyped other great men's letters and sent them off in an email.

an email? Really Big? You're like a multimillionaire, you couldn't afford some nice card stock with a little grosgrain ribbon from Paper Source?

pshhhh. you deserve every whack with those flowers you got Buddy. Mr. Strong and Silent type, my ass.

Now don't you worry Google, my love for you isn't fickle like Mr. Big's. You rank right up there with chocolate, tequila, and Sean and that's a pretty tough trifecta to break into...but you've made it. Welcome. I think we will all be very happy together.

and so for you, I have compiled these words of admiration.

An Ode to Google

How do I love thee... Let me count the ways...

I love you because you never laugh at me or judge me for my silly questions. Sometimes a girl's just gotta know things, like how to boil water or where do babies come from.

I love you because you never cease to amaze me with your accurate direction-giving skills. You're not like those silly guys who refuse to stop and ask for directions. You always know where you're going and you do whatever it takes to get there. and I do mean anything.

For instance, when making the trek from Japan to China, you my clever little Google, have opted to take a jet ski across the Pacific Ocean.


Most men would just hop on a plane to get across the ocean, but no no...not you. You're above all of that, you James Bond GQ McGoogler.

I love you because you showed my ex-boyfriend's salary before we even had our first date. You also showed me his high school ski racing scores and his entire Linked-In profile. (What? Ohhhh, don't even act like you've never google stalked someone. It's 2010 people, get with the program) I only wish that you had shown me that he was a lying, cheating scumbag back then too. But it's okay, Google. I forgive you. You made it up for me by auto-saving all of the closest frozen yogurt locations within a 10 mile radius. I love Frozen Yogurt way more than I ever loved him anyway.

I love you because you pretty much own me. Not in the unhealthy, codependent, this girl needs self-esteem type of way. More in the Brian Adams, Everything I do, I do it for you type of way. My blog? you. My email? you. My calendar? you. Your email capabilities are like a young girl on prom night, easy and free. (oh god I'm sorry I just said that. I don't think I can pull that joke off. I think you need to be a 17 year old boy to deliver it properly)

Today though, Google, today you took our love to new heights. To levels I didn't know existed. Today, you saved my life. You knew I had been craving my crazy ex-roommate's gnocchi recipe. I don't know how you knew, but you did. I think it's because you own , err I mean, are a part of my soul. I didn't have much to go on...just the words gnocchi and vegetables. I knew it was a famous Italian food chef, so we started the journey together. Emeril, Giada, Mario...the list was long so I hunkered down for some quality time with you. And yet, you were so selfless. You knew I had class at 10:30 and couldn't spend all day searching for the recipe and with a click of the mouse and a wooosh of the page, there the gnocchi recipe appeared on foodnetwork.com. My eyes welled up with tears of joy and I wanted to reach out and hug you right there in the school library. But I quickly realized that I couldn't after last week's stripper searching debacle.

Now, my honey bunches of Google love, I can thank you properly. Thank you for saving me from an almost certain demise. I really really really wanted that recipe. To the point where I was contemplating emailing her with something like "hi, I know we hate each other and you're crazy, but could I just grab that delicious gnocchi recipe from you? kthanksbye" and you swooped in like the hero that you are and prevented my potential death. (although, if said psycho ex roommate reads my blog I may already be condemned to a similar fate, but that is why I love the first Amendment. and that there are over 1,000 miles and an entire ocean separating us)

So even though E.B.Browning-izzle (I told you she was gangster) ended her love sonnet with "I shall but love thee better after death", we don't have to worry about that. I can love you just as good from where I am now, alive and kickin'. and you know what? It's Friday night, maybe you, me, the tequila, and Sean can go out for a night on the town. Just don't tell chocolate. She's not invited and she gets jealous very easily.

Editor's Note: updated at 8:40pm GMT. Yet another reason why I freaking love you, Google...I was trying to tell Sean the story about the Asian guy who flew in disguise from Hong Kong. The story had been on MSN all day but when I went to show it to him, it was gone. My first instinct was to turn to you for help. You are always there for me in my times of need. and do you know what I googled?

Old guy asian guy . That's it.

Now I realize that is quite a risky thing to be googling on a Friday night. But I did it. You know why? Because I trusted you, Google. I knew you wouldn't lead me astray. You wouldn't send me on a wild goose chase through anti-aging creams, local Chinese restaurants, or god forbid some nasty pornographic images that'd make me want to jab my retinas out with a hot poker. I even pushed the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button, you frisky little devil.

And lookie lookie at what I found:


Once again, our love prevails.

Messin with my mojo

I am having some major writer's block. in all aspects of my writing life. I have 2 articles that need to be submitted on November 12th, a project that needs to be researched, and nary the desire to do any of it. The results are even trickling into the blog. I haven't loved my past few entries. Sure Viking Strippers are fun and who doesn't love slinging around some stewed donkey meat, but I'm not totally in love with how I feel once I've pushed "publish". Usually, I read it out loud to Sean, obsessively stalk the stats for the first couple hours with a smug confidence and then dance around my apartment completely naked. (totally kidding. just wanted to make sure you're still paying attention.) But lately, I've shrugged my shoulders, grunted out an "ehhh" and walked away from it. No bueno.

Yesterday, I knew I "needed" to blog and wasn't feeling the love on Travel Series Part 3, so I decided to delay it and pull that trick out of my bag next time I'm too hungover to function, let alone create a coherent sentence. So I started mulling around other ideas for a blog post. Do you want to know where I ended up?

Now, I advise you to proceed with caution. You'll probably want to use the next few minutes as a charity write-off for tax purposes, because the levels of my downward spiral are of epic proportions. Call the UN, call Red Cross, call FEMA...heck, call my mom....anyone who can save me.

As I mentioned, I have several writing projects I need to get completed and yet, I came home from my run yesterday morning and spent a good, solid portion of the morning doing this:





Uh huh. That would be a 26 year old woman, of above-average intelligence, with sound mind and body, playing hide and seek with her own fingers.

The worst part of it all? At the time, I actually thought it was pretty clever. When Sean got home, I was excited to show him the pictures. All he could do was look at me with that look of sadness and pity in his eyes and say, "wow, you really missed human interaction today huh?"

Sigh. BloggerFAIL. This writers block is really screwing with my mojo. I came to Starbucks earlier this afternoon in an attempt to do the work I couldn't manage yesterday. It is now 3:51pm. I've been here over 2 hours and have approximately 1 paragraph written for my assignments. Instead, I contemplated what I thought would be a really clever post about how angry I am at Starbucks for allowing me to eat a 425 calorie "granola bar" that in all actuality has a higher fat content than a freaking Krispy Kreme Donut. But when I started writing it, it only came out to be like 3 lines. It went something like this:

Dear Starbucks,

Do not market your "healthy granola bar" filled with sunflower seeds, raisins, and nuts as healthy when you are lying. For 23 grams of fat, I could've been spending the past 2 hours procrastinating over in McDonalds, eating a cheeseburger. at least they have a ball pit to play in.

Love, (not REALLY love. I actually kind of hate you now, but I still have my manners. I am a lady after all.)
Marie

On that note, I am going to leave you now because if I don't stop soon I will end up telling you about my idea to write an entire blog post on Sean's snoring habits...and then where would we be?