Wednesday Bacon: Facts of Life

Posted on May 11, 2016 by tosabarbell

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A) 100 Pounds

Over the years, I’ve trained a few folks who fall under the “morbidly obese” category. Most of us have. Which is why we understand that when a person’s weight gets out of control, it has very little to do with “choices” and more to do with how a person feels about themselves. (Yes, we’ve come into the age where the obese get to shout from the rooftops that they actually feel quite good about themselves and people better just love them as they are and we all say, ‘you go girl.’ I don’t. Because I think they’re full of shit. They’ve admitted that they’re unhealthy; that shitty food makes them happy, and that they’re just waiting for that one person who accepts them for who they are which is really quite easy if you just troll the Dunkin Donuts line each morning.)

Anyways. One particular client of mine had a lot of weight to lose. A lot. She was probably about 130 pounds overweight (overweight is subjective, fuck the BMI. A healthy weight with muscle mass is dependent on the person. This isn’t the Biggest fucking  Loser after all, it’s real life.) We worked together for almost a year before we had to part ways. At the end of the day, I can’t take money from someone month after month for just showing up. That’s how I roll. I’d be richer if I could. I’ve heard other coaches/trainers say it, ‘Dude, who cares what they do in the real world, they just show up a couple times a week and pay me. Rad.’ I can’t.

One of the worst things that could’ve happened to this particular client was that she lost 100 pounds 10 years ago. Looked great; felt great, one of her happiest times. Then it came back, with friends. It took about six months. But byGods she knew that if she really wanted to, she could lose 100 pounds again. Except that she couldn’t. And I couldn’t reach her to just start with five pounds. Let’s take three weeks and lose five pounds. And then another week or two for another 3-5 pounds. Let’s just take this one pound at a time. Nope, when she was ready (she said), she’ll just lose 100 pounds again.

It was heartbreaking. When I work with someone, I’m all in. I’m not a WAC trainer, after all.

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Thumbs up dude. Rad.

Holley Mangold posted on her InstaGram this past weekend that she’s finally accepted that she needs help with her weight. That she’s still recovering from the Biggest Loser and  has used food for more than just fuel. That’s big. Because, to my knowledge, Mrs (she got married a couple weeks ago) Mangold has been very public on how she LOVES to be a big girl. LOVES it. But really not really.

There are many of us who train hard and have athletic goals. So much so that the “and need to lose some weight” dealio gets pushed to the back of the line. Even losing 5-10 pounds off a needed 30 is a a huge victory. But it always starts with one. One pound, probably water weight, but it’s one less than yesterday. And then you shoot for two. And so on. And so on.

Don’t wait for the magical day where 100 pounds will disappear, it doesn’t exist. Start today.

With one.

B.  70 Pounds

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I have no idea why people post lifting videos and then lie about how much weight they’re “lifting.” I don’t get it. Who cares? A 135 pound deadlift is awesome, if that’s what you can do today?!?! Why lie?

But there’s been another rash of videos where the stated weight is quite inflated. Now, sometimes that’s not the lifters fault. There was one video of an Olympic hopeful that had been shared where the person who re-posted it got the weights wrong. (Srsly dude, RED=25kg/BLUE=20kg/YELLOW=15kg/GREEN=10kg. Just add the colors. This isn’t hard and I think almost all math is hard.)

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I imagine your need to impress takes priority over that pesky ‘honesty’ and ‘integrity’ thing and HEY! That’s okay! You go girl. But people can add shit up, quickly, and we know you’re lying. We don’t care. But we know.

Why bother? Lift the weight you can today, that’s awesome. That’s all any of us do. Some days it’s more, some days it’s less. But we’re there, putting in the work. That’s the important part.

Quite honestly, it’s likely I’ll never squat over 160kg. I’d have to train for it and I’m pretty busy training for two different world championships this year neither of which is a squat world championship. I have finite abilities to recover and lifting hard saps my resources. Most importantly; however; is that I don’t care. It’s not the tiger I have my eye on. It’d be cool, sure. Maybe people would take me more seriously as an athlete (heh.) But I have to respect my goals and more importantly, my age and ability.

So if I can walk in the gym and hit a 130kg squat without too much trouble, I’m happy with that. Sure I’d LOVE to be stronger. But I got work to do and squatting or pulling in the PR zone week after week means I do nothing else. So last week I hit one at 105kg and headed out to throw.

Completely unimpressive, eh? Here’s a picture of all the fucks I give:

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Be proud of yourself for the efforts you give. Don’t lie about how much you’re lifting. It makes you look silly and it diminishes the actual work you’re doing.

Plus, ya know, pussy.

C.  Paleo Cookies…

…are still cookies. If you’re a phat, you can’t eat that.

Years ago, my cousin Denise started a gluten-free baking business. She had spent almost two years sick and tired and finally tried a gluten-free diet and has never been sick again (at least with that belly stuff.) She’s strong and awesome and I’m happy that she’s happy and healthy.

Each time I’d visit her house in Woodinville, WA she’d serve up some baked goods that she’d been working on perfecting. I’d take a taste and say, ‘yup.’ But I only got a taste, cuz I’m a phat. And I don’t get cookies. At least, not cookie after cookie.

Paleo cookies are still cookies. Paleo pancakes are still pancakes. Paleo cake is still cake.

Fucking duh. I’ve actually known people who are visibly bloated and inflamed and shout from the rooftops that they’re eating Paleo and they’re SO much healthier.

Ummmm, no. That’s not even remotely how it works. Even the IIFYM crowd admit that they eat clean the majority of the time and use shit here and there for a quick fix.

Duh.

Anyway, don’t play that shit where you make me drag your words outta you. Declare, or shut the fuck up.

Al Swearengen

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Mom’s Prizes

Posted on May 6, 2016 by tosabarbell

*note, yes-I know I’ve mentioned these before. But it’s worth mentioning again. Really.

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I had a fun conversation yesterday with my hair lady about road trips. She and her hubs just took their two kids on a road trip to Nashville and then some beach on the east coast. (No, I don’t remember it’s name. Some Atlantic ocean beach, like the Dells only with bigger and realer waves. I’m a pacific girl myself. Duh.)

Baby #2 was teething the whole way and Mother (Grandma) demanded a stop every 30 minutes to stretch her legs which actually required them to pull the walker out of the back of the car each time making every stop around 20 minutes. Sounds grand, don’t it?

I like road trips. A lot. It feeds the gypsy in me. You get to see ‘merica, pitch a tent and ponder life under the stars. I swear to gods, there are few places better to eat a steak and drink a glass of wine than under the stars.

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This was outside Deadwood, SD. I have no idea how the campsite woke up so tidy when my traveling companion and I finished off the wine’s and the Surly’s; almost burned her boot in the fire (with her foot still in) completely, and lost time. We burned off the hangover with a morning shot of Whiskey in Saloon #10. RIP Wild Bill.

Anyways. Road trips.

When I was little, our road trips were few and far between. We grew up with the Cabin so vacations were there. No complaints on this end, the Cabin was my paradise with the endless supply of beach and swimming and grilling each night. I could’ve done without the bats but what’ev. I survived.

There was a road trip to Seattle for our week stay at Holden Village. As I mentioned in that post, Mama Lynda knows how to road trip. Prizes to keep us engaged; maps to read (does your kid know how to read a map? No? You’ve failed as a parent. Think I’m kidding?)

I was sharing Mom’s prize routine with my hair lady yesterday and she loved it. Said I should “pin it.” I have no idea what that means, okay-I actually kind of do but I’m not going to. The last thing I need to do is get on another social media site, if Pinterest is considered social media. No clue.

I do a version of Mom’s prizes when the bigg guy and I travel together. They come in the form of Snickers bars. It ensures we can still travel together. True story.

Mom’s prizes were the entire reason I’d look forward to a road trip. She did that. Along with other things. She instilled a love for books and reading. I can still remember laying in bed, listening and watching her read Laura Ingalls Wilder books to me. Then Nancy Drew. And when we finished those, I was off to the races reading on my own. It’s kind of ironic that I would get in trouble so often for hiding under my covers with a flashlight trying to finish a book at night.

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I learned how to play the piano from Mom. I learned to love animals from mom (when I was four or five, our Chinese Pug got hit by a car in front of our house. I still remember the woman who hit her and my mom, who had Gittle cradled on her lap, sitting on the living room floor crying. Gittle made it through and lived a happy 12 years more. Go Gittle.)

My love of church choirs and the sounds of church organs comes from Mom. When I moved to Milwaukee I met a local organist at a barbell seminar and we hit his recitals here and there. It’s awesome. I learned how to make Kraft Macaroni and Cheese from my mom (she doesn’t like to cook. I do, so I’ve moved on from there and would probably have to read the box now to make Mac’n’cheese but I remember her most important tip: always double the butter. Ya buddy.)

I learned to support your siblings from mom as she’d drag us from activity to activity. I learned never to sass off  to mom when I was hung over and bending over to wash my hair in the kitchen sink. Cuz that slap across the back of my head (well deserved I’d say) made my head ring for the rest of the day. Teaching the daughter a lesson in respect: nailed it!

I learned how to expect to be treated as a wife and a mother from mom. Well, dad played a part in that too I guess. Things mom’s never do or “just wait until your dad gets home:”

Shovel snow. Ever.

Do the dishes. Ever.

Yell at you more than once to get something done.

Carry in groceries.

Mow lawn. Ever. I seriously have never seen my mother mow lawn.

Grill. I seriously have never seen my mother start the Weber (don’t even THINK of bringing up a gas grill to my dad. Ever.)

And the list continues. Now, I was a single mom so I did all that but my kids were helpers. Still are. And up until we moved away, I still tried to make sure my mom didn’t do those things if I had time to run over there and dad was busy. (Note: Dad was always busy.)

When we were in Florida this past March for Matt’s sister’s wedding, it struck me while I watched his mom that it’s been years and years since she’s had a chance to be “the daughter.” That made me sad for her, and all other mothers I care for in the same situation. Being the daughter is easy, well, easier than being the mom. You get to be right about everything and just blame the mom for how she’s wrong and fucked you up because of it. EZPZ.

Heh.

I believe one of the hardest realizations for an adult daughter or son is to realize that their mother isn’t everything you once thought she was. She comes to you a generation ahead with added baggage; insecurities; past failures that could reach all the back to childhood; hurts and fears; frustrations that have nothing to do with you; a need to belong, to fit in, to be appreciated. If she’s spent the last 40 years being treated as a doormat from her husband and children, even more so.

But for the most part, for the good ones anyways, she’d walk through fire (and probably has in more ways than you know) for you. She tried. And for the majority of us, that must be enough. To expect anything more is dick. Don’t be Dick.

And for those of us who are daughters AND mother’s…well, cut yourself some slack. You’ll fuck up, believe me. You’ll fuck up. Do your best; say sorry, and try. The majority of relationships that fail (barring abuse) do so simply from lack of trying.

So thanks Mom. For your prizes. All of them.

When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.

Sophia Loren

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Yo Dad, You Da Man.

Posted on April 12, 2016 by tosabarbell
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photo credit: Keith Bedford/Boston Globe

Meet Fred Vantour. Overnight shift custodian at Boston College. 62. Married. 5 kids. Fred has been working since he was 14 years old, cuz that’s what kids do. Or did.

In 1994 he started working as a cook at Boston College and eventually moved to the night shift to clean Robsham theater which gave him better pay and the ability to heal up his bad back and carpal tunnel that had developed while he was in the kitchen.

Oh. His overnight job also put his five kids through college. Five. Through college. While the kids had to do the work with their grades and sports in high school in order to be accepted into the school, the employee discount accounts for nearly $55,000 of the $61,000 price tag for BC. And this spring, his youngest daughter is graduating.

Yo Dad, you da man.

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photo credit: Keith Bedford/Boston Globe

However, this story isn’t about the dad; at least, not completely. It’s about the kids. Alicia, Amy, Michael, John, and Tom. Who watched their pop year after year go to work as they got ready for bed and STILL was plugged into sports, school, and whatever else needed attention (including I assume, his marriage since they are still married.) And they didn’t let it go to waste.

I like a story from this article  about how one son, Michael, went to see his dad with some friends after a party on campus. He wasn’t afraid to show his pals that his dad pushed a cleaning cart at night and even said, ‘this is why I can afford to go to this school.’ One of his friends got so verklempt that he hugged the elder Vantour. Pretty cute. (Papa Ventour also says that the kids would come see him at night with loads of dirty laundry to take home. Kids gotta be kids.)

I did not grow up with money. I remember clear as day, while in junior high school, when my dad received a raise that brought his yearly pastoral salary past $30,000 and it was a BIG deal! Which meant if I wanted “stuff” I bought it myself. At 10 years old I was babysitting and by the time I was 12 I was busy enough to have to turn my own mom down to watch my 6 year old sister. These days if you left a 12 year old home alone with your kids you’d be carted into CPS only AFTER being crucified on the Facebook. True story.

My parents worked hard. Long hours and if I wanted to be a complete brat I could complain that the people of the church always took priority for my dad over us. But I’m 49 and not a brat. I’m just really proud to have two incredibly hard working parents (workaholics actually, something that I did NOT inherit from them. I like my downtime. Netflix days are the bomb and I’m unapologetic about it.) They instilled in their kids that we need to work. And we did.

And then WE had kids. I remember one spring day as I was doing something around the house the phone rang. My then 14 year old son was on the other line and asked if I’d come down to the McDonald’s with his Social Security card and sign a piece of paper saying I agree to let him hold a job. My response? ‘Uhhhhh dude, I thought you were out riding your bike?’ Yup. He biked the two miles (CLEAR across town) to the Mickey D’s and got his first job. Of course I signed the paper. He was slated to turn 15 soon and was making his own money. (We won’t go into details on how HORRIBLE he was and is with his money, I need to bask in the past a bit.) All my kids work. Zandra will work herself to sick if allowed and even though she is going through a rough patch right now I’m hoping she’s willing to get on track when opportunity arises.

My nieces and nephews also work as they are able given their ages and I’m proud of all of them. There is nothing I abhor more than an ungrateful kid (or adult for that matter.) To lay on the couch while people around you are doing work didn’t happen in my house (or if it did, just WAIT until Dad got home and got wind of it.) We had chores. Our kids have chores (don’t care how old they are, if they’re at Mom’s house they’ll have chores.) If you think there’s nothing to do around the house other than what mom is doing is a lazy way of saying I don’t want to help make my environment better. It’s bullshit and I could never respect someone for going through life like that. Even worse is the parents who don’t want their kids working or even doing chores because THEY had to work hard and don’t want that for their children. What utter and complete failures.

But not the five kids of Fred Vantour.

It’s what I like best about the story of the overnight janitor. His children recognized the work; did what THEY needed to do, and are grateful. I guess you can’t ask for much more than that as a parent.

It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn’t use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like, “what about lunch?”

A.A. Milne

 

 

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For The Record

Posted on April 9, 2016 by tosabarbell

ftr

Just to clarify some things for those that don’t know me very well.

First, my name is Juli Peterson and live in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. My phone number is on the page info. If you have a question, text me (I hate talking on the phone mostly because I have a hard time hearing.) If you want to accuse me of anything, call me (I’ll talk to you live for that.) If you want to call me names, bring it. I may agree if it’s a cool enough name.

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Secondly, I fail. I fail during competition; I fail as a wife; as a mother, and overall just fail at being a good person at times. I also am wrong, sometimes. Heh. I have never claimed to be something I’m not. I also succeed, a lot. Because I work hard and try to be conscious of my behavior. But sometimes I fail. I’m cool with that. You don’t have to accuse me of being a failure, I’m not one. But yes, I do fail in various attempts to be better.

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I’m older and fatter than yesterday (actually I’ve dropped a few L.B.’s from being sick but overall, yup.) You don’t have to call me old or fat and think you’re dropping some type of knowledge bomb, I have mirrors and am able to count birthdays. I’m 49 and weighed in last week at my weightlifting meet at 103.2 (the scale would jump from 103 to 103.2 to 103.7 so I tried to stand where it said 103. I gotta be me.) There, now we all know. Isn’t it nice that I show up on competition day to get weighed and then to perform on a platform in front of people and my weight is public knowledge? (I try to lie “up” on my drivers license saying I weigh 275 but they won’t let me. So I lie “down” to 200. I think that’s BS but whatev.)

Anyways.

Also, as one fellow thrower learned yesterday, I don’t hide nor do I shy away from confrontation. I don’t like it, I know that will surprise some folks cuz I’m kinda feisty, but I don’t like confrontation. I would much rather have a civil discussion and if I’m wrong or abrupt I can apologize in person. But when someone goes to the trouble of friend requesting me on FB after (IMO) a little temper tantrum on another Forum, I thought to myself, hmmmm, why would he do this? But then I looked at pictures of his kids and thought, “hey, someone with kids this cute can’t be all bad” and I accepted the request.

This is where I need to remember to screen shot my computer. Because the new FB friend zone was initiated to call me out on being an internet warrior; hiding behind the internet (uhhhh, my log in name on the forum is Juli Peterson. I guess I could give my blood type but in absence of that I don’t know how to be more clear on who I am), and that my post was “self-serving.” Well dang, that seems like a rough start to a friendship but okay. We all get to have opinions.

 

So I shared mine on the thread. A) I don’t hide. I’m right here. B) It was a good discussion on the throwing forum that stayed professional and respectful until, IMO, YOU showed up and got upset about something that had nothing to do with the post. C) Calling ME out on the internet on a completely different public forum just so your buddies could agree with you is a bit ironic but ya, it worked. All your buddies agreed with you. You da man. Congrats. I also gave my phone number and said to call to discuss further and we can cut out that pesky, public internet middleman.

Well, I didn’t get a call. I DID get unfriended and, I’m only assuming, my post was removed.

And in my view (my blog, my opinion) this “fellow thrower” will always be a pussy. Uhhh, when calling out someone for hiding behind their computer and then they show up and say, “hey dude, I’m right here let’s chat” and then you remove their ability to keep chatting: you’re a pussy. You know it. I know it. Your little buddies may not know it but who cares, you’re the one who looks in the mirror and deep down know you’re a pussy. I’ll be meeting you again on the field. That smirk I’m wearing, you now know where it’s coming from.

Oh, lastly a “for the record” about me: I’m not afraid to call you a pussy on the internet. I showed up. I didn’t hide. You did.

’nuff said.

My life is my message.

Gandhi

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