I don't have a drop of Irish or any other Celtic blood in me, kids, though occasionally people assume I do. It's the fish-belly white skin and the freckles. Nevertheless I thought it would be culturally relevant to post some Highland Game videos in Celtic solidarity and appreciation of freakish feats of strength and, y'know, probable drunkenness. Plus, big guys in kilts. ::drool::
Sadly, though I could probably watch a man in a kilt do just about anything, finding good youtube clips has been difficult. Many of them are, well, badly, badly filmed. (I blame this on, uh, whiskey.) And then badly, badly edited. (Probably more whiskey.) In searching for these, I had to take it back--I canNOT watch a man in a kilt do *anything*. I was nexting videos left and right. What a sad comedown. Nevertheless, let me share a bit:
That one's hilarious because apparently--correct me if I am mistaken--these Games were held in Austria. Is there a big ex-pat population there or are those Austrians just looking for another excuse to go drinking outdoors? Don't answer that. Just enjoy the music.
Nothing phallic about that sport, is there?
Competitive hay bailing is apparently a thing. Who knew? ::cough:: whiskey ::cough:: Also? Someone ought to tell the guy who wanders into the shot wearing a cowboy hat with his kilt that he looks like a douche.
I'd respect those guys more if they hadn't pansied out and worn bike shorts under the kilt. Eh. Maybe it was a rule or something. Goddamn Establishment always bringing me down, man.
Okay, seriously, that's a nicely produced overview of the kind of thing they do. I like the hammer throw. I myself would, like, clock myself in the head the first time I tried it and my illustrious career would come to a screeching halt.
And now, to be culturally appropriate to my own heritage (and just because I lurve her so very, very much), here's a tiny little Polish chick with ethnically-congruent thighs lifting some heavy-ass weight.
Enjoy whatever heavy-object-lifting or whiskey-imbibing projects you have planned, kids!
xoxo
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
in which i try new things, part 1
I have a confession to make.
Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It's been 35 years since my last confession and these are my-- Oh, wait. Father, do you need to use the restroom? Maybe get a bottle of water or a small snack? Because we'll probably be here for awhile...
No, no, no, no. Not that kind of confession. Though, parenthetically, I have to admit that it amuses and somewhat scares me that even though I have not attended church on any kind of regular basis since 1977 (i.e. when I got old enough that my parents stopped forcing me to go), I can still pretty much recite any of the Catholic liturgy (or at least the 70s versions thereof) by heart, while I am no longer able to access the parts of my brain that contain any math over Algebra I, most conversational Spanish beyond cooing to frightened toddlers "no duele, papi, no duele!", or what I had for lunch two days ago without looking back in fitday. If only I could remember everything I've actually learned at one time or another, I'd be almost as smaht as I think I am.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. My confession: I don't hate cardio.
Now, the whole past month of January when I was doing shit like 45 minutes or an hour of cardio after lifting in my quest to make the Random Number Generator (by which I mean to say, my scale) move in a downward direction, I hated it. Anything done because you feel you must do it, rather than because it's fun or challenging or feels good, automatically turns into a duty and is thus unpleasant. Well, except for duty sex, which usually turns out pretty well. But I'm a freak, so maybe that's just me. Forgive me, father, for I have--oh, never mind. (Damn. I think I promised Elsewhere that this post wasn't gonna devolve into a discussion of sex. At least there's no further Billy Squier in here. YET. Count your blessings, readers, count 'em.)
Cardio also usually sucks at its beginning. There's usually an element of boredom or discomfort for a bit until the chemical soup of endorphins gets stirred up, at which time everything gets Much More Pleasant. Back when I was doing Couch to 5k, an online acquaintance who was a serious runner said something to me that I will never forget. She said that the first mile almost always sucks. This was in the context of a conversation in which she posited that as one's runs get longer, they get more enjoyable. If you can only run a mile and a half, and the first mile sucks, then 2/3rds of your run was just torture. But once you can go five miles, well, your ratio of "sucks ballz" to "is fun!" has changed to 20/80. I am probably not nor will I probably ever be enough of a runner to completely validate or invalidate her theory for myself, but that conversation has gotten me to push on many times when a half mile in I've wanted to stop. I think almost all cardio is like that. Push past the initial unpleasantness and then suddenly--oh! not unpleasant any more!
But, yeah, I don't hate cardio in general. If you've read the post about my past gym-going history, you'll know that the first time I was a gym rat, circa late 80s, early 90s, I did a lot of cardio. Everyone did. That, and eat rice cakes. It was part of the zeitgeist. But now, of course, exercise fads--um, I mean scientific thinking about exercise has changed, and there's been a backlash against cardio. Do too much and it will actually make you fat! Or at least it will keep you from getting the body of your dreams. I'll admit, I read NROLFW and at least partially swallowed that koolaid. But initially severely reducing the amount of cardio I did during my first bulk made me realize: I feel sluggish and crappy when I'm doing none. And adding some back in didn't cause the world to stop spinning on its axis. So I spit the koolaid back out.
One little bit of that metaphorical koolaid stayed in my belleh, though, and that was a wee sense of sneering superiority over the Cardio Bunnies. I mean, let's be real. Is it more badass to deadlift or to go to Cardio Kickboxing? (Real kickboxing where you might end up bloody? That's in the badass column, OBVS.) So while I was happy to do my time on the treadmill, or walk or run outdoors, or even use the recumbent bikes (the ones beloved by my old dude admirers at the Y who are generally amused/horrified/entertained by my Tuesday afternoon power rack adventures!), I steered clear of the one cardio machine that epitomized for me, probably unfairly, the Cardio Bunny stereotype. I refused to get on an elliptical.
Well. Yesterday I decided that was silly. Yesterday I decided that trying it would not automatically shrivel up my metaphorical balls. (I mean, actual dudes*** use them too, and it doesn't seem to affect their reproductive abilities.) I got on an elliptical. And then I almost fell off it. Oh, hush. Getting the right rhythm down was trickier than it looked, and until I did, it was *not* advisable to look down at what my feet were doing. But get the rhythm down I did, and you know what? It was freaking *fun*. Bouncy! Like a little trampoline action going on there. And I got sweaty and endorphined-out as hell. Will do again! Without embarrassment. (Um, unless I do actually fall off. Look for that on youtube.)
Cardio bunnies of the world? I guess I owe all y'all an apology!
xoxo
***I hate that I apparently have this ingrained bit of sexism that is equating certain traditionally male activities as cool and certain traditionally female activities as wussy. Not true. There are traditionally unisex activities that are far too hardcore for me to ever attempt, like say, marathon running. And there are traditionally female (at least in America) activities like yoga that I rage at people considering wussy. If you think yoga is easy, you've never attempted it.
Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It's been 35 years since my last confession and these are my-- Oh, wait. Father, do you need to use the restroom? Maybe get a bottle of water or a small snack? Because we'll probably be here for awhile...
No, no, no, no. Not that kind of confession. Though, parenthetically, I have to admit that it amuses and somewhat scares me that even though I have not attended church on any kind of regular basis since 1977 (i.e. when I got old enough that my parents stopped forcing me to go), I can still pretty much recite any of the Catholic liturgy (or at least the 70s versions thereof) by heart, while I am no longer able to access the parts of my brain that contain any math over Algebra I, most conversational Spanish beyond cooing to frightened toddlers "no duele, papi, no duele!", or what I had for lunch two days ago without looking back in fitday. If only I could remember everything I've actually learned at one time or another, I'd be almost as smaht as I think I am.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. My confession: I don't hate cardio.
Now, the whole past month of January when I was doing shit like 45 minutes or an hour of cardio after lifting in my quest to make the Random Number Generator (by which I mean to say, my scale) move in a downward direction, I hated it. Anything done because you feel you must do it, rather than because it's fun or challenging or feels good, automatically turns into a duty and is thus unpleasant. Well, except for duty sex, which usually turns out pretty well. But I'm a freak, so maybe that's just me. Forgive me, father, for I have--oh, never mind. (Damn. I think I promised Elsewhere that this post wasn't gonna devolve into a discussion of sex. At least there's no further Billy Squier in here. YET. Count your blessings, readers, count 'em.)
Cardio also usually sucks at its beginning. There's usually an element of boredom or discomfort for a bit until the chemical soup of endorphins gets stirred up, at which time everything gets Much More Pleasant. Back when I was doing Couch to 5k, an online acquaintance who was a serious runner said something to me that I will never forget. She said that the first mile almost always sucks. This was in the context of a conversation in which she posited that as one's runs get longer, they get more enjoyable. If you can only run a mile and a half, and the first mile sucks, then 2/3rds of your run was just torture. But once you can go five miles, well, your ratio of "sucks ballz" to "is fun!" has changed to 20/80. I am probably not nor will I probably ever be enough of a runner to completely validate or invalidate her theory for myself, but that conversation has gotten me to push on many times when a half mile in I've wanted to stop. I think almost all cardio is like that. Push past the initial unpleasantness and then suddenly--oh! not unpleasant any more!
But, yeah, I don't hate cardio in general. If you've read the post about my past gym-going history, you'll know that the first time I was a gym rat, circa late 80s, early 90s, I did a lot of cardio. Everyone did. That, and eat rice cakes. It was part of the zeitgeist. But now, of course, exercise fads--um, I mean scientific thinking about exercise has changed, and there's been a backlash against cardio. Do too much and it will actually make you fat! Or at least it will keep you from getting the body of your dreams. I'll admit, I read NROLFW and at least partially swallowed that koolaid. But initially severely reducing the amount of cardio I did during my first bulk made me realize: I feel sluggish and crappy when I'm doing none. And adding some back in didn't cause the world to stop spinning on its axis. So I spit the koolaid back out.
One little bit of that metaphorical koolaid stayed in my belleh, though, and that was a wee sense of sneering superiority over the Cardio Bunnies. I mean, let's be real. Is it more badass to deadlift or to go to Cardio Kickboxing? (Real kickboxing where you might end up bloody? That's in the badass column, OBVS.) So while I was happy to do my time on the treadmill, or walk or run outdoors, or even use the recumbent bikes (the ones beloved by my old dude admirers at the Y who are generally amused/horrified/entertained by my Tuesday afternoon power rack adventures!), I steered clear of the one cardio machine that epitomized for me, probably unfairly, the Cardio Bunny stereotype. I refused to get on an elliptical.
Well. Yesterday I decided that was silly. Yesterday I decided that trying it would not automatically shrivel up my metaphorical balls. (I mean, actual dudes*** use them too, and it doesn't seem to affect their reproductive abilities.) I got on an elliptical. And then I almost fell off it. Oh, hush. Getting the right rhythm down was trickier than it looked, and until I did, it was *not* advisable to look down at what my feet were doing. But get the rhythm down I did, and you know what? It was freaking *fun*. Bouncy! Like a little trampoline action going on there. And I got sweaty and endorphined-out as hell. Will do again! Without embarrassment. (Um, unless I do actually fall off. Look for that on youtube.)
Cardio bunnies of the world? I guess I owe all y'all an apology!
xoxo
***I hate that I apparently have this ingrained bit of sexism that is equating certain traditionally male activities as cool and certain traditionally female activities as wussy. Not true. There are traditionally unisex activities that are far too hardcore for me to ever attempt, like say, marathon running. And there are traditionally female (at least in America) activities like yoga that I rage at people considering wussy. If you think yoga is easy, you've never attempted it.
Monday, February 27, 2012
the pump
Did you enjoy that little musical interlude? You should have. It's a great song. Duh. Now, onto some actual fitness-related content.
Yesterday, approximately 20 minutes into my workout, my forearms looked like this:
Um, minus the anchor tattoos. And the over-sized fists. But, kids, I had such muscle pump going in my forearms that they hurt. I felt as if my forearm muscles were going to burst my skin open, they were so full and tight. The flexors, the extensors, the brachioradialis, all of 'em. Pumped like a mofo. While it was uncomfortable--and messed with my grip--it was also amusing. So I thought I would explore the concept of the muscle pump a little.
Basically, muscle pump is when blood fills the muscle faster than it can be cleared, causing congestion. Many people love getting a good pump. For one thing, it makes your muscles look bigger than they actually are. Also, just like getting DOMS, many people feel obtaining a pump means they had an excellent, effective workout, even though lack of a pump (or DOMS) doesn't actually mean your workout sucked. But is the pump actually good for anything other than making your muscles look pretty in the gym mirrors or (if you're me) amusing you? Opinions seem to be divided!
ExRx.net has this to say: "Bodybuilders commonly perform pumping-up exercises before appearing on stage to make their muscles appear fuller. For most of us there is no real benefit from achieving a pump (except for boosting your ego)."
Tom Venuto would disagree: "... if you’re interested in bodybuilding or physique development, then maximum pump can be very beneficial.
Most bodybuilders and even most exercise physiologists would agree that workouts that produce maximum pump can provide up to 20-25% of the increase in muscle size. This comes from sarcoplasmic and mitochondrial hypertrophy and increased capillarization. Sarcoplasmic hypertrophy looks good and is beneficial to bodybuilders, but you do tend to lose it more quickly with de-training."
And here's a dude who thinks muscle pump is so crucial, it's like an orgasm. "Most people that workout with weights and do not achieve this, are almost defeating the whole purpose of training. The pump can almost be referred to as a sexual climax because the same thing is happening. Blood is rushing into the muscle, therefore creating a wonderful feeling of increased circulation."
I don't even...
If you fall into the camp that believes muscle pump is actually an important goal to achieve every workout, well, there are lots of supplements that you can take to help you along! There's nitric oxide, a vasodilator that increases blood flow. (Kinda like Viagra? Huh. There's that orgasm thing again.) Nitric oxide is apparently generated from the amino acid l-arginine, so the two are often combined. Interestingly enough, wikipedia (which nevah lies) tells me l-argitine is necessary for the synthesis of creatine as well, and we all know how I feel about creatine, right, boys n' girls? Plus, wikipedia informs, arginine has also been used in the treatment of erectile dysfunction. Ohhhh, it's all coming together here. This must be why guys are so attached to the muscle pump. It simulates getting an erection. Or something.
Seriously? The feeling I had in my forearms yesterday? THAT'S what it feels like to all y'all when you've got a boner? Once again I must say: huh. I am so glad I was born with girl parts. In the immortal words of Elaine Benes, I don't know how you guys walk around with those things.
But since we've wandered off of today's fitness topic, lemme give you another music video that's on point.
You're welcome!
xoxo
Thursday, February 23, 2012
squat like an egyptian
It occurs to me that if Egypt is not in fact considered a third world country, I will have insulted and disrespected any Egyptians who wander through. I apologize in advance. I find it impossible to resist a blog title that amuses me or the opportunity to post tangentially related music video. Nothing against you, country of Egypt.
Okay! Now that the disclaimers are out of the way, go read this article and then return. Those of you who finish before the rest of the class because you're in the highest reading group or because you skimmed OR because you already did your pre-blog homework and read it when I linked it elsewhere, get to watch this.
Shut up. It's a reward, not a punishment.
Now let's discuss the article referenced above. I went into it thinking, yeah yeah yeah, easy peasy. My posterior chain is well activated! I'm reading Rippetoe right now and was reassured to learn the fact that my glutes, hammies, and adductors hurt more than my quads after squat day is *a good thing*.
Rip and Martha both think so. My posterior chain does what it's supposed to. Apparently. And not to mention, but I am the princess of hip flexor stretches. I may ignore many other parts of my body that need loosening, but I do keep my hips open.
So, yeah, I went into this exercise thinking I would ace it. How humiliating to find that if I attempt it the way the author proscribes, I go immediately onto my toes. The only way I can go into a deep squat with my heels flat on the ground is to spread my legs far, far wider than shoulder width apart. And even then, my feet roll to the outside edge. Damn you, 21st century!
Just like dips on the kitchen counters and kegels, this is something I'ma have to incorporate into my daily life. Can't hurt!
xoxo
Okay! Now that the disclaimers are out of the way, go read this article and then return. Those of you who finish before the rest of the class because you're in the highest reading group or because you skimmed OR because you already did your pre-blog homework and read it when I linked it elsewhere, get to watch this.
Shut up. It's a reward, not a punishment.
Now let's discuss the article referenced above. I went into it thinking, yeah yeah yeah, easy peasy. My posterior chain is well activated! I'm reading Rippetoe right now and was reassured to learn the fact that my glutes, hammies, and adductors hurt more than my quads after squat day is *a good thing*.
Rip and Martha both think so. My posterior chain does what it's supposed to. Apparently. And not to mention, but I am the princess of hip flexor stretches. I may ignore many other parts of my body that need loosening, but I do keep my hips open.
So, yeah, I went into this exercise thinking I would ace it. How humiliating to find that if I attempt it the way the author proscribes, I go immediately onto my toes. The only way I can go into a deep squat with my heels flat on the ground is to spread my legs far, far wider than shoulder width apart. And even then, my feet roll to the outside edge. Damn you, 21st century!
Just like dips on the kitchen counters and kegels, this is something I'ma have to incorporate into my daily life. Can't hurt!
xoxo
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
foam, the other white meat
Here are some foam rolling videos I have painstakingly youtubed for your edification. Alright, alright, for *my* edification so that when the damn thing comes in the mail. I'll know where to begin.
I foresee wearing the new sports bra that really straps those puppies down while doing this one, or I predict an inadvertent boob injury. (Note: inadvertent is one of those words I like that has no antonym even though it should. There's no such word as "advertent." Also? Even if there were, who would have an advertent boob injury? Um, don't answer that.)
This one's gonna hurt. The last time I had a massage, I almost started crying when the MT started working on my IT band. I had no idea it was that tight till she began messing with it!
That looks a lil tricky, but getting at the psoas always is!
Back to this chick again. Apparently she's foam rolled her entire body for our viewing pleasure.
Dude gets extra points for mentioning the QLs, my favorite muscles no one's ever heard of. Also for the hood of his hoodie getting in his way, because you *know* I've been there.
But, look! Dr Ben Kim wants to specifically target our QLs. Atta boy! (Do we think that's Mrs Dr Kim modeling?)
Mrs Dr Kim wants to save us from our neck pain as well!
Okay, I think I've got the basics down here. Doesn't look like one needs a college degree or even a massage school diploma to work this shiz. Luckily, I've got both just in case. Happy rolling, y'all!
xoxo
I foresee wearing the new sports bra that really straps those puppies down while doing this one, or I predict an inadvertent boob injury. (Note: inadvertent is one of those words I like that has no antonym even though it should. There's no such word as "advertent." Also? Even if there were, who would have an advertent boob injury? Um, don't answer that.)
This one's gonna hurt. The last time I had a massage, I almost started crying when the MT started working on my IT band. I had no idea it was that tight till she began messing with it!
That looks a lil tricky, but getting at the psoas always is!
Back to this chick again. Apparently she's foam rolled her entire body for our viewing pleasure.
Dude gets extra points for mentioning the QLs, my favorite muscles no one's ever heard of. Also for the hood of his hoodie getting in his way, because you *know* I've been there.
But, look! Dr Ben Kim wants to specifically target our QLs. Atta boy! (Do we think that's Mrs Dr Kim modeling?)
Mrs Dr Kim wants to save us from our neck pain as well!
Okay, I think I've got the basics down here. Doesn't look like one needs a college degree or even a massage school diploma to work this shiz. Luckily, I've got both just in case. Happy rolling, y'all!
xoxo
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
valentine's day in andrea's fitness land
I owe all y'all a post on my homework, but that will have to wait. Because I didn't do it. My homework, that is. My fitness horizons have remained un-widened. It's not my fault, I swear. Other things keep coming up. Like, you know, my job n' shit. As much as I would like to blow off work for my readers' entertainment, Nationalgrid and Verizon and the city demand I pay those bills they send me. God. There's hope for tomorrow, however! Stay tuned.
Meanwhile, let's talk about what I bought today. I wanted to buy myself a Valentine's Day gift because, face it, I'm awesome. It's not my fault no one else appreciates that. (Don't you go telling me people *who do their fitness homework* all have adoring lovers who send them flowers and jewelry and, I dunno, vats of whey. I refuse to believe it.) My first thought was to break down and buy my microplates. But this morning I had another thought. You see, I stepped on my scale three times and got three different numbers. I counted the one I liked best. Duh. It then occurred to me that, aha! perhaps the reason that I have been so frustrated with the scale number of late is because my scale isn't really working properly anymore. I mean, it is somewhere around 15 years old. When I had to replace the battery last year--for probably the first time--I found it was a 9V. You know what else has a 9V battery? My garage door remote. Which is also over 15 years old. I'm not sure new things are made with those these days. Also, my scale while digital, only shows pounds. It's 120 or 117 or 113, not 116.4. Which is kind of good, in my opinion. I've seen people throw fits because they were up .6 lbs, an amount that could be taken care of by taking a hearty dump, y'know? But, anyway, point is: my scale's an antique.
So I decided my gift to me would be a new, presumably more accurate scale. The fact that I could well weigh 5 pounds more on it did not escape my consideration, but I figured that's the chance I'ma have to take. I went on amazon to peruse my options. Searching for bathroom scale returned 1,164 choices. Seriously. 1,164. And some of them had thousands of customer reviews. In one case, 4800 reviews. I find it hard to believe that almost five thousand people had such strong feelings about a scale, they were moved to write a coherent paragraph or two praising or damning it, but then again I'm getting a whole damn blog post outta this business.
There are mega-expensive bathroom scales that (inaccurately) give you your bodyfat percentage. There are scales that will weigh you even if you weigh over 400 lbs. There's even a scale that talks to you. Apparently this is for when you are too hefty to be able to see the scale's readout. No comment. Okay--one comment. If I were that fat, I think I would prefer to use a balance beam type scale with the weight reading in front of me rather than listen to my talking appliance remind me that I'm 476 lbs today. But I guess we're all different. There's a wifi scale that will transmit your weight to your phone or computer where it will then make pretty graphs for you. There are glass-topped scales and backlit scales and scales with large print readouts. There are scales that run on AAA batteries and scales that run on lithium ion batteries.
Well.
I went old skool.
No batteries required. No talking. No wifi. 4 1/2 stars on amazon. 24 bucks. And then I bought the foam roller I've been wanting. That will be another post on its own! Promises, promises.
xoxo
Meanwhile, let's talk about what I bought today. I wanted to buy myself a Valentine's Day gift because, face it, I'm awesome. It's not my fault no one else appreciates that. (Don't you go telling me people *who do their fitness homework* all have adoring lovers who send them flowers and jewelry and, I dunno, vats of whey. I refuse to believe it.) My first thought was to break down and buy my microplates. But this morning I had another thought. You see, I stepped on my scale three times and got three different numbers. I counted the one I liked best. Duh. It then occurred to me that, aha! perhaps the reason that I have been so frustrated with the scale number of late is because my scale isn't really working properly anymore. I mean, it is somewhere around 15 years old. When I had to replace the battery last year--for probably the first time--I found it was a 9V. You know what else has a 9V battery? My garage door remote. Which is also over 15 years old. I'm not sure new things are made with those these days. Also, my scale while digital, only shows pounds. It's 120 or 117 or 113, not 116.4. Which is kind of good, in my opinion. I've seen people throw fits because they were up .6 lbs, an amount that could be taken care of by taking a hearty dump, y'know? But, anyway, point is: my scale's an antique.
So I decided my gift to me would be a new, presumably more accurate scale. The fact that I could well weigh 5 pounds more on it did not escape my consideration, but I figured that's the chance I'ma have to take. I went on amazon to peruse my options. Searching for bathroom scale returned 1,164 choices. Seriously. 1,164. And some of them had thousands of customer reviews. In one case, 4800 reviews. I find it hard to believe that almost five thousand people had such strong feelings about a scale, they were moved to write a coherent paragraph or two praising or damning it, but then again I'm getting a whole damn blog post outta this business.
There are mega-expensive bathroom scales that (inaccurately) give you your bodyfat percentage. There are scales that will weigh you even if you weigh over 400 lbs. There's even a scale that talks to you. Apparently this is for when you are too hefty to be able to see the scale's readout. No comment. Okay--one comment. If I were that fat, I think I would prefer to use a balance beam type scale with the weight reading in front of me rather than listen to my talking appliance remind me that I'm 476 lbs today. But I guess we're all different. There's a wifi scale that will transmit your weight to your phone or computer where it will then make pretty graphs for you. There are glass-topped scales and backlit scales and scales with large print readouts. There are scales that run on AAA batteries and scales that run on lithium ion batteries.
Well.
I went old skool.
No batteries required. No talking. No wifi. 4 1/2 stars on amazon. 24 bucks. And then I bought the foam roller I've been wanting. That will be another post on its own! Promises, promises.
xoxo
Monday, January 30, 2012
vile calumny and slander
Have you heard about the anti-cheese billboards in NY state? They were placed by the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine, a group whose agenda is vegan and who have heavy ties with PETA. Their contention that cheese makes you fatty fat fat therefore is less motivated by concerns about your health, dear consumer, and more motivated by their animal rights political agenda.
Well. We all know how I feel about cheese, don't we kids? When I first heard about those billboards at the end of last week, I pulled out my camera to document what cheese I had in my house. Note: end of week=running low on groceries.
There was good ol' white trash Land O' Lakes white American from the deli for cheeseburgers:
There was a hunk of champagne cheddar, bought after I tasted a sample on a Costco run with a friend:
And there was string cheese, a staple of my diet:
There was also a tiny bit of part skim ricotta left in the tub, which I unfortunately didn't photograph.
I did, however, photograph myself this weekend.
See how fatty fat fat my cheese-filled diet has made me?
Suck it, PCRM.
xoxo
Well. We all know how I feel about cheese, don't we kids? When I first heard about those billboards at the end of last week, I pulled out my camera to document what cheese I had in my house. Note: end of week=running low on groceries.
There was shredded parm:
There were goat cheese crumbles for my salads:
There were babybels, which no one has been eating because we only like the yellow or orange ones actually:
There were goat cheese crumbles for my salads:
There were babybels, which no one has been eating because we only like the yellow or orange ones actually:
There was good ol' white trash Land O' Lakes white American from the deli for cheeseburgers:
There was a hunk of champagne cheddar, bought after I tasted a sample on a Costco run with a friend:
And there was string cheese, a staple of my diet:
There was also a tiny bit of part skim ricotta left in the tub, which I unfortunately didn't photograph.
I did, however, photograph myself this weekend.
See how fatty fat fat my cheese-filled diet has made me?
Suck it, PCRM.
xoxo
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