Tag: sweat

Walking Into Spider-Friends

I foolishly allowed myself to give in to temptation today. Yes, I attempted not one, but two social media debates today. Hi, I’m Sammi Steeves, and I’m an addict.

I don’t even know why I allow myself to get caught up in these things. First and foremost, I love a good debate. My best friend can attest, as she has seen her husband and me battle it out well into the night. However, there is a difference between a debate, and just repeatedly slamming your head against concrete…which is what “debating” on social media usually gets me.

So, while I allow my blood to stop boiling, and let my blood pressure drop below the we’re all going to die level, let’s discuss spiders.

I know. What?! I’ve lost it…possibly.

Yesterday morning went like most. I woke up to Rufus grumbling and bringing me pants (which actually belonged to me AND weren’t sweaty and gross, so we’re making progress on that front). I went downstairs, and opened the garage to feed the–spider?!

When you live in the south, you have to pick and choose what terrifies you. Spiders now fall into two categories: Spiders that might want to kill you, and spiders that can be my friends. Wolf spiders fall into the “friends” category……most of the time.

This friendly neighborhood spider-friend was a little more than I was willing to handle at 5:30 in the morning. I am not exaggerating when I say he would have filled the entire palm of my hand, and I have pretty decent sized hands!

I have concerns…also, I brought you this sock I found. I believe you wore it to mow the lawn.

I froze. I looked at him (or her–how do you even know); it looked at me. I looked at the container of dog food, and then back at Rufus, who was looking extra concerned about the breakfast delay (although honestly, he always looks concerned). Rather than stepping past the giant wolf spider that just whispered to me, “I could eat you and no one would ever know,” I quickly reached over him, grabbed the dog food container, and slammed the garage door as he ran full speed at me!!! I nearly died. The door shut just as he reached the doorway. Maybe he was rabid, because I have never seen them run directly at a human. Hey Siri, can wolf spiders contract rabies??

With dogs fed, and my heart rate back down to normal (well, normal for me–it’s rather high, for no reason other than it likes to see me sweat), I decided that yoga was cancelled for the day. Or maybe for life. I can’t go back out there. Also, Someone better tell the cats that I can never feed them again.

No. I am better than this! I have dealt with Black Widows with more courage than this.

Shea came down for breakfast, and I tried to sucker her into feeding the cats. But, I opened with, “there’s a giant wolf spider in the garage…want to feed the cats??” She turned down that winning opportunity.

I’m not kidding, wolf spiders are all massive. But this was the Godzilla of wolf spiders. Clifford the Big Giant Wolf Spider. Arachnis Deathicus. And again, I conquered my fear of spiders a decade ago! Just ask the jumping spider who visits the living room every afternoon. We’re cool. We coexist. But this particular individual spider was just too big.

When I faced my fears and opened the garage door to feed the cats, he ran under a shelf. Since 7am yesterday, I have been praying to the spider gods every time I go into the garage: please don’t let him run out and touch my feet.

Spider Yoga is not something I am yet prepared to attempt. Thanks, Mr Wolf, you broke me.

Sisters Are Masking Up For Some Fun

Last month, my sister Alissa texted in our “Sistas” group chat, “What are you doing June 4th??”
Well, let me think…….Staying at home, like the rest of the world. Like we’ve been doing? Pre and Post Coronapocalypse, my schedule is always pretty open.
“Mark your calendar for a sisters night!!! We’ll FaceTime and celebrate your birthday!”

Sure, ok. I can take time out of my busy schedule of reclusing to FaceTime.

Of course then later that afternoon, Alissa tagged me in an instagram post, promoting a Live Instagram Party on June 4th! I’ve been duped!!!!!! 

Being the rather un-savvy human that I am, I saw “Live Instagram Party,” and I pictured “100 random people, mostly from CNY, meeting up in mud masks, for the world to see!”

So then the text:
Oh Alissa no!!!!! Dirty trick! 
Social distancing party with random ass strangers?!?!

She talked me down, and promised: “You’re alone in your house watching an Instagram Live as she sits in her house doing a facial. You’re watching someone doe the facial and tell you the steps and she’s also hilarious and plays music.”

Honestly, Alissa, I love you, I do. But had I known the details, I would have RSVPed NO.

But, I was suckered into girl time, and with my sisters both over 1,100 miles away, it isn’t like we spend a lot (or any) time together. I can suck it up and deal with whatever painful experience this is about to be.

Alissa, whatever happens next, don’t get offended.

This socially distanced girls’ night was still weeks away. In the interim, Justin and I decided to take on the overwhelming project of pulling up our upstairs carpet and installing vinyl plank flooring (this project hasn’t started yet, so be on the lookout for either an SOS or questions on how to dispose of a body–from either Justin or me. Things will most likely get intense). When we received our shipment notification, well, wouldn’t you know, it was being delivered June 4th! This could potentially be my justified out–the last time we received a freight shipment, it came at 8pm, so, a girl can dream.

Of course, that wasn’t the case, and it was dropped off at 1:30. Which not only gave me plenty of time to make it to my socially-distanced nightmare, but also left me alone to carry 1600lbs of flooring into the house. One. Box. At a time.

I need to back up. Yesterday was crazy (in terms of Sam’s Usual Schedule). Honestly, this entire week has been wild–I’ve left the house more times this week than there are days in the week. Don’t judge me, that’s a big deal.
Morning vet trip with Bruce. Home to wait for flooring. Forty-five minutes carrying in a million boxes (ok, there were a lot of texting breaks). Make dinner so we can eat before gymnastics. Gymnastics. And then home again, in time to cut watermelon, take a shower (because, the boxes. And the heat. And the sweat. And I’m gross), and wait…

I should probably jump in and explain at this moment just how very different my sisters and I are. They’re……pretty girlie. I will admit that Alissa has toned it down in the last 5 years (I’m being honest Alissa. Having kids has changed you, for the better…don’t hate me). I will not ever be the mani/pedi girl. I cut my own hair. I’m not low maintenance–I’m no maintenance. That’s….probably not true. I did shave my legs last week, so some maintenance went into all of this (me–all of me).

Alissa sent me a list of items I would need, since my facial kit didn’t arrive in the mail on time. Bowl of hot water? Towel? Cleanser, exfoliated, steamer (my rice steamer was still on the counter from dinner, but I don’t think that’s what they had in mind), mask (like, “I wear a mask to protect you; you wear a mask to protect me?” Is 1,100 miles not enough distance, socially speaking?), toner (now I’m thinking Jane Fonda workout videos from the 80s). Step 6 says “treat,” and Justin didn’t bring me any candy, so I guess this party just got ruined.

I jump on this FaceTime call with my sisters, and away we go?? I don’t know. “Sign into Instagram and start her video!”
Ok, but swear to me that I hit this button and random people aren’t going to see me?
“OMG No. Just do it.”

The video didn’t work. I cried the tears of a thousand heartbreaks.
“Sam! Get your cleanser!”
“I’m not doing that.”

Is it just me? Am I the only one who thinks it’s weird to wash your face for fun, in front of…anyone? This isn’t a Neutrogena commercial, and I’m not washing my face out of a bowl, in front of my computer. Weird.

I understand the sentiment, I do. And Alissa, your heart is always in the right place. But an ice cream eating party is a little more in my wheelhouse. Ben? Jerry? You’re both invited, but only if you bring the flavors.

Meanwhile, of course, Alissa and Erica are really getting into this. And I’m really trying not to laugh myself into a crying fit. “Sam! Where’s your cleanser!?”
It’s here–see me, pretending to be doing anything other than laugh.

I hear through my phone, from their viewing of the Instagram Live (that never loaded on my end), “get your steamers out, girls!”
JUSTIN!!!! Where’s your uniform steamer?? I’m going to need that…for my face.

We’re already up to enzymes. Let me pause for a moment and say that there are two reasons I don’t eat yogurt. 1. The consistency. 2. It’s Alive!!! So now, Alissa informs us that the enzyme step burns. Is it because microorganisms are, perhaps, eating your face?!?!

“Sam! Get your mask.”
“No.”

Sometimes (sometimes) I throw a face mask on while Justin and I watch tv at night. Never (ever) do I sit in front of my computer and talk to people with a face mask on. Because……I guess I’m not fun. Also, the number of times my skin has reacted to one mask or another, leaving me looking Hot Tamale Red–sisters or no sisters, I don’t really want to talk to anyone when my face is burning.

At the end of it all, I got to catch up with my sisters, who I rarely speak to (not for any reason other than I’m here, and they’re there, and, I’m more a texter than a talker). We talked longer last night than we probably have in years, so, thanks Liss….even if I didn’t mask up!

Who You Talkin’ To?

My age naivety strikes again. Summer is upon us, which here means a drastic increase in single soldiers at work.

“…He asked me if I was talking to anyone, and I said no.”

You were literally talking to him and he asked if you were talking to anyone. Obviously my “talking to” is different than yours.

“Sam, are you talking to anyone?!”

“Ladies, I am sitting here talking to you right now!”

“NOOOOOOO! Sam! I saw you talking to Justin this morning!”

What is happening right now!? Why–why am I so old!?

I get it, I do. I’m not so old that I’m that confused (yet). And how is one supposed to differentiate between talking to, and “talking to.” And whatever happened to getting a talking to!? What was once a reprimand is now…I don’t even know what. Something that requires me to giggle and use an excessive amount of rapid-fire eyebrow raising.

Also, while we talk of the awkwardness that is me, my doctor is making me go for a mammogram today, which I’m not feeling on so many levels. First and foremost, I can’t wear deodorant?! Do you want to die?! If I see you before 9am, please turn quickly and RUN!!!

The chances of there being cancer in these boobs is pretty darn slim. For one, I breastfed for nearly 5 straight years. I reduce my friends‘ chances of getting breast cancer, simply by allowing them to breathe the same air as me! Maybe. Probably. I don’t know, but I’m surely not getting it.

Also, my nips may or may not be pierced–ok, they may. My Christmas present, because I’m weird. The every day reminder that my boobs are retired from nourishing babies. Forever. But (in my whiniest, complainy voice), I don’t want to take them out. Because if they’re a pain in my boobs to put back in, I’m going to be even whinier!

I’m only a little salty. And no, that’s not just the sweat.

I’m Sam Steeves, and I Speak for the Bees

…except sweat bees. They are the douchebags of the bee community.

An entire bee community, plagued by little guy syndrome.

I’m trying to be productive on my Mostly Day Off. I finally finished mowing my lawn, since my previous attempt was rained out, and prior to that, it had been…ok, so maybe some of it was knee high.

It happens.

In Kentucky.

Where it rained for a week straight. And I work too much. And my whole Coming Off Antidepressants has lead to a lot of couch slothing.

But yeah, it happens.

Besides, Justin isn’t here to judge me, so I can do what I want!

I mean…until housing leaves a note on my door that my back yard is not zoned as a Natural Zone, and I need to get my crappy together and mow that jungle.

I should get a job with the housing office–I could really bring a new voice to their “friendly reminders.”

Ok, so I googled it. And they don’t mean to be assholes.

Sorry sweat bee. I didn’t mean to scare you into stinging me when I squatted down and accidentally trapped you between my thigh and calf. It was an honest mistake.

In their defense, I’m a very sweaty girl. I’d probably hang out on me too, if I was attracted to sweat.

I’m irresistible.

To bees.

I’m irresistible to sweat bees. Get back to pollinating. I won’t squish any of your friends.

Running Challenged

I say it every year. Running makes me sneeze. I have only been a “runner” for 3 years, and I say “runner,” because snails move faster than me. I’m pretty sure I walk faster than I run.

In previous years, even treadmill running made me sneeze. Weird, I know. This year, it’s exclusively when I run outside. Which makes sense–seasonal allergies in Kentucky are awful! Word on the street is this area is actually one of the worst for allergies. Of course, for anyone who has lived in Columbus, GA, where the world is covered in yellow pollen powder for a good chunk of spring, they will tell you it’s much worse there. That place made my face feel constantly swollen.

But there I go again.

So, it’s spring in Kentucky, and while I don’t appreciate all the sneezing that follows, I do appreciate being able to run outside without turning into a popsicle.

Also, this past week, Terry the Torturous (which would be my trainer’s Viking name) told me I run weird. My legs swing out to the sides? In my head, I’m picturing some slinky-limbed muppet, with limbs going everywhere. Because I’m sure that’s probably what it looks like. He then told me nothing I did looked natural. Running doesn’t feel natural! It feels like a torture technique, used to specifically make me feel out of shape. Can’t I just throw heavy things around?!

Terry is using his fabulous skills as a track coach and trying to assist in turning me into a runner. Like, a real life runner, not a goofy muppet whose limbs are going to get seriously tangled if I get going too fast. By the end of our “run” on Thursday he told me I looked like I actually knew what I was doing.

Of course then he used his ninja powers and appeared next to me yesterday while I was attempting to do everything he told me only 2 days prior. He was shaking his head and giving me the “I’m not mad–I’m just disappointed,” look.  I’m swinging my arms across my body, I guess? So, I am moments away from getting tangled in myself.

Once again today, I went out and ran, trying to put everything he’s been telling me into practice. I feel like something between a leaping gazelle and a muppet whose limbs are on the verge of getting tangled. But, I was faster on my first mile than I normally am. A 10 minute mile?! Did you think I was kidding when I said snails are faster?

My desire to continue to run is strongly tied to my stubbornness. I strongly dislike running, but I dislike NOT being able to do things much more. Justin tells me about his 8min mile “jog pace,” and I respond with a strong, “jog?! THAT is a sprint!” Our 5k date went like this: Justin ran it in 22:39, took a lap of the parking lot and then ran back to find me. I was about 27min in when he caught up and said, “I didn’t think you’d be this far back!” I threatened to twist his nipple off. Of course then he made me run to the end. “Stop looking at your watch, put your head down and just push through it.” I died. But not really. My time was 33:49. By the end of it all, Justin had run about a 7k. I was WORLDS sweatier, and much more out of breath.

This week, my kids are on spring break, so my goofy leaping gazelle muppet runs will be taking place evenings. If you see me, and I look confused, or as if I’m seriously concentrating, I am. Nothing about this “running” thing feels natural! But I refuse to give up!!! Maybe someday I will be able to make this looks natural.