Guest Blogger – The Grumbles

Hi again friends! By the time your eyeballs take in the words on this post, I will likely be in an airplane peeing my pants because I hate flying – on my way to Chicago. My second guest blogger for this week is Jamie from The Grumbles. She’s hilarious and takes amazing Instagram ¬†pictures. If you’re not following her already, do it, or a tiger will eat you. In this post she talks about Jillian Michaels – who is Satan, punching her husband, and milkshakes. Just try not to laugh at this post.

Here’s Jamie.


Last night after the Jude went to bed Jon and I donned our crummiest unwashed workout gear and prepared for 20 minutes of eye rolling at Jillian Michael’s annoying voice while we sweated and hopped up and down. We’ve been doing this for a few weeks now and we’ve memorized the rote of stupid things that she says to try to motivate you*.

*to slap her in the princess taco.

My question is this, is she reading from a script of things other people thought she should say, or are these things she actually wanted to say? “You don’t get to the finish line and stop…” YES JILLIAN, YES YOU DO. THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT YOU DO. What you mean is that you don’t get within SIGHT of the finish line and stop. If I was at the fucking finish line I would stop, there’s no reason to be a goddamn show off. Go eat some pasta, horseface.

So we know the drill, better than I would like to at this point. We could probably mute her voice but then I would be deprived of reason to flip off the tv mid jumping jack while screaming nonsense and I really think that adds to the effectiveness of the workout. “GrNAH… UMPBAPA!” As I was lacing up my shoes I tried to get Jon in on a little challenge, because frankly, I’m getting less and less motivated by the day. When your goal is only a modicum of slightly more fitness… meh.

“If I win, I get a milkshake.”

“And if I win?”

“I don’t know, you get to decide that. What happens if you win?”

“700 blow jobs.”


(He was probably joking. Probably. Ha. Ha. Ha. No.)

I wanted the contest to be pretend jump rope, because I am QUEEN of pretend jump rope. I can hop up and down whilst twirling my arms until the end of time because that’s what I do in the bathroom at work as part of my secret plan towards bathroom office fitness. Don’t ask. Regardless, I am very good at pretend jump rope.

I should note at this time something about me you may not be aware of as your favorite internet columnist: I am not athletic. Well I guess you probably could have guessed at it, but let me not mislead you in any way. I have terrible balance, I’m inflexible, and I become winded at the drop of a hat. The only sport I ever played was volleyball, which I was good at, but it doesn’t exactly require a ton of stamina. Hence, I absolutely did not accept Jon’s terms. Even though I MOP THE FLOOR with jumping up and down in one spot and slightly wiggling it was not a risk I was willing to take based on my personal history. Hell, I have tendinitis in my wrist right now. From fucking push ups. I am a lost cause. More milkshakes!

The bet was definitely not on but this did inspire a certain competitive nature to rear its head during the evening’s workout. It displayed itself in a very adult manner, including but not limited to: doing jumping jacks in each other’s faces, swinging windmill arms while yelling, “I’m swinging my arms and standing by you but not hitting you!” and then punching each other and laughing. We have a baby. You’re welcome.

When we got to the part of the routine where it was time for punches there was only one logical conclusion: instead of punching forward towards the tv, per usual so that I can pretend I’m exploding Jillian Michael’s stupid head into a million pieces so that she’ll stop talking, we clearly had to face towards each other. For better competing. And punching. Just as you would expect, this did not go well. At one point my fist collided with something, possibly his fist, and I fell on the ground in a heap of laughing. Bizarrely, I think it was the most fun I’ve ever had working out and those are two things which normally don’t belong on the same plane.

Afterward when I was done laying in a crumpled sweaty heaving heap on the floor I iced my wrist, because well… tendinitis is actually pretty annoying. I kept moving the ice up… and up… and up… until finally I put two and two together and realized that my hand REALLY hurt for some mysterious reason. Oh wait, maybe it’s that giant black bruise on my swollen middle knuckle! From punching my husband and laughing and then breaking my hand.

If anyone asks, I’m telling them I fell down the stairs. Shhhh….


You can find her original post here on her blog – complete with pictures of her bruised knuckles.