tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86157254363939341072024-03-12T23:25:04.034-05:00F is for Foutz!I couldn't find my original header. Oops.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-90025583288225917912013-01-28T14:44:00.000-06:002014-04-17T14:41:34.760-05:00What a waste of markers.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear White Board Dudes:</div>
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I recently purchased a package of your SRX 2 in 1 dry-erase markers. My kids got an easel from Santa that included a dry erase board, and I thought the large array of available colors at a good price would be perfect for them. I opened the package, dumped them in the easel tray, and thought all was right in the world .... until....<br />
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First of all the markers are very difficult to open. My 3.5 year old and 5 year old would bring me marker after marker to open, and even though I think I am a competent adult with average strength (nothing to brag about but I am capable enough keep a house running and de-lid a marker every once in a while.) I had a difficult time opening many of the markers. This in itself isn't a huge problem since I try and be at least a little interactive with my kids in the rare moments when they are entertaining themselves, and prying off a marker lid occasionally is just about as much contact as I'd want. The real problem came later. I have good kids. They know how to take care of their stuff. And so when the markers were all put away and my kids tucked into bed, we were happy dreaming, completely ignorant of the fact that all our markers were dying a sad, slow death. </div>
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Those markers, nearly impossible to de-lid, are even more stubborn when trying to re-lid them. Stubborn and tricky. They might look like you got the lid on, but upon further examination, they require one last herculean effort to snap that dreadful thing to. You'd think they had a death wish.</div>
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Perhaps they did, for only 3 days had passed and already every marker useless. And you can bet that after 3 days the package they came in and the receipt that bought them are gone to the wind. The point of no return.</div>
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So I am writing you to let you know, please make your markers a little more accessible and stowable in the future. What a sad waste of ten dollars.</div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">-The Stay at Home Wonder Mom</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">suicidal markers</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-83088693227683246122013-01-14T12:26:00.000-06:002013-01-14T12:38:41.337-06:00Ten things to do while your newborn naps:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Because you know the second you lay down to sleep, that little fart face is going to wake up. But as long as you keep your exhausted body moving, he will sleep for HOURS.<br />
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1. Write a blog post. OBVIOUS.<br />
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2. Catch up on blogs you used to read - you know, before you got pregnant and stopped doing all those things you used to like doing. <br />
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3. Take some pictures of the sleeping fart face. ( But DO NOT TOUCH HIM OR MAKE A SOUND. Unless you want him to wake up, in which case go lay down for a nap and he'll be up in 10.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5A8eQsnryGhpO_nwaA7Wvb7DL-wCnrq0_tdNrYXQKfDI2Jk32H3jmGFEbtkcnVYIjgpBUNWbq3yuW4uC8dh7gIOd6_AFUKqjtNuZB29abTaNJFZXmd6WIdc6nZXIt7Dbi0oeW8TkDlW4/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5A8eQsnryGhpO_nwaA7Wvb7DL-wCnrq0_tdNrYXQKfDI2Jk32H3jmGFEbtkcnVYIjgpBUNWbq3yuW4uC8dh7gIOd6_AFUKqjtNuZB29abTaNJFZXmd6WIdc6nZXIt7Dbi0oeW8TkDlW4/s320/blog.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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4. Bathe. hahahahaha just kidding. 5 minutes into your shower guess who will be calling your name! By the way, intimate moments with your spouse are also a trigger for baby to wake up- not that that would be a problem, since you probably haven't bathed.<br />
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5. Eat something while it is still hot! <br />
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6. Browse Amazon for things you think you need but know you can't afford.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">you know, for all the stud earrings I have scattered around my house.</td></tr>
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7. Mindlessly watch netflix. Find shows you never thought you'd watch in a million years (and realize you actually like them).</div>
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8. Hate on Gwenyth Paltrow.</div>
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9. Exercise. (HA! I laugh, not because the baby will wake up when you are exercising- he won't! But because.... well, who does that!?) </div>
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10. Check on your baby every five minutes to make sure he's still breathing. </div>
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Finally, check the clock, realize he's been asleep for 3 hours and wonder WHY DIDN'T I TAKE A NAP???</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-62978363006143255182012-12-02T00:10:00.000-06:002013-01-28T00:11:48.562-06:00So I had a baby!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8cEuUKwQX-SWDBkGTURJWTtOuvW4bTv56C1rIZtOpVwTFo5Dq6ORQ4sXO9Wqum_zvbA9qdKYoKtft5pAIVzATP47n5eyUU5eFSCiRzPpZvphjejGyK6LueV3I9TRvSy7VKh8X5SaJOJY/s1600/_DSC0948_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8cEuUKwQX-SWDBkGTURJWTtOuvW4bTv56C1rIZtOpVwTFo5Dq6ORQ4sXO9Wqum_zvbA9qdKYoKtft5pAIVzATP47n5eyUU5eFSCiRzPpZvphjejGyK6LueV3I9TRvSy7VKh8X5SaJOJY/s320/_DSC0948_1.JPG" width="211" /></a></div>
Once upon a time I was great with child. So we went to the hospital to be induced.<br />
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Giving birth is gross and graphic. So I won't go into details. You're welcome. Instead I will show you gross and graphic pictures.<br />
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Just kidding. They are gorgeous.<br />
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All black and white images are courtesy of <a href="http://www.theresebarrettphotography.com/home" target="_blank">Therese Barrett Photography. She is fantastic, check out her stuff!</a><br />
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Thatcher Wayne Foutz was born on November 30, 2012 at 10:38 a.m. He weighed 9 lbs 3 oz, and was sooooooo squishy. <br />
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Thatcher<br />
<img class="CSS_LIGHTBOX_SCALED_IMAGE_IMG" height="102" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqyt0LQfKaTIUK_SYCsQcNLZKkBP16120xt7qbVtS7tyDEWH3sB18GZf_CXrtHdg5Q10MMbsF3A1uoxaAjHCvkRKHFZ3Jt-NVqCC8sFVCwpdnmqzqox0LQ95DB1LpF9nva7TLybw84Q-o/s200/Heath+Ledger+as+William+Thatcher+Sir+Oric+Von+Lichtenstein+in+A+Knight's+Tale++4.png" style="height: 257px; width: 500px;" width="200" /><br />
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Wayne<br />
<img height="266" src="http://mypoliticalintervention.files.wordpress.com/2012/07/bruce_wayne_001.jpg" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" width="400" /><br />
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Foutz<br />
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welcome to the world.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-73118801331719330092012-11-18T20:50:00.002-06:002012-11-18T20:52:30.520-06:00Clever Lubbock-Foutzy title referencing the Beverly Hillbillies.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbJeNJwypuIg641z5MReLsMxRTXmNTR0KAz-WzfGj-yyVo5S-zWYLYY2uCCTCW50eB4hIYAoIn8RlU6Ore2ATT2zdlKpCcqn4kcb-wlTh0PxHCqcm_BrHSnaua4DncuGPosWhWmhVjeY/s1600/536569_10150823869686957_1263682818_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbJeNJwypuIg641z5MReLsMxRTXmNTR0KAz-WzfGj-yyVo5S-zWYLYY2uCCTCW50eB4hIYAoIn8RlU6Ore2ATT2zdlKpCcqn4kcb-wlTh0PxHCqcm_BrHSnaua4DncuGPosWhWmhVjeY/s200/536569_10150823869686957_1263682818_n.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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Let me tell you little story bout a girl named Kris<br />
who nearing on a year 'go threw a tantric blogging fit.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAl3UyRIETwbcpU2PAjzeKvW_aKuup2nEW62EXOiuuScvLFAtedpcR8Jyk-LH4KPnYCcQIxWyaTeeUNnVwXVl-IOFYeN6LnDEMseC_VHcRSb9TuU9XUFODO5coFIwUGr3gNgZpFnVcT4Y/s1600/_DSC0380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAl3UyRIETwbcpU2PAjzeKvW_aKuup2nEW62EXOiuuScvLFAtedpcR8Jyk-LH4KPnYCcQIxWyaTeeUNnVwXVl-IOFYeN6LnDEMseC_VHcRSb9TuU9XUFODO5coFIwUGr3gNgZpFnVcT4Y/s200/_DSC0380.jpg" width="132" /></a>she was writing 'bout the Oscars when she was hacked by Gwen Paltrow<br />
and instead of getting even she took 10 months to drown her woes<br />
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in ice cream that is. rocky road. chocolatey cream.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhceRmVXY-pnkihey-4TR33LzXO4BXZsJN3ueU-cCbHVumWAr6L3AHRoFKtu8CLUK5tuaqaIoQK2_LkmYEh6Zv7I3s6leQrNrvMa87-90hDcXxF5B6UDphIqKVYuP8wPxi15Jsdm-lxgpg/s1600/_DSC0540-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhceRmVXY-pnkihey-4TR33LzXO4BXZsJN3ueU-cCbHVumWAr6L3AHRoFKtu8CLUK5tuaqaIoQK2_LkmYEh6Zv7I3s6leQrNrvMa87-90hDcXxF5B6UDphIqKVYuP8wPxi15Jsdm-lxgpg/s200/_DSC0540-2.jpg" width="133" /></a><br />
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well the first thing to know, the oscars were a joke<br />
and other things have happened through the year that must be spoke<br />
like Brett is graduating, and Jujy's gettin' educated<br />
and though they didn't plan it kris ended up impregnated<br />
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great with child she is, super fat. extra large.<br />
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now it's time to say hello to Kris and all her kin<br />
we promise to update some time about Bensen<br />
and Spain and turkey dinners and dear Boise Idaho<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCwKbU-BOV66iuSwSNr5HdTjkd4ubrf_QZJaCYtsJ2o30gIw_FRzyZEKQXr4xKYNTUINSib9v50G9C8CpeyEfKScPyxv2eD0-L-OSv3rbgHzP5-vqBB-6S-WJorNfPMo_G754tDRF5oL4/s1600/_DSC0421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCwKbU-BOV66iuSwSNr5HdTjkd4ubrf_QZJaCYtsJ2o30gIw_FRzyZEKQXr4xKYNTUINSib9v50G9C8CpeyEfKScPyxv2eD0-L-OSv3rbgHzP5-vqBB-6S-WJorNfPMo_G754tDRF5oL4/s200/_DSC0421.jpg" width="200" /></a>and a baby that might not be named before he makes his show.<br />
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big debut i mean. didn't rhyme. sounded weird.<br />
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ya'll come back again.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-3398942850791150392012-02-29T13:41:00.001-06:002012-02-29T13:41:54.816-06:00Oh Oscar.As many of you know, I love the Oscars. If you didn't know that, you obviously haven't been reading my blog for more than 11 months.<br />
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The rest of my post has been demolished by Gwenyth Paltrow. Now I will hate her for the rest of her life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-68593630205257805132012-01-27T16:27:00.003-06:002012-01-27T16:27:38.333-06:00HAT.<br />
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I made this hat. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(instead of cleaning my room.)</span><br />
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It's pretty hard core. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(says the stay at home Mormon mom.)</span></div>
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word.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-38122069426008207172012-01-26T12:57:00.001-06:002012-01-26T12:57:58.173-06:00Today I will crochet a hat.So I am an amateur crocheter which means I know just enough about crochet to make home-made gifts for friends and loved ones but not quite enough to make home-made gifts that friends and loved ones actually like. This has made for some awkward Christmases where I think I have done the most awesome present and feel really good about myself and all the hours and love I've put into this gift and my friends and loved ones feel really bad for me and try to act happy and pleased with their semi-terrible scarf or flat-out laughable crocheted stuffed animal.<br />
<br />
Brett keeps telling me to stop making home-made gifts. (In fact he flat-out refuses to let me crochet anything for his side of the family.) He says they aren't things that people ever actually wear unless they are 100% positive they will bump into you that day. And even then they have to convince themselves to wear that thing <i>just this one time.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
So to find out how terribly magnificent my homemade gifts are, I will make myself a hat. And if I can wear it out in public because I actually like it I will know that I am truly a successful home-made present giver after all.<br />
<br />
But if I am embarrassed to wear it out in public, I will secretly know I should stop making home-made gifts. But I will still wear it and tell Brett how truly awesome I am. Just to make a point.<br />
<br />
Either way it doesn't look likely that the home made gifts will ever stop. So if I ever draw your name in the annual Christmas swap we should start doing you know what you have to look forward to.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-29344585406100969932012-01-20T13:39:00.000-06:002012-01-20T13:39:04.705-06:0049 Questions Your Spouse Will Answer.So I was on pinterest and I came across this blog post with <a href="http://zachterry.wordpress.com/2009/10/07/50-questions-to-ask-your-spouse-on-a-date-night/" target="_blank">50 questions to ask your spouse. </a> And as I was reading through it I was imagining how Brett would react if I tried to ask him any of these. And huge eyerolls abounded. And then he tried to get up to leave. And then he fell asleep. <br />
<br />
So here is a list of 49 questions my Spouse will actually answer without any serious eyerolling.<br />
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<br />
1. Do you want a shoulder massage?<br />
2. Did I do anything that annoyed you today/this week?<br />
3. Would you ever consider taking a (insert hobby) class with me?<br />
4. What could I do for you that would make you interested in taking a (insert hobby) class with me?<br />
5. Would you like me to scratch your back?<br />
6. Do you like your classes/ job?<br />
7. If you could change anything about your class/ job what would it be?<br />
8. Do you want spaghetti for dinner?<br />
9. Would you like to help me make dinner?<br />
10. You're a great dad, you know?<br />
11. What would you do if I ever died?<br />
12. Do you know all of my passwords in case I died?<br />
13. Have you been working out?<br />
14. Have you lost weight?<br />
15. Where do you see yourself in 10 years?<br />
16. Where would you like to travel with me?<br />
17. What would you like for dessert?<br />
18. What is your favorite way to eat chocolate?<br />
19. If we were stranded on a deserted island, and you died before we were rescued, and I was<br />
starving, would you mind if I ate you?<br />
20. Could you eat me if you were starving to death and I was already dead and you had no other<br />
alternative?<br />
21. Would you like me to put the kids to bed?<br />
22. If you could change the color of the sky, what would you choose?<br />
23. Would you rather design a sky scraper in New York City or a high end Casino in Vegas?<br />
24. Would you like to watch a movie with me?<br />
25. Would you like to pick the movie?<br />
26. What are 5 of your favorite all-time movies?<br />
27. Why do you think my 5 all-time favorite movies are dumb?<br />
28. If you could change one thing about your body, what would it be?<br />
29. Do you want to hear a joke?<br />
30. Why did the toilet paper roll down the hill?<br />
31. What is your favorite way to make popcorn?<br />
32. Would you like to hang out with the boys this weekend?<br />
33. Did you finish your homework?<br />
34. Is there anything we need to get at the store?<br />
35. Do you mind if I vacuum in here really quick?<br />
36. Did you get a haircut?<br />
37. Would you like some milk with your cookies?<br />
38. Do you think I would make a good exotic dancer?<br />
39. Do you want to arm wrestle?<br />
40. Is our home fortified against a zombie attack?<br />
41. What is the worst thing that as ever happened to you?<br />
42. Would you be able to cut through your own arm if it was caught under a boulder and you would<br />
die if you didn't sever it?<br />
43. What horror movie would be the worst to have to live through?<br />
44. Do you want to answer 5 more questions and then have sex?<br />
45. Who do you think is the most amazing, beautiful woman in the world?<br />
46. What song do you think best represents our relationship?<br />
47. Will you buy me that purse I've been eyeing for the last month?<br />
48. Will you fix the broken handle on the Honda?<br />
49. Will you watch the kids tonight during girls' night out?<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-67306228511523125372012-01-14T23:54:00.001-06:002012-01-15T00:32:08.684-06:00top 10 reasons I hate the Gym.<span style="font-size: x-small;">In no particular order, I just started at 10 to throw you off and make you think that #1 was going to be this huge epiphmatic<span style="background-color: white; color: #424c5d; font-family: DroidSans, arial, serif; line-height: 20px;">™ </span>moment. (BTdubs, epiphmatic<span style="background-color: white; color: #424c5d; font-family: DroidSans, arial, serif; line-height: 20px;">™</span> is a %100 Kristina word. You may use it as you wish. Just remember to include the <span style="background-color: white; color: #424c5d; font-family: DroidSans, arial, serif; line-height: 20px;">™ </span>whenever you say it. You know, in your head.)<span style="background-color: white; color: #424c5d; font-family: DroidSans, arial, serif; line-height: 20px;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>10. There are Lions.</b><br />
<a href="http://www.gobodyworks.com/images/stories/albums/82nd/82nd_lions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" id="rokboxobject" src="http://www.gobodyworks.com/images/stories/albums/82nd/82nd_lions.jpg" width="640" /></a>I know I shouldn't let this bother me, but c'mon, LIONS? They are bronze statues, standing majestically on this great fountain that pours down into a goldfish and turtle pool. Don't get me wrong, love the fish. Love the turtles. But the 8 feet tall lions I could do without. Maybe they are there to remind me that unless I lose some poundage I will always just be a tasty lion snack. Or maybe they are there to add some class. Because nothing screams "CLASSY GYM!" Like 8 foot bronze lions.<br />
<br />
<b>9. Sheridan's Frozen Custard</b><br />
Is practically built in the gym parking lot. That way you can 1. Think about all the Frozen Custard you aren't eating because you are trying to be a skinny fit person or 2. Hate yourself as you bury your cellulite-induced woes in 3 heavenly scoops of creamy, delicious frozen custard. With Hotfudge, raspberries and whipping cream. And pecans. I'll take 2 please.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<b>8. Work-out clothes make me look fat.</b></div>
<div>
Can't they just bald-face-lie like my regular clothes do?</div>
<br />
<br />
<b>7. People expect me to work out when I'm there.</b><br />
Seriously, can't I just go to the gym, drop my kids off at the daycare and read a book on the nice squooshy couch in the locker room? Stop judging me!!<br />
<br />
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<b>6. It is full of skinny fit people.</b><br />
Who are secretly judging me. When I go to the gym I don't want to be surrounded by beautiful women with perfect hair and make-up. Shoot, I don't even want a Robin Sherbatsky who is wearing sweats and no make-up but still has a perfect body so she can get away with it. I want to go to the gym and be surrounded by sweating fat people, who will look over at me on the treadmill, give a little wave and psychically tell me, "I feel you girl. I hate this right now. I would totally be in the locker room reading a book on the nice squooshy couch except people expect me to work out when I'm here."<br />
<br />
<b>4. Constant reminders of my grandma-esque physique</b><br />
Remember when I naively <a href="http://brettandkristina.blogspot.com/2011/10/so-i-ran-5k-again.html" target="_blank">ran that 5k</a>? And the slowest grandma on the planet casually jogged past me? Well getting shown-up by grandma once is enough humiliation for a life-time. But apparently I feed on constant humiliation. I attend a step-class (which I love to hate) that is full of 1. skinny fit people 2. grandmas 3. pregnant ladies and 4. ME. And guess who leaves the risers out of her steps? Nope, not the grandmas. It's the pregnant ladies. BECAUSE THEY ARE 8 MONTHS PREGNANT. Oh yeah, and ME TOO. Because I'm 33 months POST PREGNANT. I can't handle that extra 4 inches in my step. Ask me again when I'm in my late 70s because hopefully by then I'll be able to hack it.<br />
<br />
<b>3. It is full of witnesses to my failure.</b><br />
So today I did the P90x Kenpo DVD. Wait, no I didn't. I did about 30 minutes of the P90x Kenpo DVD. And then I got bored and decided I didn't want to do it anymore, and so I stopped. (and consequently sat down and drank some chocolate milk.) Guess who cared and noticed?? NO ONE! (well actually my 4 year old daughter did say, "Mom, You're missing your exercises!" But I accept the fact that she knows I am overweight and undermotivated.) NO ONE! Where as at the gym, you get on those eliptical machine deals, do about 10 minutes and think, eh. I don't want to do this anymore. So you step down and the grandma on the machine next to you raises an eyebrow and thinks loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, "really lady? 10 minutes? on an <i>eliptical</i>? is that all you got?" And you weakly stutter in thought response, "oh, oh, I was just uh, heading on over to the treadmill instead." and grandma smiles smugly. "don't kid me hunny, I've seen you run. I'm the old biddy that lapped you that last 5k. SUCKAH!"<br />
<br />
<b>2. I feel unconnected to my children when I'm there.</b><br />
My kids like to go to the gym. They beg to go there. So I drop them off at the Kid's club and they run off sqeeing in delight. "I love the gyyyyyyyym!!" <b>WHO ARE YOU??? </b>Can I continue rearing children with such a backwards philosophy on voluntary physical exertion? I don't know if this is going to work out. <br />
<br />
<b>1. I could only think of 9.</b><br />
But "top 9 reasons I hate the Gym" just sounded stupid. Okay I lied. I only thought of 8.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-20641815757890340182012-01-11T21:38:00.003-06:002012-01-11T21:39:39.429-06:00Why the new Ender's Game movie is STUPID.I read Ender's Game for the first time when I was 11 years old. It was instantly my favorite book (still is) and like anyone who read it as a kid (who am I kidding, just like anyone who has EVER read it) I immediately wanted to be a part of that book. In the battle room. Kickin' butt with Ender Wiggin. <br />
<br />
My older brother told me they were thinking of making it into a movie and me, the ever excitable pretweener filled my days dreaming of playing a role in the film. I was too old to play Petra - the only girl at battle school - but I would be ok playing Valentine, or they could make up a new role for me. Or if worse came to worst I could always be an extra. There was no doubt in my mind I would have been cast for this movie. It was my destiny.<br />
<br />
But of course there was no movie. They were all dirty rotten rumors. <br />
<br />
The internet started to exist, and I am sure I was one of the first inhabitants of Hatrack River - back when it was an extensive forum with no members because no one had the internet. And then something beautiful happened - they were going to make the Ender's Game movie, but for real this time. I knew it was true because I read it on an internet forum. I think I was 14. And although I was technically too old to be in battle school, most likely they would have to hire an older cast anyway, right? What 6 year old could successfully pull off Ender Wiggin? I was back in the game. I would be in this movie. <br />
<br />
THE INTERNET LIES. There was no movie. Not that year, or the next year, or the next. And so I grew up, and I grew up content knowing that although I would never be in battle school, although I would never fly through the air and shoot little light lasers and freeze peoples limbs or play in flight simulators or be in the Dragon Army, <i><u><span style="font-size: large;">neither would anyone else.</span></u></i><br />
<i><u><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></u></i><br />
Until today when I find out that <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2633535/" target="_blank">Asa Butterfield</a> will fly.<br />
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2794962/" target="_blank">Hailee Steinfeld</a> will shoot laser guns.<br />
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2026536/" target="_blank">Aramis Knight</a> will go to battle school, courtesy of Sister Carlotta.<br />
And <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000148/" target="_blank">Harrison Ford</a> will take them there.<br />
<br />
<br />
And me, Kristina Foutz, who once as an 11 year old girl was guaranteed the leading girl-child role in the movie (seriously, I was a total shoe-in) is left out in the cold. Alone. Too old to go to battle school.<br />
<br />
<br />
So even though technology and movie-making magic has finally gotten to a place that will make this movie possible, and even though Harrison Ford is one of my favorite people ever, and even though I will definitely go see it, it is 100%- undeniably -for sure gonna be dumb. Cause I am not in it.<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-80378277376814603062011-12-12T21:38:00.002-06:002012-11-18T21:00:24.245-06:00The True Story of the Last Thanksgiving.Once upon a time in a far-away, dreary land, a young family struggled to get by. The economy was bad at this time, but luckily the family remained mostly untouched as the father and husband of this family was still a full-time student and didn't have time for a real job anyway. Don't misunderstand, he was a very hard worker and he still had a job, just not the kind of job that really gets affected by the economy. So though the family struggled, they worked hard, had a lot of love and recognized the blessings in their life. They truly had a lot to be thankful for. <br />
As the 4th Thursday of November inched closer and closer, this young family's thoughts turned to their blessings, and the traditional feast in which they would indulge to near vomiting. Normally the family would travel to celebrate with their relatives, but this year they would remain in the far-away dreary land that they currently inhabited. Several generous dinner invites were extended towards this family but Father, being wearied with work and school, decided that this year he would like to over-indulge in his own home, surrounded by the loving comfort of his wife and two small children. Mother, hearing this plan, suggested they order-out chinese. But Father insisted it would not truly be the blessed occasion of thankfulness without the traditional basting and roasting of a delicious turkey. Several pans of rolls. A few pumpkin pies and mashed potatoes. Mother, loving her own traditions from childhood, couldn't bear the thought of eating showing gratitude without her beloved sweet potato casserole, green beans and pecan pie. And so they set about making an entirely over the top dinner for only 2 adults and 2 children under the age of 5. <br />
Father did the shopping. It was obvious that one turkey would not be enough for his family, for Father wished to have a jalapeno injected turkey -- something that his children would find undesireable. It was therefore requisite to purchase 2 turkeys. A 15 lb turkey for his wife and 2 small ones, and a 6 lb boneless turkey for himself. The night before the blessed event, he injected his turkey, so that it could marinate through the night. <br />
"But Father!" cried Mother, "What of the 15 lb turkey? Did you not purchase an injection kit for the family turkey?"<br />
"Why no," replied Father. "I thought you could eat a boring turkey while I made my own personal fancy awesome one."<br />
"This does bring me great displeasure," Mother sighed.<br />
"Do not worry Mother," replied Father. "A delicious injection we will make in the morning. Already it is growing late, and truly all you need to make a magnificent turkey is butter. Let us wait until tomorrow. I will make some pumpkin pie."<br />
So Father made not one, but two pumpkin pies. And a chocolate cream pie. Although he had purchased the wrong type of jell-o for the chocolate cream pie, mother tried not to be wroth with him. Mother managed to make a slightly over-cooked pecan pie. She was a little unhappy because she did not like pumpkin pie. And her beloved pecan pie was ruined.<br />
"It is not ruined," declared Father, plucking several pecans out of the top of her pie. "It is delicious!" But now it was missing several pecans off of the top. "By the way, I am going golfing in the morning."<br />
Mother tried not to think of Chinese food as she slipped off to sleep.<br />
<br />
When she woke in the morning, Father was gone. And her two dear children were covered in chocolate cream and pecans. Mother tried not to be angry, but she was. For she was not good at making pie crusts, she didn't have any more, and the only two pies she liked eating were now ruined. The turkey remained un-injected, the greenbeans un-braised, the potatos unmashed and the sweet potato uncasserolled. The two dear children went crying into the tub. <br />
<br />
Mother busied herself with the rolls first, giving them plenty of time to thaw and rise while the turkey cooked. She placed the prepared pans of rolls on top of the stove, where the heat of the oven would help them rise. Then she took the turkey out of the fridge and wrestled it into the sink. It seemed much bigger than before. She realized she had never actually cooked a turkey before, and was a little dismayed when she finally had to resort to scissors to get it out of the netting even though the turkey clearly stated, "easy open! no scissors/ cutting required!"<br />
<br />
Raw turkeys are disgusting. Mother began rinsing the turkey off because it seemed like the right thing to do.<br />
<br />
Now her dear children were out of the tub, and their shiny, dripping bodies bounded all around the house, up and off the couch, in and out of the kitchen. <br />
<br />
"Please settle down, my dears!" she lilted sweetly. Mother never yells at her children.<br />
<br />
Brother climbed up onto the couch. Mother watched terrified as he began to lose his balance, and came tumbling off the arm of the couch, his arms reaching out wildly to catch a hold of anything. They caught onto the floor lamp, which instead of steadying him came crashing down along with him. The glass bowl of the lamp crashed suddenly into Sister's head, exploding dead bugs all over Sister and the kitchen floor. Both children let out terrible squeals of pain and fright. Mother, only a little covered in turkey goo, gathered them up into her arms, cradling them together, trying to comfort them. After a few minutes, the tears finally subsided. <br />
<br />
"Is everyone okay?"<br />
<br />
"Yes!" They wailed together. Mother pulled them away from her body, then looked horror-stricken at daughter's face, smeared and streaked with blood. Mother's shirt was likewise afflicted, as well as brothers neck and shoulder. After a terrible search she finally located it's source, an angry, lamp-bowl shaped gash on Sister's crown. Both kids went back into the bath, and Mother googled what kinds of head wounds required stitches.<br />
<br />
Finally, once everyone's head wounds had been cleaned and doctored, children were dressed and watching the Macy's day parade, Mother went back to her turkey. The turkey should have been in the oven an hour and a half ago, and was still un-injected.<br />
<br />
"Un-injected it must remain," thought Mother. And she went off again to google what would be a quicker, easier way to season the turkey. <br />
<br />
A few sticks of butter, some salt, pepper, garlic and 35 minutes later, Mother contemplated the best way to get her true butter ball into the roasting bag. She wasn't sure quite how it happened, only that instead of gliding safely into the bag, the turkey somehow wound up on the floor. In a pile of bugs that had been expelled from the broken homicidal lamp. <br />
<br />
Mother tried not to cry as she wrestled the turkey back into the sink, rinsed off all the bugs (and coincedentally all the butter, garlic, salt and pepper as well.) 30 minutes later she managed to get the turkey in the bag, and the bag in the oven. She was only 2 and half hours behind schedule. She only had 3 more dishes to prepare. She was only covered in minimal amounts of turkey goo, bugs and blood. She didn't really need to eat pie on Thanksgiving. Father shouldn't have picked this moment to walk in the door.<br />
<br />
Mother was a raving monster. Father couldn't understand all she said but a few key phrases included "stupid pumpkin pies," "your own personal turkey," and "chinese food."<br />
<br />
At that moment the rolls exploded. And instead of cleaning up the debris in her kitchen, mother took a shower.<br />
<br />
And that is the true story of how Thanksgiving stopped being a tradition in the Foutz household. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-8699392849944502142011-11-08T23:00:00.000-06:002011-11-09T02:21:05.310-06:00Congrats on being our biggest fan - PSYCH!That is a very clever post title. Mostly because I'm talking about Psych, Psych's biggest fan, and the fact that Psych's biggest fan got Psyched into being congratulated for being Psych's biggest fan.<br />
<br />
Stay with me here.<br />
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<a href="http://gamingshogun.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/psych.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" id="il_fi" src="http://gamingshogun.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/psych.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Meet Cynthia. Cynthia is about the coolest person I know. She's an awesome friend, a fantabulous wife, a glorious mother of 4 and Psych's biggest fan. She's not a crazy, camp-out in front of James Roday's house hoping to get a photo of him in his jammers type of fan; she's the better kind. The not-crazy, owns every season of Psych on DVD (even though you can stream them on netflix these days), has cooked and or enjoyed all those goodies mentioned in the show (jerk chicken, funyuns, pineapple, pineapple upside down cake, pineapple not-so-upside-down cake, crazy pineapple platter, pineapple dumplings, cinnamon pie, and <a href="http://brettandkristina.blogspot.com/2011/09/update-illegal-video-and-flavor-seizure.html" target="_blank">fries quatro quesos dos fritos [okay the fries was me</a>, got to put my own plug in somewhere]), knows all of Guster's nicknames, can quote any episode, can correctly identify the episode of any quote, plays Psych games online to garner points for her favorite university (who won that little contest by the way) and I'm sure I messed up my punctuation somewhere in this sentence (that last one was me too. In case it got confusing.) type of fan. You know the nice type of fan. The 'you don't want to send them to jail' type of fan. The type of fan you want to reward with tickets to the Psych Fan Appreciation Day (henceforth known as PFAD pronounced fad, as in 1.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">a practice or interest followed for a time with exaggerated zeal </span>. or 2. [which we are going to try and think of every time we use PFAD as in fad as in] <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;">a personal idiosyncrasy or whim). </span>Which someone DID DO! Good job, the plot thickens.<br />
<br />
BECAUSE although she got tickets, Cynthia didn't go to the PFAD. Because Cynthia lives in Texas. And the PFAD was in New York City. <br />
<br />
This poses a small problem for an awesome friend, a fantabulous wife, and a glorious mother of 4. Because although Cynthia is Psych's biggest fan, she is those other things first and foremost. And those other things make her a nice type of fan and not a 'send her to jail' type of fan. So we like those things about her.<br />
<br />
And so, because Cynthia chose to feed her children for the next month instead of buying a plane ticket and a couple nights' stay in a Manhattan hotel, she put on a brave face and watched her precious PFAD slip out of her fingers. <br />
<br />
A travesty. A terrible sad, terrible travesty. I will now further illustrate this travesty with rich allegorical imagery. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://th01.deviantart.net/fs70/150/f/2010/356/1/d/dr_doofenshmirtz_t_shirt_by_dwaynerjames-d35fhhy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" id="il_fi" src="http://th01.deviantart.net/fs70/150/f/2010/356/1/d/dr_doofenshmirtz_t_shirt_by_dwaynerjames-d35fhhy.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="131" /></a>Imagine a beautiful cake. A beautiful pineapple shaped cake (it can even be a pineapple cake if you are into that). And someone offers you this beautiful pineapple-shaped cake that may or may not be an actual pineapple cake. And as you reach out to take this delicious, most wonderful cake, some doofenshmirtz named Reality steps up and hulk smashes the cake to the floor. And then dances on it in a very rude and frankly poorly choreographed jazz number. And all you can think about is how delicious that cake would have been, how amazing it looked, how tempting it was, how you almost got to taste it. Almost. But you didn't. Because doofenshmirtz over there can't dance. And he's can't dancing on your perfect perfectly perfection cake.<br />
<br />
<br />
The worst part? Cynthia didn't even tell her friends about it until it was too late. The PFAD had died out (that was a clever reference to definition 1. of fad, in case you missed it) before we even knew about it. And we are awesome friends, so you can bet that had we known about the cake (er, the PFAD) and the doofenshmirtz (reality) we would have put together an impressive offense and I would have personally punched reality in the face before it even got near the cake and then we would have all kicked it while it was down. But Cynthia is the nice kind of fan, and an awesome kind of friend who didn't want to worry her friends about something we had no control of. Because she knew we would worry.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://pineapplechunks.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/screen-capture-21.png?w=293&h=300" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" id="il_fi" src="http://pineapplechunks.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/screen-capture-21.png?w=293&h=300" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="195" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">maybe one that looks less like an oven mitt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well she was right. When we found out, we DID worry. And even though it's a month later, and even though the PFAD is gone and dead, and even though obladi obladah, Psych goes on. And it's time to show reality what's what. So if there is any decency in the Psychverse, here my plea. Reward Psych's biggest nice fan. Appreciate Psych's biggest nice fan. Try and make up for the PFAD that never was. I want to see t-shirts. I want to see signed pineapple pillows. I want to see the current episode of Psych on Hulu before 30 days has past-- but most. of. all. I want to see Dule Hill tapdancing on Cynthia's doorstep holding a pineapple cake (seriously, I want to see this. So let me know before-hand so I can make it over there. And as long as no hulk-smashing is involved Dule will be perfectly safe.)<br />
<br />
So email me if you have any Psych powers. <br />
Please and thank you.<br />
kriskrisfoutz@gmail.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-47858025343197353762011-11-08T22:19:00.005-06:002011-11-08T22:19:55.737-06:00FINGERPAINTING!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Bensen only works in the nude. It's an artist thing.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-37953973225686999962011-10-24T21:40:00.000-05:002011-10-24T21:46:51.869-05:00Behold. My inner nerd.I love inflicting Halloween costumes on my children. Juliet was old enough this year to decide what she wanted to be for Halloween. Bensen wasn't. But I am afraid he will be old enough next year -- so this might be my last epic Halloween costume.<br />
<br />
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Enjoy.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-26426133106821520902011-10-20T16:03:00.000-05:002011-10-20T16:03:40.961-05:00So I ran 5k. Again.Sorry this post is so over-due -- life got kind of crazy these last few weeks, but I did want to take a moment to write about my experience running the Susan G. Komen 5k. I had a lot of support from friends and family, and some great donations from loved ones and even folks I don't know. It is neat seeing people come together to help make a difference, and I feel like we did.<br />
<br />
I am going to tell you the story of my 5k. And I want you to know that even though this was a struggle for me, I know that other's have real struggles in their lives, that those who have fought and are fighting cancer know how hard, lonely and awful it can be. I don't want my whiney post about hating to run to in anyway belittle that fight. <br />
<br />
So. October 1st, 2011 I awoke early, got ready for my 5k, drove out to the starting point and waited for that gun to fire and send me off into delirious running oblivion.<br />
<br />
Honestly, running that 5k was the hardest, loneliest, most awful thing I have ever done. I have to admit, if running a 5k was the hardest, loneliest, most awful thing I have ever done, I have had a pretty easy life. And I have. When I finally finished the 5k and sat down in my car I texted Brett "running that 5k was the hardest, loneliest, most awful thing I have ever done." And now I will tell you why.<br />
<br />
So I get there early, mainly because I get nervous when I go into a situation I'm not familiar with and I want to take stock of my surroundings and feel out what I'm supposed to be doing. And also because I didn't have any safety pins to pin my number on my shirt and I thought they'd probably have some and I wanted to get there early enough to find some. Mission accomplished. At any rate, there are a billion people there. In tiny groups, in big groups, couples, families, dogs (who weren't supposed to be there, shame on you!) and me. Kristina Foutz. All alone in the middle of this giant shifting kaleidoscope of people. And everyone is staring at me. And pointing. And one lady whispered loudly, "look at that doofenshmirtz here all by herself. Didn't she know when you come to run 5,000 miles you bring your entire extended family?" And then some people laughed and I tried to slink away but a huge spot light came down right on top of me and the guy on the stage said, "and we have a solo runner! Does anyone want to pretend to be her friend?" and even more people laughed. <br />
<br />
Yep, I was waiting for that gun to go off and secretly hoping it would just shoot me in the face and put me out of my misery.<br />
<br />
So somewhere far away we hear the gun shot and people start milling in a general direction. So I start milling that way too. Occasionally some guys in tube socks and wife beaters elbow their way through, trying to actually run in this mass of barely moving tiny groups, big groups, couples, families, dogs (who weren't supposed to be there, shame on you!) and me. I start feeling a little guilty because, well, I'm supposed to run the 5k right? But secretly I am relieved that it's impossible to run without being a major douche, and since I forgot my tube socks and wife beater at home I can take out the first k at my preferred pace. Slug. <br />
<br />
The crowd starts to thin out and I realize I need to start running if I am ever going to get out of the walkers so I start running. Here's something depressing I learned -- my run pace is not much faster than most people's walk pace. So now that I am working twice as hard, I'm still not passing anyone. I'm as depressed as a little blue hornbill, imprisoned in some animal's ribcage, singing "I have got a lovely bunch of coconuts" (have you caught the reference yet or do I need to keep going?) to a surly lion who has usurped his brother's kingdom by murdering him and convincing the true heir that he was at fault and must run away or he will be hated by his mother and whole family. Who's name was Simba. From the LION KING. (I took you all the way there in case you didn't catch it)<br />
Anyway, so I'm depressed. And running (very slowly) alone. This goes on for a couple more k, and up around the corner I see a bunch of bored looking cheerleaders. As I start to round the corner, they suddenly start to perk up and start doing a cute little cheer. I smile and wave at the cheerleaders, feeling my heavy heart grow a bit lighter. Two of the girls yell out "Keep up the good work! We love you grandma!"<br />
<br />
I watch in horror as the most ancient lady I have ever seen passes me by, smiling and waving at the cheerleaders who continue to cheer her on. She goes around the corner and the girls all sit down again, bored.<br />
<br />
So yes, I do run slower than a 90 year old grandma. This is too much for me. I finally turn the corner, leaving the dumb cheerleaders out of sight, and I walk. Because I ran a 5k the day before, and apparently you just aren't supposed to do that. <br />
<br />
As I am walking, I look down a road and see more of the race. I can just cut through this block and take a whole k and half out of my run. It is beyond tempting. I see someone else who had the same idea turn down into the shortcut. This means it's okay, right? I can do it too? It doens't matter that he's carrying his shoes and his feet are bleeding, we're pretty much in the same situation, right?<br />
<br />
I decide not to take the shortcut. Still not sure why I decided that. <br />
<br />
So I start running again. I knew I was getting to the end because I could see other people, much more fit than I, running back towards me - searching for loved ones lost along the way. No one is running back for me, so I press on. Suddenly, I see the finishline! And there, between me and that last kilometer of race, is my beautiful white honda, waiting right where I parked it. So I veered off the track, hopped into my car, and drove home (picking up donuts on the way.)<br />
<br />
Or I finished the race, and walked back to my car. You decide. Either way, donuts were involved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-44394577968938753772011-09-30T23:36:00.003-05:002011-09-30T23:54:20.911-05:00Today I ran 5k.<b>10:30 p.m.</b> - I wanted to thwart the sun's evil plan to destroy me with warm sunshiney rays and get up before sunrise to do my 5k. So I decided to go to bed early.<br />
<br />
<b>1:30 a.m.</b> - Woken up to Brett's pleas for help. Juliet, after two days straight of cake and icecream, rebels against all the fun and sugar by throwing up noisily and messily in her bed. Bensen thankfully sleeps through it. I miss my washer and dryer desperately.<br />
<br />
<b>2:00 a.m</b>. - Back to bed.<br />
<br />
<b>5:00 a.m. </b>- Brett is yelling again. I get up to investigate. He is still up working on his project. He is yelling at the computer. I am annoyed. Back to bed.<br />
<br />
<b>6:30 a.m</b>. - Brett finally comes to bed. Dude is crazy. But at least his project is done!<br />
<br />
<b>7:00 a.m.</b> - Alarm goes off. I can hear Bensen awake, playing in the bathroom. I do not want to get up.<br />
<br />
<b>7:30 a.m.</b> - Get out of bed. Get dressed. Neti my nose (seriously that thing is a lifesaver)<br />
<br />
<b>7:45 a.m.</b> - start my run. Bob Marley's 3 little birds play, and although there aren't any birds on my doorstep, I do look out at the rising sun, and get a bit of a giggle.<br />
<br />
<b>My run:</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDuI7Iq0c70LS1iJ-OxY1JErBWkm4wCp_en7uz_m5JwfGjUiB5te6uDU8Adr9cd8h72c3pMGW3J7ACtK-LC8jHvVycKVaiwkzQc38j8O6OogHppmQ5bp09M_zWrkW6YqWPLzQ3Qn8e90/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-09-24+at+6.00.38+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDuI7Iq0c70LS1iJ-OxY1JErBWkm4wCp_en7uz_m5JwfGjUiB5te6uDU8Adr9cd8h72c3pMGW3J7ACtK-LC8jHvVycKVaiwkzQc38j8O6OogHppmQ5bp09M_zWrkW6YqWPLzQ3Qn8e90/s640/Screen+shot+2011-09-24+at+6.00.38+PM.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">a</span>: Bob Marley is still playing, and I actually run past Bob Marley.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">b</span>: I am running without any ID and there is this little bridge here that doesn't have a sidewalk. I start imagining that I get hit by a car and fall down in this reservoir. I am too weak to crawl out. I rig my cellphone so that it becomes a tracking signal and attempt to flag down the doctor. For a moment I forget that Doctor Who is a fictional tv show I have been watching entirely too much of recently. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">c</span>: run into Bob Marley again, only this time he triest to hand me some literature about his bible study group. normally I would love to hang around, chat, and let him down easy. But I am already hating my life with more than 3 k to go. I breeze right past him saying (probably shouting because I am wearing earbuds) "I have a bible that I read thank you!" Poor Bob Marley. His song is way over, and "Riders on the storm" doesn't make me want to stop for anyone. I skipped most of it.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">d</span>: run past Justine's house. I feel sad, because Justine has lived here for a year now and we should have been best friends but I stink at making friends and I just never put any effort into it. She is moving far away this week. Also a little mexican man starts walking towards me. But he doesn't try to hand me literature about his bible study group, so I like him well enough and huff out a "morning" as I wobble by and think it is funny that I am listening to Bambaleo while I run past a mexican.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">e</span>: I must have blacked out because I do not remember running down this street at all.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">f</span>: around k 3 I start thinking that I will cut across the green line labeled f and go home. It was a great idea, but for some reason I didn't do it.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">g</span>: I remember imagining getting hit by a car near the beginning of my run and now I hope with all my might I will accidentally run into the free way and get killed instantly by oncoming traffic. But for some reason I didn't do it. My ipod is playing "Why do I keep counting" but all I hear is "Why do I keep running"<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">h</span>: must have blacked out again. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">i</span>: This is a funny ol stretch of road. Last month when I started "running" I couldn't get up it and back down to my house again without wanting to die, and now I am running down it as the last k in my 5k. Granted, your athletic grandma could outrun me at this point, but c'mon, that's some progress!<br />
I decide to walk for a minute but there are these movers staring at me so I decide not to. They watch me the whole rest of the street so I can't walk or they will know how fat I am. For some reason this made me think of my brother Daniel, ducking behind a bush after a short sprint so noone would see him panting. He is in much better shape now and can bike hundreds of miles. I can barely run 3.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">j</span>: I start halucinating. I see a man on a motorcycle and think it is Justin Pratt. I know it isn't Justin Pratt because Justin Pratt is dead. I know that I am hallucinating because Justing Pratt isn't dead, he's just in UT. Justin Pratt the undead motorcycle guy speeds away.<br />
But I'm on the homestretch now, and "Major Tom" is playing, and by golly the earth below me feels like it is drifting, falling, but I am coming home.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">k</span>: I hit 5k and cry walk back to my apartment.<br />
<br />
<b>8:30 a.m. </b>- Victory is mine.<br />
<br />
I know what you are thinking, isn't the 5k tomorrow?<br />
Why yes it is.<br />
So why run 5k today?<br />
To prove that I can. Just in case tomorrow I can't.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-71603668379643263172011-09-28T09:42:00.001-05:002011-09-28T09:48:29.233-05:00The blog entry that never was.So I had this fabu idea. See, while I run I usually think of all these amazing things I can post on my blog. Seriously they are golden. People see me running along, laughing hysterically to myself and think, "dang, that girl has got some awesome blogging ideas going on!" But then I get home, shower, take Brett to school, do something with my children, put everyone down for a nap, sit at the computer and.......... nothing! Cannot think of one golden nugget from that morning.<br />
<br />
So yesterday I had this brilliant idea. I will take a pen and shorthand all my brilliant ideas onto my arm as I run. People see me running along, laughing hysterically to myself, scribbling all over my arm and think, "dang! that girl has really got things together! can't wait to read this blog entry!" But then I get home, shower, take Brett to school, do something with my children, put everyone down for a nap, sit at the computer and ......... since you all are higher life forms than myself I'm sure you already spotted the OBVIOUS problem. You know, the scribble all over my arm, get home, <b>shower</b> part?<br />
<br />
So today I get even more brilliant and plan to write everything down the second I get home. You know, before I shower? Oh, all the best laid plans. Because today is the day I am going to run 5 whole k (because I only have 3 more practice days, EEP!) but today is also the day I get out of the house FORTY FIVE minutes later than usual. So instead of the awe-inspiringly hilarious blog entry this was supposed to be, you can enjoy today's arm scribbles.<br />
<br />
<b>S.I.2.H</b> = sun is too hot<br />
<br />
<b>I.H.T.S</b> = i hate the sun<br />
<br />
<b>T.S.I.M.M.E</b> = the sun is my mortal enemy<br />
<br />
<b>I.W.K.E</b> =<br />
I'm actually a little ashamed of this scribble. Please keep in mind that today was supposed to be my day of total triumph. Yesterday I ran a <i><b>world-record breaking time</b></i> of 26 consecutive minutes (totally smashed my previous record of 10) and today I was supposed to run minimum 35 minutes, maximum whole 5k. I was going to at least complete the circuit even if I was cry walking by the end. But today, well, I ran 18 min (just over 2 k) and then I cry-walked my apples home. And in my bitter throws of agony I did not think "I want Kielbasa, Eminem!" No, no. My animosity towards running, and the sun, and delicious sausage extended to the world population. <br />
<b>I.W.K.E</b> = i will kill everyone<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_iA7v8OjdgfmrK9sqfV_9LMd9rMrVD0IiS23hwsQ61N27i6oo4zx68KWggJpWh8gBBmT6wpTNXqZWs-LWCScYTAK6ojNo4LrhdVXw8_i7GfEBwJFIw8eSY1pe3UwedyiI25MoZRtcuA/s1600/_DSC1006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_iA7v8OjdgfmrK9sqfV_9LMd9rMrVD0IiS23hwsQ61N27i6oo4zx68KWggJpWh8gBBmT6wpTNXqZWs-LWCScYTAK6ojNo4LrhdVXw8_i7GfEBwJFIw8eSY1pe3UwedyiI25MoZRtcuA/s320/_DSC1006.jpg" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I.W.K.E</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Then a firetruck went by, and seriously<br />
<b>T.I.S.S.A.A.F.T</b> = there is something sexy about a fire truck.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-80306419748530012062011-09-14T10:01:00.000-05:002011-09-14T10:01:41.311-05:00Cuz she's my Cuz, and she beat Cancer.I'm one of the youngest of about a billion cousins, so unfortunately most of them grew up without me. I'm finding out now how pretty awesome they are. No one has had a lot of interest in me cause I just barely started being awesome in the last year or so.<br />
<br />
Amber is definitely one of the awesomest. She is a fighter and a survivor.<br />
<a href="http://brettandkristina.blogspot.com/2011/09/will-work-for-donations.html">Have you joined the fight?</a><br />
<br />
I asked Amber to write a little somethin' for my blog and she (because like I said, she's awesome) obliged. <b>So listen up nuggets! </b>(And oh my nerdiest reference I have ever made. Please tell me you don't know what that is from or I'll die of embarrassment.)<br />
______________________________________________<br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was five months shy of my 29<sup>th</sup> birthday when I received news that rocked my world. The large lump in my right breast wasn’t a cyst. It wasn’t a clogged milk duct. It was a cancerous tumor. And it wasn’t alone. In fact, it had several nasty friends, throughout my breast, and they were plotting my demise. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span> </span>The surreal feeling that followed that revelation never did really leave.<span> </span>Today, 8+ years later, it still seems strange to me that I’m one of those “one in eight” women that we’re always hearing about.<span> </span>But I am.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Several things have occurred to me since embarking on my cancer experience.<span> </span>I’d like to share a handful of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First of all, it occurred to me that we really, really, REALLY need to be careful what we wish for.<span> </span>I was an overly busty girl who always wished I could get a breast reduction.<span> </span>Boy, did I get my reduction!<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeoEQ9ZXy1VTT3Dab84IjaRwnfJjcEV5KUZn1g9ChrWXd2k7mfI9aP2G6nVaUN3SMT5-lXcsctDNJPZ22rgXbMi_BHfm0J3OVjYzOyeWNKB_LeAtpfVSX-8bv8ga-tYX73jPFfereO4o/s1600/amber2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeoEQ9ZXy1VTT3Dab84IjaRwnfJjcEV5KUZn1g9ChrWXd2k7mfI9aP2G6nVaUN3SMT5-lXcsctDNJPZ22rgXbMi_BHfm0J3OVjYzOyeWNKB_LeAtpfVSX-8bv8ga-tYX73jPFfereO4o/s320/amber2.jpg" width="252" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Second, it occurred to me we’re, each of us, more than just a sum of our parts.<span> </span>My amazing husband was key to putting that fact into perspective for me.<span> </span>His unconditional love and devotion carried me through the emotional turmoil of the flat chest and the bald eyebrows and the shiny head.<span> </span>He saw ME.<span> </span>He helped me to see ME, too.<span> </span>In turn, I now try to see others as they really are, not just as a sum of what I can see…their parts, but as a whole, divine creature.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Third, it occurred to me that there’s a certain coolness about having had breast cancer, especially having it so young.<span> </span>Pink ribbons are trendy.<span> </span>Facebook makes the news for breast cancer awareness gimmicks.<span> </span>Celebrities have famously battled the disease.<span> </span>We even have our own month. <span> </span>Breast cancer awareness is hip!<span> </span><span> </span>I love it.<span> </span>I hate it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span> </span>I love it because I own stock in it, now.<span> </span>I’m invested.<span> </span>If they find a cure, I won’t have to worry about my daughters (I have 3) or my sisters (I have 4) or my other much-loved women (I have hundreds!) having to go through what I did.<span> </span>I wouldn’t have to worry about it coming back.<span> </span>That would be nice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hate it because I know SO many people who have struggled with cancer…skin cancer, lung cancer, bone cancer, brain cancer, lymphoma, leukemia, testicular cancer, oh, and a handful with breast cancer.<span> </span>I hate that breast cancer seems to be THE cancer, the popular cancer that gets all the attention.<span> </span>Cancer is Cancer. <span> </span>All cancer is scary.<span> </span>One in three people will get it in their lifetime.<span> </span>I wish we could take the enthusiasm surrounding breast cancer awareness and support and apply it universally to ALL cancer. <span> </span>I’m so grateful for events like the ACS Relay for Life. <span> </span>It’s an event where no particular cancer is in the lime light.<span> </span>We unite and battle ALL cancer, and celebrate ALL survivors.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, it occurred to me that I don’t mind being a survivor. Having cancer was a scary, difficult experience, but it’s one of many experiences that have made me who I am. I wouldn’t undo it if I could. Also, I have to admit…I got a pretty nice rack out of the deal. Yes, they’re fake, but I don’t mind. I actually really want someone to comment on them, some day so I can quote an awesome t-shirt I once saw: “Yes, they’re fake. My real ones tried to kill me!” I don’t mind that I no longer get the sore shoulders and back that my double E’s used to give me. I don’t mind that gravity has lost some of its pull on “the girls”. I don’t mind that I’m still alive and kicking. I don’t mind that I am able to watch my two little girls become two beautiful young women. I don’t mind that I was able to (with a little help from my hubby) bring three more gorgeous, brilliant, lively, wonderful children into our family. I don’t mind that I savor life just a little bit more than I used to. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14pt;">It’s a good life. </span></span><!--EndFragment--> <br />
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</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-83085072648298369222011-09-07T19:45:00.001-05:002011-09-07T19:51:31.468-05:00An Update, an illegal video, and a flavor seizure.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1. Update</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can now run 2 miles. Apparently I couldn't before now. I want to kill myself. Literally. In a non-literal kind of way. Go donate -- don't make me suffer for no reason!!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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3. A flavor Seizure.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJMyTUNw6PIe_oZlsNGsKPfMJELZv1qDrXyml1amdRFFIgJMaa0lH3x4bIzC5ht1f49wCtwsIVIvaf5_MYTDJQ2OdMc2IjhoU5Xx_TL3CjHJb7STBwhVVduMwTLtumLKNgPsRGEEDLPc/s1600/4quesos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJMyTUNw6PIe_oZlsNGsKPfMJELZv1qDrXyml1amdRFFIgJMaa0lH3x4bIzC5ht1f49wCtwsIVIvaf5_MYTDJQ2OdMc2IjhoU5Xx_TL3CjHJb7STBwhVVduMwTLtumLKNgPsRGEEDLPc/s640/4quesos.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Credit where credit is due. It was Brett's idea. But I did most of the work. And it was a lot of work. And they were totally delicious.<br />
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Can you say labor day tradition? 3X fast?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-75320555529727263572011-09-05T21:32:00.003-05:002011-09-06T23:14:38.991-05:00Will work for donations.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6H7zci_-xpstve_gFQSQeLaI32TpKy2c2o6KpQ8iZTX0Th2H96LqZoBbSsN60hrgUhxCVq0y5Excy0u0unoikI6uE7J7iMCA7R3JBZNTSAtXGN4AiVXwLnnCo64InvSWpypLm2VE2SFg/s1600/raffle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6H7zci_-xpstve_gFQSQeLaI32TpKy2c2o6KpQ8iZTX0Th2H96LqZoBbSsN60hrgUhxCVq0y5Excy0u0unoikI6uE7J7iMCA7R3JBZNTSAtXGN4AiVXwLnnCo64InvSWpypLm2VE2SFg/s640/raffle.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
The Fine Print: Raffle is open from 9/5/2011 until 9/28/2011 at 11:59 CST. To enter click the link below (PayPal account not required) or send payment via PayPal to kriskrisphotography@gmail.com. Minimum number of entrants required (okay it's a tiny minimum but still!), so pass the word! There are no limits to the number of times you enter. Winner will be notified before midnight on 9/29/2011 via email. Included photography services are 1 hour of photography coverage by Kristina, disc or emailed files of ten (10) digital negatives with personal printing license agreement, and travel within Salt Lake and Utah Counties (UT), Lubbock County (TX), Sacramento County (CA), Boise and Ada Counties (ID) on any non-holiday date Kristina has available between 9/30/2011 and 12/31/2012<br />
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For a sample of my work please visit <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/KrisKris-Photography/136985663047114">my facebook page.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-55296301537567190812011-09-01T00:53:00.002-05:002011-09-01T09:11:06.545-05:00Kristina walks 5000 miles (to kick cancer in the face)<div>
I am running a 5k on October 1st to help raise money to find the cure for breast cancer, and I am going to ask for your money now so that you don't get distracted by my long-winded post and never make it to the end where I ask you to sponsor me and make a donation. </div>
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<a href="http://lubbock.info-komen.org/site/TR?px=10558940&pg=personal&fr_id=2253&et=hjCE6TGi7ApkPmeHjqiE7g&s_tafId=70961">You can donate here.</a></div>
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We will now return to my irregularly scheduled blog.</div>
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So you know how I posted almost a year ago now that I started running? (of course you don't, you only recently started reading my blog because you googled Jimmy Fallon and for some reason this popped up.) Anyway about a year ago I posted that I had started running. Well it was a lie esteven. A lie! I did run off and on for maybe 3 weeks. And when I say run what I mean is that I ran for about 3 minutes and then cry-walked for 5 minutes, and then ran for 3 more minutes and then cry-walked for 5 more minutes, and after 30 minutes I leaned against a tree, threw up, and asked my husband to come get me, where ever I was (about a block from home, usually.)<br />
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Well every year 5k time starts rolling around and for some reason I think, "Yeah, that is something I want to do!" probably because I am a tiny bit masochistic. Anyway I get this idea that I'm going to be a runner, and then I run maybe 2 or 3 times, and then the 5k draws closer and I think, "WTHeck dude, I'm not paying $30 to do something I hate." And so I don't.</div>
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Well 5k season is coming around again. And I'm starting to get the itch. But I'm trying to be more realistic this time around. I don't want to pay $30 to do something I hate. And then it strikes me like a lightning bolt. </div>
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People don't actually pay $30 to do something they hate (although some people do like it, but they aren't paying $30 to do something they like either, cause running is usually free.) </div>
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Yes I am dumb. It had never occurred to me that my $30 was going to <i>cancer research. </i> Or whatever your 5k was for, but you get my point. And in case you didn't, I will make it one more time. In bold. With a larger font.</div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I'm not paying $30 to do something I hate, I am paying $30 to kick Cancer in its <i>FACE</i>.</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">And thus I have found incentive to go out and do this. So for the first time in my 28 years, I actually registered to run 5k to show breast cancer what's what.</span></div>
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Now I just have one problem. I can run 2 miles, but that is about it. I've been told that if I can run 2 miles now, then there's no reason I shouldn't be able to run 5k in one month. But honestly peeps, I can't see myself being able to run 5 thousand miles EVER. Let alone in 1 month! So I need help. I need you to keep me motivated. Because I don't mind squandering my $30 and not showing up for the race, but I could never squander other peoples' monies. </div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://lubbock.info-komen.org/site/TR?px=10558940&pg=personal&fr_id=2253&et=hjCE6TGi7ApkPmeHjqiE7g&s_tafId=70961">Give me your money. </a></span></b></div>
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I mean donate your money to the cause. And donate it here, under my name, so I know that someone out there is holding me accountable to not only kick cancer in it's face through monetary donation, but to tread over it in my sweet nikes as I cross the finish line (even though I will probably be cry-walking long before mile 4,999 rolls around.)</div>
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Now if you can't donate, I get that. We are broke except for the few months right after student loans come in (which correspond perfectly with 5k season) so there have been plenty of times that "the cause" has come around and I've had to close the door and curtains in shame because I had nothing to offer. First I will say, if you have $5, we'll take $5. If you don't have $5, you obviously at least have the internet. So pass it on. My "Dear Jimmy Fallon" post was viewed 2,240 times. That is NUTS. And that was something that ultimately only affected ME. So I thought, what if we could get <i><b>this</b></i> post circulated 2,240 X? What if 1 in 10 people donated a measly $5? That would be over $1,000. And since my goal is only $100 (reach for the stars Kristina!) that would beyond blow me away. In the face of our communal wrath, cancer doesn't stand a chance.</div>
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I would run 2,500 miles, and I would run 2,500 more just to be the (wo)man who ran 5,000 miles to fall down at Susan G. Komen's door (with an armload of your breast cancer fighting money).</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">**I am sure there are a number of you worried that I think a 5k is 5 thousand miles. Don't worry, I know perfectly well that a 5k is actually kilometers, not 5,000 miles. But 5,000 kilometers is pretty far too! </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-72823295648638318162011-08-28T19:40:00.002-05:002012-11-18T21:17:22.259-06:00Tickle->Bug->Shudder->Spasm Reflex.I'd say most people learn the Tickle->Bug->Shudder->Spasm Reflex at a young age. The reaction is almost identical among all homo-sapiens. One feels a tickle, automatically imagines the bug most likely to be the culprit of the terrible sensation, shudders and reflexively kicks, flicks, flings or whips the limb or body part where the sensation was felt. It is a learned behavior, though the insect (or arachnid) that teaches each person this behavior is different from subject to subject. For my husband it is spiders (Tickle-> SPIDER -> shudder -> spasm). For me it is cockroaches (Tickle-> COCKROACH ->shudder -> spasm). It takes only one encounter with an insect to ingrain this reflex into a person for life, and years of therapy and self-degradation to rid oneself of this reflex.<br />
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As I mentioned, the culprit of my imprinting experience was a cockroach. I believe I was in first grade at the time. I was wearing my super stylish ked slip-ons (my go-to school shoe for 12 years) when I felt a tickle in the arch of my foot. What was that crazy sensation? I tried tapping my foot on the ground a few times, swinging it wildly under my desk, but nothing seemed to be helping. Finally I slipped my shoe off to investigate. Nothing seemed to be on my foot. I ducked under my desk and tipped my shoe over trying to get a better look inside when a giant 3-foot cockroach crawled out of my shoe. It stared up at me for about 10 seconds as if to say "that was the worst experience of my life." I stared back in horror, hopefully broadcasting a similar sentiment. I watched as it scuttled out from under my desk and across the classroom floor. The rest of the school day was spent imagining tickles under my foot, thoughts of cockroaches, involuntary shudders and spasms as I took my shoes off over and over to investigate their contents. From that moment on any tickle I felt, anywhere on my body was automatically associated with a cockroach. </div>
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<b>The problems with this reflex are: </b></div>
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<b>1) it isn't remotely helpful for survival.</b> Any poisonous insect that is close enough to tickle has probably already killed you, and any amount of spasming isn't going to reverse that. </div>
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<b>2) it isn't remotely subtle.</b> If you have this reflex in public everyone will notice you. It includes giant gestures and often girly squeals. You are now the embarrassed center of attention. </div>
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<b>3) it isn't remotely accurate. </b> 99 X out of 100 <i>there is no bug.</i> You have just shuddered and spasmed (and possibly wet your pants a little) in public over a stray hair, a falling leaf or some d-bag tickling your neck with a cattail.</div>
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Realizing that it would be better for my social standing to lose this reflex for life, I went through countless years of trying to overcome. Every time I felt a tickle and automatically squealed and spasmed I would berate myself. I would point out the leaf or raindrop that had startled me so, and lecture myself on the improbability that every tickle I ever felt for the rest of my life came from a cockroach. Over the years I made incredible progress. And today, I triumphed.</div>
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As I stood at the counter, dishing leftover dinner into a tupperware, I felt a small tickle on my toes. "COCKROACH!" My mind screamed frantically, but my training prevailed. I didn't shudder, I didn't spasm. I finished what I was doing and then calmly looked down to investigate what had tickled my baby toe. </div>
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A half smooshed cockroach perched there, antennae flailing wildly. </div>
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COCKROACH!-> SHUDDER!! -> SPASM!!! </div>
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I think I literally went into convulsions trying to get that thing off my foot. When it was finally flung away I unrolled half the paper towels and rolled the thing up into a ball and shoved it into my trashcan which I then tied up and took out to the dumpster. I came back in and bleached my entire leg. And yet I still feel it perched there. ***sob!!***</div>
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The Tickle->Bug->Shudder->Spasm reflex. 1% accurate. 100% necessary.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-61608936279430124702011-08-27T17:56:00.002-05:002011-08-27T18:19:26.022-05:00My day at Chick-Fil-A. In which I lie, steal, cheat and lose.For those of you unfamiliar with Chick-Fil-A, it is not pronounced Chick-fil-uh. It is like, Chick-fillet. It's a play on words because they are chicken fillets. You know, clever. And if you don't know how to pronounce fillet you are on your own. <br />
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So anyway. I decided to treat myself and my children to an afternoon of yummy fried chicken and sunless indoor play (it is crazy hot here.) My husband warned me that Chick-Fil-A on a Saturday at noon would be a mad house (Lubbock loves fried chicken.) but I insisted it wouldn't be THAT bad. I was so confident, in fact, that it wouldn't be so bad that I forwent a shower this morning and left the house in my pajama shirt. I did put a bra on (achievement!). So we drop Brett off at work and wander over to our local friendly Chick-Fil-Uh.<br />
<br />
The second I pulled into the parking lot I knew I had made a terrible mistake. The drive-through line was wrapped twice around the building. There was a steady stream of people going in and out the doors. If only I'd had a survival mode, I would have driven home right then and there. But I had told my kids we were going to go play. Turning around now to save my life would most definitely destroy my sanity. There really was only one option. Time to brave the chaos.<br />
<br />
So the line is crazy long and my kids are already egging for the play pit. I release the reins and let 'em go. I get in line. I am that annoying lady in front of you in the line who doesn't realize when it moves forward cause she is so distracted by something else. I am trying to see my kids in the play place. You keep asking me to move forward. You are annoyed. <br />
<br />
I finally order and move out of the way. One can't wait for one's food, you have to move to the side and let 7 other people order until they finally frantically scream your name, begging you to come claim your stuff so they can start harassing other customers. I wait about 5 minutes when someone small starts to tug on my pant leg. It is Juliet. "I have to go to the bathroom" she says, and then before I can grab her she darts away between the milling masses of people. She's run the wrong direction from the bathroom, back to the play place, and now I have to hunt after her all the while worried that our food order is going to be given away to someone else if I don't hear them frantically shouting for me. <br />
<br />
"Juliet! Get your shoes on, the bathroom is this way!"<br />
"I don't have to go"<br />
"You just told me you did."<br />
"Well I don't."<br />
<br />
Now I am that mom who yells at her kids in public and, oh please tell me you didn't, but oh yes I did, I start counting to three. I can feel "tacky" sticking to me like bad wall paper, but I don't have time to fool around. I have to get this kid in and out of the bathroom before my number is up.<br />
<br />
Where is Bensen in all this? Oh who knows. I'm sure he is still in the restaurant somewhere.<br />
<br />
So I get Juliet in and out of the bathroom, and back to the play place in time for Vik-ee to hollah "KRISTIN? KRISTINE? KELLY?" It looks like what I ordered so I jump on it like a vulture onto carrion (whatevs, vultures totally do jump). I peak in. I forgot to order a fruitcup in lieu of waffle fries.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>LIE</i></b></div><br />
"I'm missing a milk," I tell Vik-ee.<br />
"Oh I'm so sorry. Here it is."<br />
"Also I ordered a fruit cup with one of these kids meals."<br />
"Oh, sorry about that."<br />
<br />
Free fruit cup. I am a terrible person. I honestly in all honestness meant to say, "I forgot to order a fruitcup with one of these kids meals" but somehow the 'forgot' got lost and 'order' picked up a different suffix. I walked away from the register in a daze, stolen fruitcup in hand. What kind of person was I becoming? <br />
<br />
There are no free tables in the whole restaurant. I'm feeling a bit frantic, I need to put this food down somewhere and make sure my kids are ok. I turn this way and that, and come face to face with a crying barefoot Bensen. A very nice lady is holding his hand trying to figure out what to do with him. "He's mine," I say, trying to balance my tray of food and cigarette in one hand while I grab for him. "Sorry, and thank you." The table next to me is miraculously emptying. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>STEAL</i></b></div><br />
I see an old lady with a handful of napkins eyeing it though I pretend not to see her. Before she can make a move I plop my baby right in the middle of the table before it's been fully evacuated, and actually scoot the fleeing families tray off the table with my own. Luckily the dad is a ninja and catches his tray before I make a real spectacle of myself. I see tears well up in the old ladies' eyes and try to suppress a smug look. <br />
<br />
I open the pilfered fruit cup and hand Bensen a fork. Juliet, also barefoot, walks over to the table and we sit down to a nice meal together. The youngsters pop in and out at will, heading off to play and then coming back for a few quick bites. I flip through the current issue of "Guns and Ammo" idly twirling my mullet through my fingers, debating on letting it grow out or shaving it short again.<br />
<br />
"Kristina, is that YOU?" I look up, it is one of my friends. Not a Betty from the double wide trailer type of friend -- you know, a friend you are comfortable inviting over at any time cause you know she won't judge you cause her parenting style is as bad as yours if not slightly worse? No, she is more of a June Cleaver type of friend. One of those moms who has two kids but still looks 20. Her hair is as long as mine used to be before I got frustrated and lopped it all off, but it is cute and styled in a way my hair could never even dream of being the cheap knock-off version of (wow did that sentence work? I hope the sentiment did at least.) She is cute, cool, poised and confident. And to make it even worse, she is NICE, so you can't even hate her for being so obviously better at this than you. And that is when I realized.<br />
<br />
I AM THE BETTY FROM THE DOUBLE WIDE TRAILER FRIEND. With my pajama shirt on, my unkempt hair, my barefoot kids, my stolen fruit-cup, and my old-lady's-dream crushing ways. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>CHEAT</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I'm sorry," I reply to the lovely June Cleaver. "You must have mistaken me for someone else."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>LOSE</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><br />
</b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Kristina, you're so funny. It's nice seeing you!" The angels practically whisk her away. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*for those of you worried about the stolen fruit cup, I did actually pay for it. What can I say, my parents raised me right. I cannot steal, and I cannot tell a lie. Well, I did totally steal that table from the old lady. So I guess they just <i>mostly</i> raised me right.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-40008794090145962082011-08-24T23:30:00.000-05:002011-08-24T23:30:27.152-05:00Mixing my lives--- NOOOO!!!!So I try not to post my photography business stuff on this blog because this is my family blog (ie the place where I rarely talk about my family cause I'm a narcissist) but I took my niece's bridals a few weeks ago, and since she is my niece I didn't post a gallery for her to order from, and since there wasn't a gallery there was no way for my mom to see her pictures. Or any other family member that was interested. So sorry for all those who are UNinterested.<br />
And for those who are TOTES interested, check out my facebook page! <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/KrisKris-Photography/136985663047114">KrisKris Photography</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615725436393934107.post-47046356579612324132011-08-20T23:16:00.000-05:002011-08-20T23:16:27.217-05:00seven hundred and twelve photos later. . .it's national photography day! That really has nothing to do with this post, except that photography made this video possible. hurray!!<br />
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<iframe width="600" height="493" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/x-wF2OdooKY?hl=en&fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5