The 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.
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.
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.
"But Father!" cried Mother, "What of the 15 lb turkey?  Did you not purchase an injection kit for the family turkey?"
"Why no," replied Father. "I thought you could eat a boring turkey while I made my own personal fancy awesome one."
"This does bring me great displeasure," Mother sighed.
"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."
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.
"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."
Mother tried not to think of Chinese food as she slipped off to sleep.

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.

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!"

Raw turkeys are disgusting.  Mother began rinsing the turkey off because it seemed like the right thing to do.

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.

"Please settle down, my dears!" she lilted sweetly.  Mother never yells at her children.

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.

"Is everyone okay?"

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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."

At that moment the rolls exploded.  And instead of cleaning up the debris in her kitchen, mother took a shower.

And that is the true story of how Thanksgiving stopped being a tradition in the Foutz household.

Congrats 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.

Stay with me here.

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 fries quatro quesos dos fritos [okay the fries was me, 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.a practice or interest followed for a time with exaggerated zeal . or 2. [which we are going to try and think of every time we use PFAD as in fad as in] a personal idiosyncrasy or whim). Which someone DID DO! Good job, the plot thickens.

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.

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.

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.

A travesty.  A terrible sad, terrible travesty. I will now further illustrate this travesty with rich allegorical imagery.

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.


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.

maybe one that looks less like an oven mitt.

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.)

So email me if you have any Psych powers.
Please and thank you.
kriskrisfoutz@gmail.com

FINGERPAINTING!

Bensen only works in the nude.  It's an artist thing.

Behold. 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.

Enjoy.

So 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)
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!"

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.

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.

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?

I decide not to take the shortcut.  Still not sure why I decided that.

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.)

Or I finished the race, and walked back to my car.  You decide.  Either way, donuts were involved.

Today I ran 5k.

10:30 p.m. - 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.

1:30 a.m. - 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.

2:00 a.m. - Back to bed.

5:00 a.m. - 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.

6:30 a.m. - Brett finally comes to bed.  Dude is crazy.  But at least his project is done!

7:00 a.m. - Alarm goes off.  I can hear Bensen awake, playing in the bathroom.  I do not want to get up.

7:30 a.m. - Get out of bed. Get dressed.  Neti my nose (seriously that thing is a lifesaver)

7:45 a.m. - 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.

My run:

a: Bob Marley is still playing, and I actually run past Bob Marley.

b: 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.

c: 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.

d: 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.

e: I must have blacked out because I do not remember running down this street at all.

f: 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.

g: 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"

h: must have blacked out again.

i: 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!
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.

j: 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.
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.

k: I hit 5k and cry walk back to my apartment.

8:30 a.m. - Victory is mine.

I know what you are thinking, isn't the 5k tomorrow?
Why yes it is.
So why run 5k today?
To prove that I can.  Just in case tomorrow I can't.

The 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.

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, shower part?

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.

S.I.2.H = sun is too hot

I.H.T.S = i hate the sun

T.S.I.M.M.E = the sun is my mortal enemy

I.W.K.E =
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 world-record breaking time 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.
I.W.K.E = i will kill everyone

I.W.K.E

Then a firetruck went by, and seriously
T.I.S.S.A.A.F.T = there is something sexy about a fire truck.