Oliver

My dear, sweet, energetic, easily distracted boy.

I love him.

Even when he licks my face while I am sleeping.  After eating a bowl of his food.

Or when he pees all over me the second I walk in the door.

I still love him.

We've noticed throughout the years he has the attention span of a goldfish (get's that from his mom) and the energy level of a terrier (his dad).  But he's smart as...well, a Golden Retriever.

"Oliver, go get your ball."

He knows what this means.

"Go get it!"

He runs out of the room.  A man on a mission.

Chomp, chomp, chomp.

He wanders back in.  Says hello.  Burps.

"Oliver.  Go.  Get.  Your.  Ball."

Oh yeah.  Runs out.  Slides on the hardwood.

Shlurp, shlurp, shlurp, shlurp.

All that thinkin' made him thirsty.  He trots in.

"Hey.  I said I need that ball.  GO GET THAT BALL!  I mean your ball, go get YOUR ball."

He runs around the apartment, up and down the stairs, and back into the room.

He forgot.

"Ball."

Oh, yeah.  Runs out.  Brings Christmas Bear held oh-so-gingerly by the bear's pom-pom nose.

"That is not your BALL."

huh?

"BAAAAALLLL."

huh?

"Ball!  Ball!  Ball!  Go get your BAAAALLLLL!!!"  (not crazy.  encouraging.  there's a difference)

Finally!  He finds the ball in his toy basket.  I pat myself on the back.  Sometimes it just takes a little craz....uh, encouragement.

Happy Birthday!!!

To my sister Katie who turns 23 today!!

I only have a few memories of when you were born, and not surprisingly, they all revolve around me:

1.  I loved drinking mom's prune juice.  For her it was relief from the nasty things you did to her insides.  For me it was yummy brown juice.
2.  I played with my Lite-Brite the night you were born.  "Yeah, yeah, I get a baby sister, but look at this flower!!"

It wasn't until you started walking and making real words that I started forming what I would call fond memories.

Like dancing around the living room in our underwear to Psalty the Singing Songbook records.

Remember Psalty?  And his daughters Melody and Harmony? 

Remember records??  Yeah, me neither.

We built forts out of our bunk beds, made mud tacos (thanks to the strong Mexican influence in Southern California), and tried to rig a bathroom in the red wagon out of funnels, Tupperware and cardboard boxes for those long treks from one side of the backyard to the other.

I was your interpreter when everything you said sounded like, "I poopie dada jump on broccoli," or swear words.

By the way, you're welcome for not telling them you were actually swearing. 

We played in the bathtub with toys, soap crayons, and our imaginations.  We crafted bubble beards and clothing and made a game out of "find the turd" when Kimberlie finally joined us.

You've been a good little sister, and to reward you I will not post your 6th grade, pre-braces picture.  You know, the one with your buck-teeth and eyes, nose and mouth too big for your head.

Yeah, I said you were good.  But not good enough to not give the people a hilarious mental picture.

I'm still not over you eating my Lite-Brite pegs.

My inner demons

Inner monologe:

"I really should eat better."

"Hmmm...that's a good idea.  Eating right makes you feel good, and who doesn't want to feel good, am I right?!"

"Right indeed!  I saw we start with a helping of veggies.  Maybe some broccoli."

"I concur."

"Me too."

"Me three."

Two minutes later...

My co-worker, Sharon, comes into the room.

"I'm going to Rockhill Bakehouse, do you want a brownie?"






"Lemme grab my purse..."

So much for being in control over myself...myselves.

A new hobby

Apparently, when you become an adult your body does not bend the way it did when you were 6.

Unless you are an adult who bends for a living.  This actually encompasses several professions, so now is probably the time for me to get to my point.

I started, reluctantly at first, going to a gymnastics class at the YMCA.  My sister Kimberlie has been in the class for awhile now and raves about it.  She forced me to go one day after I completely exhausted my excuse bank.

And I liked it.

I liked it so much I decided to go back 8 months later.

Then I went again two weeks after that.

I haven't quite mastered the double twisty-loopdy doo, my handstand is more like a handtoppleover, my hip cracks every time I do a cartwheel and when I do a backwards roll I look like a frog in heat.  But I can do a mean somersault.  And I can fall onto foam pads like the rest of 'em.

But that's not the only reason I go.  The thought that, in theory, I could eventually flip myself forwards or backwards without help is super exciting.  I've missed my chance to be on the cheerleading squad, fawr-shawwwr, but there are endless opportunities to wow crowds with a triple axle.  Um....?

And as soon as I stop falling on my head, grow some muscle, and have that radical inner ear equilibrium balancing surgery that probably is not even real yet, I just might walk out of that class with some skeeelz.  (skeels=skills, for my older readers.  I said older, not old....moms.  And I said moms because mom and mom-in-law would have taken too much effort.  Why must I constantly explain myself?  That was rhetorical.)

I'm fighting the good fight

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch that....cold, well yeah, it's a little cold in here.

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch that cold.

I will not...hey, is it cold in here?

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch th....is there a heating pad in that closet?

I will not catch that cold.

No, the closet in the bathroom.

I will not catch that cold.

Could you bring it to me?

I will not catch that cold.

Maybe some tea, too.

I will not catch that cold.

No, the chamomile.

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch that cold.

Oh, and that box of tissues.

Yes, the whole box.

I will not catch that cold.

I will not catch that cold.

Why?  Because I am not catching a cold!!

Hearthrobs

Meet my boyfriends of the 90s.

What's-His-Name - 98 Degrees.

Kevin - Backstreet Boys.

"...and my love is all I have to giiiiiiive, without you I don't think I can liii-iiii-iiiive..."

JC - N'Sync

And then there was my 80s boyfriend

Jonathan - New Kids on the Block.  Or NKOTB as they are now called.

My type was obviously the shy, mysterious boy.

Obviously.

Me = Fashion Faux Pas

I don't think I have to mention again how nerdy I was in Jr. High, but I will anyway just so you can be in awe of how resilient I am.

I read a million books a week, leaving me little time to learn how not to be socially awkward or study the fashion advice in teen Vogue.

Among other wardrobe miscues such as the Starter Jacket and overalls, I desperately wanted a poncho.  A loud, obnoxious, wooly poncho.

I don't know if I was planning on wearing it with my rainbow laced Pumas or my gramma version Teva sandals.  Either way, I was convinced a poncho was my way to dig myself out of the social hole I fell into at the end of 6th grade.

Luckily, I was never given that chance.

Winter Wonderland

Ah, snow...gotta love it. 

No, really.  You gotta find a way to love it or you spend the next three months in a feelings coma.

I find snowshoeing to be very relaxing and peaceful.  Just me and the elements. 

But first I have to pull on my 4" thick snow pants, zip up my arctic resistant coat, lace up my 5lb super insulated boots, and cover remaining exposed skin with hat, scarf and gloves all before I can walk out the door....then I walk back in the door because I forgot to potty.

Saturday was an excellent day for snowshoeing.  The weather was unseasonably warm (foreshadow...), so my dad and Kimberlie followed a similar dressing/potty process and we all drove out to Moreau Lake State Park for a quick jaunt around the lake.

Quick, as in as quick as our weighted little legs could maneuver size 55 snowshoes around tree trunks, snow/ice chunks, and dog leashes.  In other words, not-quick.

It's excursions like these where I wish I had a little pocket camera to document all of the wonderful sights:  beautiful snowy landscapes, frosty dog whiskers, Kimberlie falling through the ice....

"What?!"

Uh, yes.  My dog's whiskers were all icy.  It was sooooo cu....Oh, the other thing.

Yeah, Kimberlie fell into the lake.  Snowshoes and all. 

I felt like it all happened in slow motion.  There we were, my dad in front of me, Kimberlie in the back, the dogs chasing something somewhere in the woods.  Suddenly the ice cracked.  We heard a scream followed by a splash.  Now we're in super, super slow motion.  We turn around and see:

"Ohmigosh!!  You're IN the lake!!"

"...and your nose fell off, apparently....(oops)"

See where a camera would have been helpful here?

Everything was fine.  I yanked her out and she squirsh-squirsh-squirsh-ed all the way back to the car.

And then I played kissy face with my cutie wittle snuggle pie because his wishkers were just too tootsie cutsie!

Morning at the Lucas home

Stacie: "Do you want me to start your car"?

Corey: "That would be great, let me tell you how to....."(its a BMW....different then the usual car, they start with a simple push button)

Stacie: "I'm not stupid, I know how to start a car...I'm not a child"

Corey: "Ok"

5 minutes later.....

Stacie: "I can't start the car"

Corey: "Oh really!!! I thought you knew how to? You didn't want me to explain how to a few minutes ago, this is classic"


You see, I was just trying to help her out...maybe next time she'll listen!

My idea

I ran a 5k.  All 5k of it.  So did my dad, and so did my sister.

It is important to note here that we are not runners.  We're just a couple-a lunatics who said, "hey, let's do more running than we've done ever/in a long, long time next month in the freezing cold."

Actually that was what one lunatic said (me).  Then the other two lunatics said, "Yeah!  Free t-shirts!!"

Wait, that was me too.  But they were just as enthusiastic about the idea.*

Notice I said idea.  Because when the day finally came I swear I've never seen my dad so grumpy.   And Katie was so nervous she practically peed her pants.  Three times.

But there was no turning back.  We were assigned numbers.  And t-shirts.  If we wimped out they would write our names in a book of pansies...in ink.  That is a permanent designation, my friends.

Are you laughing yet?

Is it because you know that 5k is really just 3.2 miles?  And that 3.2 miles really isn't that far?

I would have laughed at this too if my heart wasn't beating in my throat.

So off we went, reluctantly, to the race site.  We watched how others pinned their numbers to their Under Armour running jackets, then pinned ours to our Hanes sweatshirts.

We watched them attach the time tracking chip to their performance enhancing Nikes while we put ours on our Reebok cross trainers.

They warmed up and stretched.  We wondered when we could have a slice of pizza.

"That lady over there is going to beat us."

"Why?"

"She's wearing Spandex."

"But she's 70 years old..."


"I think we can beat that couple over there."

"The guy with his gut pokin' out from under his sweatshirt?  Definitely."

And so the conversations went until we lined up at the starting line.

"5 minute mile-ers up front!"

"Maybe we should go to the very back."

And then the race began.

It.  Was.  Awesome.

Crowds of people lined the streets cheering, blowing whistles and ringing cow bells. 

We ran up hills, we ran down hills, we even ran by people in their spandex pants and expensive runner's gear.

I won't say we made magic on that night, but we did beat our goal (45 minutes) by 7 minutes.  My dad made even better time.

How's that?

He ditched us.

"I got caught up in the crowd!" he says.

"I looked for you, but there were too many people!" he claims.

Right, daddy.  Right.


*It was recently brought to my attention that my dad, in fact, was not looking forward to this race at any time.  I was also informed of his inability to say "no."  Something I wish I had known earlier...

Lunch review

There is a sandwich sitting in my belly right now.

I'd like to tell you a little about it.

I started with two fresh slices of whole wheat bread.

Followed by half a bottle of mustard.

Then two giant pickles.

Half of an avacado.

And a little turkey.

De-lish.

My name is Lucky.

I am one of those unfortunate souls who just can't catch a break.  If something could go wrong, it usually does.  Luckily I've become accustomed to my misfortune and can find some humor in most embarrassing situations.

I was reminded of my unlucky streak yesterday as I fell half dressed out of the changing stall I forgot to lock in the YMCA's locker room.

What came to mind, however, had absolutely nothing to do with accidental exposure (although I do forget to zip my fly almost every time we visit Corey's family), or embarrassing falls.

Back in my early 20's, a long, long time ago, I managed to drop things in the toilet at the most inopportune times.  Come to think of it, I don't know that there really is a good time, but I digress.

It was Halloween night, and I spent the evening with friends at a neighbor's house.  My costume: bunny ears and a fluffy tail.  Unoriginal, but super cool.  Anyway, one fateful trip to the bathroom found my fuzzy white tail swimming in a pool of...um, slightly yellow water.

Don't hold this part against me, I was young and under the influence of...uh, orange soda. 

I scooped out my soggy tail, dried it off on a towel (I know, I know....), reattached it with the same faulty safety pin and rejoined my friends.  End of story.  Not too bad.

This next situation is cringe-worthy.  I'm actually cringing right now.

Not too long after the tail incident I spent a weekend with a friend visiting his sister and her family.  As you probably know, in an unfamiliar place your normal routines fly out the window.  Especially when it comes to shower time.

You set a bag of make-up here, a bag of hair supplies there, old clothes on the floor, fresh clothes on the back of the toilet....wait, no the hair supplies should go there, and the make-up on that side of the counter....no that doesn't work either...and so on.

My point is, you're flustered.  You have limited space for all your stuff.  Accidents can happen.  And an accident did happen.

My underwear fell in the toilet.  Fresh underwear.  By then it was my only pair.

"Crap."

It's not like I can announce to everyone, "hey, I just dropped a pair of panties in the toilet...you think they'd go down ok?"

So, of course, I scoop them out and wring the excess water.  Gross, gross, gross, gross, gross.  Gross.

But what now??

Can't dry 'em.

Can't lay 'em out to dry.

"I'll roll them up in toilet paper!!"

Awesome idea 21 year old Stace.

So that's what I do.  I wrap them up in half a roll of toilet paper.  Then I wrap my old clothes around the panty-roll, and set everything on top of my bag in the living room.  We go about our day sight-seeing and come back to find the room rearranged.

"Wait a sec.  Where's my bag?!"

My friend's brother-in-law moved it.

"Why are my old clothes not wrapped the same way?!"

That's right.  My secret was uncovered.

Under the pile of clothes I find my now soggy toilet paper ball which, to him, contained who knows what.

Oh the absolute horror.  And now the agony of deciding whether or not to bring it up.  It was, after all, just underwear.  Not a big deal, right?!

I left the issue hanging.  And to this day he is probably still wondering what was in that soggy mess he accidently touched.

He said, she said...

Corey: "Did you set your alarm?"

Stacie: "Yeah, for 6:45am."

Corey: "So, is that when it's going to go off?"

I can't make this stuff up, people.

A Happy New Year indeed.

I would like to sincerely thank the lovely ladies with the short sparkly dresses and drifty eyes for the permanent hand railing indentation in my hip.  Falling into me and shoving me into said railing was an excellent way to ring in the new year.

And Tough Guy, thank you for bringing to our attention that some people just don't like to be touched.  We heard your barely audible insults loud and clear.  Oh, and no, thank you.  Corey does not want to take it outside.

Shout outs to piggy-back couple and their well wishes for the new year.  Girl On Back's "Go f*#! yourself" afterward was also very much appreciated.

I would have to say, though, what really got 2010 started off right was the cat fight over a slice of pizza.  I might have joined in the fun if my hair didn't look so dang good.  Rolling around on the floor just mats the curls.  The death threats did make the whole scene tempting, though.

It was an interesting night forecasting, I'm sure, what will be an interesting decade.  A decade that will find me snuggled up with a book and a sketch pad those weekend nights when all the crazies are loose...you know, to be safe.