The early years

Hello friends.  Happy Wednesday! 

Or, if you're like me, Happy Tuesday and Happy Thursday!

My, um, calendar ran out on me yesterday and I'm completely lost without it.

So to celebrate Wednesday, and February, and the fact that it's waaaay too stinkin' warm for winter I'm going to post somethin'.

Lucky you!

I found a few pictures at my parents' house recently:

These two crazy kids fully embracing the styles of the late 70s are my parents.   Young, and in love, and fully unaware that within 10 years they will have three very loud, yet amazingly well-behaved children.

I love old pictures.

I love my parents.

I love my dad's face in the top right picture.

That's what he does.

He also mistakenly pronounces "exacerbate" in a very embarrassing way.

My parents worked at a boy's academy when I was young as house parents in a barracks full of seventh graders. 

Handsome couple.

Needless to say, I was the center of attention.

Oh the memories.

Eventually these two adorable yahoos came along.

I love old pictures.

...and reminiscing.

...and bowl cuts.

...and mama's old aprons.

...and my family.

New Developments

My family is wacky:

--My sister Kimberlie and I have a new way of communicating, we blink the Morse code (which neither of us actually knows) and then try to translate what the other is saying.

"Every Thursday you train your dolphin to fart cookies??"

What's worse: in a fit of blinks looking like you're pre-seizure or cackling in the middle of a ladies Christmas program at church?

--This same sister, in a serious conversation, said our grandmother's ashes are in a urinal.

She meant to say "urn."

--I sat down to talk to my dad in his office on Friday about some semi-serious stuff.  He interrupted me:

"Hold on, I need my thinking hat."

He then put on a fedora.

...

And Corey wonders why I am the way I am.

Weekend Wrap Up: Rednecks and Ghost Stories

Happy belated Halloween everybody!!

I hope it was spooktacular to whatever degree in which you are most comfortable!  My Halloween was a tad less than thrilling this year.  There was some felting, I cleaned out a closet, saw a few trick-or-treaters walk by, ventured out into a downtown establishment where I played the mental game of "is that wart real or fake?", and then snuggled into bed with Oliver and Matlock.

Edge-of-your-seat kind of stuff.

But that's what most people expect when Halloween falls on a stinkin' Monday.

Now, my Halloween weekend?  That was fun.

Thirty minutes of it, to be exact.

My sister Kimberlie and I have a standing date at the Double M Haunted Hayride every October.  There's a field, a tractor, some hay and mayhem.  I wouldn't call it knock-yer-socks-off (or as my friends to the south say: I wouldn't want to slap my mama) but a good time, nonetheless.

Our ritual: we meet at my apartment, laugh about how many layers we're wearing (3 pairs of pants this year, a record), make scream faces for the camera, and giggle all the way to the farm.  We had an extra this year, Kimberlie's friend Logan who proved to be a good fit in our night of shenanigans.

Shenanigans that started the second we sat down on that flat-bed.

"'OMG I'm at the Haunted Hayride!!' Now as soon as you're done texting your BFF put your cell phone in a zippered pocket!"

Jolly security guards, priceless.

"I just soaked through ALL layers of my pants."

It was snowing, by the way, and the hay was wet.  We did not pee our pants prior to the hayride.

Or during, actually.  To clarify further.

So we ride around.  Dead bodies jumped out at us, zombie school children followed us around, we even saw the headless horseman:

"Awwww, can I pet the horse?"

Fail.

Being oh-so-slightly wound, I jumped at the slightest movement.  I also screamed loudly.  My whole body is still sore from the tension that came from knowing something was going to jump out at me and force me to scream right in my neighbor's ear.

It's one of those reflexes I just cannot control.

But all of that is plain fun!  I love being scared, one night a year.

In the last part of our hayride we encountered a redneck village full of dilapidated trailers and cannibal toothless wonders.  Men in overalls and flannel ran out of their homes screaming at us, and some even followed our tractor!

One of these bufoons startled Logan and she screamed.

Logan: "I'm sorry!"

Kimberlie: "Did you just apologize for screaming?"

Redneck:  "It's because she farted."

Everyone within earshot: "Hahaha!"

Redneck: "Hey...(to the person leading our group) be careful, this one right here FARTED."

After we de-tractored I heard a few people whispering:

"That's the girl who farted."

Poor Logan.

But all fart jokes aside, this year's adventure was my favorite.

The rest of the night include a haunted house, ice cream and enough of The Shining to reach and exceed my creep tolerance, about an hour and a half.

And now I'm set until next year.

Weekend Wrap Up: Berries and Burns

"Ooooo, garage sale?!  No, zucchini."

That was my sister, Kimberlie.  We went berry picking Saturday, but of course had our eyes on the look out for cheap junk.

...

July has been a wonderful month of weekends.  Each weekend is even better than the last!

...due in part to a completely jam packed five days in between of work, work, work, walk dog, work, and work.

Of course Corey is happy.  With the start of track season his weekends are full of handicapping races, yammering on the phone with his buddies, and hanging out at the place to be in the summer, Siro's.

And that leaves me with oodles and oodles of time to myself.  Sure, I get my Corey and Stacie time in the morning; we walk the dog, go to breakfast, shop the farmer's market.  But then he's off and I'm free go wherever the wind may take me.

That wind kept me at our apartment Friday night, but it brought down my two sisters, Katie and Kimberlie, for a girls' night that included nachos, cookies, cookie dough, Super Mario Brothers, an insane amount of giggling, a near fight because Katie accused Kimberlie of trying to kill Mario on purpose, and the movie Black Swan.

Side note: the movie Black Swan is not intended to be watched by those who are easily embarrassed by baby-makin' material.  It is also not intended for those who name Dumb and Dumber in their top 10.

Another side note: nachos are not complete without avocado.

What came next in the weekend looked something like this:

• berry picking
• three pounds of raspberries and blueberries freezing until I can figure out what to do with them
• sunburn
• excitement over upcoming tan...you know, once the lobster color fades
• playing with cutest 2yr old on the planet
• sitting in duck poo
• trying to look excited about ducks while sitting in duck poo
• dog walk
• early bed time
• church
• birthday BBQ
• birthday cake
• birthday presents, including a jar of over a million buttons
• birthday swim
• birthday near drowning
• dog walk
• clean veggies
• collapse into bed
• bad dream

And now I am exhausted.  But, once again, oh-so satisfied. 

Coming up: lots of work, some complaining, one melt down, eating my weight in chocolate, and a partridge in a pear tree.

...And on a lighter note, It's Birthday Time!!

(yeah, seriously stace, why you gotta drag us down so early on a thursday??)

Today is my future brother-in-law's birthday!!

He's turning old today...Yay!!

Just kidding, 35 is not old.  And as the wife of a very active 39 year old, I have the authority to say that.

But as a nearly 29 year old I also have the authority to say I'm glad I'm not there yet.

Enjoy your day, Jay!

Driving Miss Dizzy

I spent some time with my sister, Kimberlie, over the weekend.  We drove down to Albany for a play our friend Liz's (aka, sister from another mother and father) step-daughter was in.

Kimberlie provided the in-flight entertainment.

In Starbuck's drive through:

"I have to pee."

"Me too."

"I guess we shouldn't be getting coffee."

"Why?"

"Because coffee is a diuretic."

"What does that mean?"

"It makes you have to pee."

"Oh.  I thought it meant it gives you diabetes..."

...

(later, passing a car with a Massachusetts license plate)

"I'm glad we didn't end up moving there.  I wouldn't be able to say my state's name!"

"What?  You can't say Massachusetts??"

"No, I always end up swearing at the end."

".....?"

"Massa-two-shits."

"Hahahahahaha!!  It's MassaCHuSetts."

"Massa-two-shits."

"Hahaha(snort)hahaha!!  Ok, ok, let's practice.  Repeat after me: Massa..."

"Massa..."

"Chu..."

"Chu..."

"Setts..."

"Tits..."

(i wish i could tell you she was joking)

"Ok, try this: MassaChu..."

"MassaChu..."

"Setts..."

"Setts..."

"MassaChu..."

"MassaChu..."

"Setts..."

"Setts..."

"MassaChu...Setts."

"MassaChu...Setts."

"YES!!"

"Stacie, I think I'm better off saying Massa-two-shits than MassaChu...Setts."

"You're right...just make sure you say it really fast."

Weekend Update

...with Stacie Lucas.


"Hello, and welcome to the show."


But seriously, we have a lot of ground to cover.  I may actually revert to bullet points just to get this thing in at under 25 pages.  Maybe we should get started:

Hey, I love laser tag.

That's all I really wanted to talk about.  There was a bunch of other stuff, like a day of baking, freezing my bones outside, and coffee with a friend.  But the big ticket item was the laser tag.

My family is slightly addicted.

"Hmmm, what should we do for Katie's birthdaylaser tag!!"

...and then:

"Kimberlie, what do you want to do for your birthdaylaser tag!!!"

Next will be:

"Happy April 4thlaser tag!!!"

Followed by:

"I have this annoying little hang naillaser tag!!!"

My sister, Kimberlie's, birthday dinner was Saturday night.  So we had friends over for dinner, which was just to carbo-load and strategize for an evening of running (but not running because it's against the rules) around with a bunch of fifth graders shooting at stuff. 

"What's the point?"  Corey always asks.

Adrenaline.  There's kind of a rush in stalking your prey and then shooting the bejeezus out of it.

Winning.  It's nice to win.  And then rub it in everyone's faces.  However, I believe Charlie Sheen now owns this word so I'll probably have to pay him now.

Exercise.  We all came outta there sweaty so I'm sure we got a little cardio workout.

Target practice.  For those of us who hunt for real.  Or fight crime.  For the record, I do neither.

Youth serum.  Being silly is good for wrinkles.

Team building.  Learning to not shoot your fellow red team members will help you in the real world.

After all this, I can't see why anyone wouldn't want to play.  I'm pretty sure I know what you're thinking:

"I'll see you on the course."

Right you are, my friends.  It's on.

Weekend Wrap Up: Happy Birthday!

Oh, the weekend wrap up...four days late.

There were four main areas I wanted to touch on:

• I, rightfully, get made fun of for forgetting stuff.
• A cake ball tower is not a good substitute for a birthday cake.
• Laser tag is cool despite what the 12-year-old you are shooting says.
• Karaoke is best kept in a bar.

Saturday I drove up to my parents' house to help my mom with her sewing class.  Later on as I was visiting with the folks and my sister we were talking about a new song on the radio about forgetting stuff and it driving the singer crazy.  My family all laughed and pointed at me as if I should be able to relate.

Needless to say, I was shocked.  "No, I do not forget stuff!"  Moments later, as I was starting my car to leave, I stopped and walked back into the house because I forgot my phone.  But I couldn't remember where I left it.

Finally, I was able to get in my car and drive away.  Until I remembered the cake pans I needed for my sister's birthday cake.

Oh the shame.

...

So there I go with my cake pans and a recipe in mind for a homemade chocolate cake with a chocolate ganache icing.  All she wanted was a Betty Crocker version, but for my sissy I go above and beyond.  However, "beyond" ended up sticking to the bottom of the pan and I was left with two lopsided halfsies and lots of broken chunks.

Luckily, my baking skeelz are top notch (more like middle notch), so I turned to Plan B: chocolate cake balls.  I ran out for a block of cream cheese (and milk because I forgot it the last time I was at the store and Corey desperately needed to make a milkshake.  at noon.  in the middle of winter) and began the transformation.

Problem: the girl was expecting a cake.  One solid mass that she could cut into and eat with a fork.

Solution: stack all those cake balls and make a gooey, cohesive cake ball tower.

Result: "Mom, can you make my cake next year??"

Whatevs.  The "cake" was awesome.

...

Now, it was not the birthday girl's idea to force everyone to play laser tag (as I do on my day with mini golf).  It was my dad's.  And there was very little convincing on my part:

"So I thought on Katie's birthday we would play laser..."

"I'M IN!!!"

We played two rounds, and if Corey hadn't thrown out my scorecards I would have shown you my first and second place finishes.  My codename was WildStar and I played to win.  My mom's codename, on the other hand, was Sloth and she came in almost last.  I think she might have felt bad shooting little kids.  You know, as a mom.  I did not.  Because they had no problem stalking me and hiding in small spaces.

The jerks.

So I shot 'em.

And I crawled in small spaces.

And then I did that thing where I roll around on the ground to avoid gun fire.

No.

No I didn't.

But I did shriek a lot.

And I asked everyone flashing my team color (green) if they were one of my sisters.

See, it's dark in there.  And I get a tad freaked out in the dark.  Especially when one particular round had only 12 players and I found myself wandering around, seeing not a single soul, wondering if the game was actually over and I was trapped inside with a serial killer.

No more Criminal Minds for this girl.  Or American Justice.

But I survived.  I lived to gloat about beating every single one of 'em.

...

So after all the birthday festivities (the dinner, the cake, the laser tag, the presents) everyone is tired.  It was, after all, 8:00pm, just one hour from my own bedtime.  However, the day would not be officially over until the fat lady sang.

The figurative fat lady being me and my sisters, the only brave ones to try my new Wii karaoke game.  Pumped up on chocolate ganache we each sang two songs and I can honestly say for certain that not a single one of us was given the gift of song.

We cannot carry a tune if the gold medal of karaoke depended on it.  Which it did.

But as I entered my sugar coma all that mattered was watching Katie's idea of what the dance moves should be while singing:

"If you want my body aaaaand you think I'm sexy come on baby let me knooooow..."

...

The.  End.

Wait a second, this was supposed to be a Weekend update.  Where's Sunday's news??

Um, ok.  Sunday: went to church, lunch with friends, slept in chair while watching Lifetime movies.

The.  End.

For real.

Oh how I love blogging. Let me count the ways....

I'm not much of a journaler, per se.  I remember starting a few diaries when I was younger, but I never managed to make it more than a handful of pages in.  It's not for lack of having things to say.  Obviously I don't seem to run out of words.  It was more of a combination of losing interest, having too much to say, and concern for making a very permanent mistake in pen.

My very first diary was made of puffy pink plastic with balloons and confetti all over.  I wrote in it with different colored pens, the kind that had all the ink in one pen...remember those?  The thing had a lock and key, which helped me keep my secrets from my sisters who were too young to read anyway.  Deep dark secrets such as how mad I was at being sick on my birthday. 

Whoa.

There were other things, too.  I don't remember them all.  But I know I was so embarrassed at the possibility of someone reading my thoughts I ripped out the pages and hid them somewhere.  Great idea, because now I know where the diary is but I have no clue where those missing pages are.

Someone somewhere is going to find out about my super duper crush on Lorenzo Feliciano in fourth grade.  I'll be ruined!!

But anyway, there was a point here and I have wandered off.  Again.

What I was trying to say is that for some reason I've stuck to this blogging thing like it's a triple chocolate sheet cake.  (It's probably because of this nifty 'backspace' button I use oh-so-frequently.)  Been at it since May-ish of 2009.  And I'm realizing there's more to this sucker than just puttin' words out there to be mildly entertaining.  I can look back at stuff!!

I can go back to this day, January 19th of last year and see what the heck I was doing!  Because I chronicled my sister falling through the ice in a lake I can remember the whole day so clearly.  And then I can laugh and laugh all over again.

Gimme a break.  She fell in to her knees.

I started Corey & Stacie when we (read: I) were planning our wedding and knee deep in about a million "things to do" checklists.  All of those old posts are invaluable to me now; I was clinically brain-dead and can't remember half of what went on for about six months leading up to the thing.  Looking back, I noticed after picking my bridesmaids this is how I introduced them to you.  If that doesn't scream "this girl needs a brownie with her vodka" I don't know what does.

Eventually I did get my brownie and vodka (read: nap) and life moved on.

How do I know?  Because I read it!  That's almost literally what I said!  Thank goodness for this blog and it's memory capabilities.  Left up to myself I would not be able to tell my children and grandchildren:

"Did you know mommy almost sent Granny Lucas a picture of condoms?"

...

You're right.  I can't possibly know if this whole blogging fad is even going to be around when I have my babies.

(And I would never tell them that, anyway.)

But while I can blog I'm going to.  For both of our enjoyment.

**goofy smile**

Happy Birthday To Me...Two Weeks Ago

Birthday's are great for getting stuff you really want but could never get prior approval for from the master of finances.

Had I seen the two sweaters my in-laws gave me hanging on the rack I would have said:

"Oh my heavens, I need these.  But alas, they are more than $2, which is my own personal limit for buying random items for myself."

Yes, I do say "alas" to myself.  Sometimes.

And the hiking boots from Corey:

"Look at the absolutely fabulous boots made for hiking!  Why, they are just gloriously brown!  But alas, the price is high.  Perhaps I should look elsewhere, garage sales, consignment stores, dumpsters..."

Oh, and then there's Elsie.  My second born.

This Borden cow creamer from my parents would have been at the top of my "Must Silently Covet Because You Could Never Justify Buying" list.

But look.

There she sits.  In my hand.

Well, now she's perched on an antique looking tray on an actual antique dresser that I put in my dining room because it looks more like a buffet.

In case you were wondering.

Let's just say girlfriend is old and rare.  And breakable and rare.  And has pointed udders and rare.

And I love her.

There were other lovely gifts; my sisters are always so thoughtful.  They seem to know me better than I know me...which reminds me of that commercial:

"Oooo, what am I thinking right now?!"

".....Donuts!"

...

"No.  I don't want no donuts."

You had to be there.

But I digress.

And before I digress any further, because it is already in the works, thanks to everyone, you're beautiful, let's do this again sometime.

Three Amigos....y Hermanas

We create chaos.  Katie, Kimberlie, and me.  Always.  And I haven't quite figured out why.

But I know it can't be me.

There's no chaos when Corey and I are out together.

No chaos at my weekly ladies bible study either.

Unless someone brings brownies.

So, ok, I could technically be the reason our outings are so memorable.

But in my defense (and Kimberlie's since I blame most of our shenanigans on her bright ideas [Katie is too rational to cause problems]) any time you give three girls four unruly dogs and put them in nature, funny things are going to happen.

Like poop.  Poop is inevitable.  And responsible owners pick it up.  Unless the forward progression of a 75 pound dog decides otherwise.  Or when two dogs take you and your two arms in opposite directions.  In other words, when poop happens, when anything happens, with four dogs you have little control.

Especially when one of those dogs is a 112 pound wall.  Hey, what do you call a 112 pound Rottweiler?  Ma'am.  And you say it sweetly or she looks at you with crazy eyes.

But anyway, on Saturday we decided to take all four dogs, my Oliver, Katie's Mika (ma'am), Kimberlie's Jubilie, and my mom's Maggie, on a walk along the canal in Glens Falls.  It's a nice little trail, not a lot of traffic, and plenty of room to fetch sticks in the water.  Oliver played in the water, too.  I kid.  Seriously, the water was, like, 40 degrees.

Oliver and Mika walked/ran/swam/shook off dirty canal water alongside us off their leashes while Maggie and Jubilie stayed on theirs.  And all was well.  Until a jogger showed up.  Then the chase began.  I chased Oliver, Mika chased Oliver, Katie chased Mika, Jubilie chased Katie, Maggie chased a butterfly and Kimberlie's arms got pulled off.  The dogs were corralled, the jogger passed, and all was well again.  Until a dog and his owner ran by.  I chased Oliver, Mika chased Oliver, Katie chased Mika....and so on.

This was, by far, the least of our problems.

"So where are you guys going?"

"The canal.  It's that trail I used to run, back when I used to run."

"Is he going in the water."

"Yes."

"Ok.  Just make sure he doesn't get too dirty."

"He'll be fine.  I mean, what can he get into?"

Famous last words.

A swamp.  That's what he could get into.  And he did.  Right after Katie uttered these last words:

"Maybe you should keep him out of the water now so he'll dry by the time we get back to the cars."

Less than a second later I see Oliver run full speed, as if called by the stank of the swamp, into the heart of the muck, coating the entire underside of him in thick, black, rotten mud.

Channeling my inner telenovela victim I screamed bloody murder.....

"NOOOooooooooooAAAHHHHHHH!!  Dios mioooooo!!!"  (hand to forehead)

I ran around.  Frantically looking for a stick.

"STICK, I need a STICK!  Help me FIND.  A.  STICK!!!"

I found a stick. 

And then I waved it around like an idiot to lure my stinky monster out of the goop before he had a chance to marinate in it.  It worked.  Dog and stick found their way into the canal and I stood there speechless, mentally reviewing my simple instructions from Corey, crafting a believable story of villains and nudists and heroic rescues by fearless canines.

But then my concentration broke, and I saw Kimberlie gasping for air.  Apparently I caused quite a scene.  She stood there hunched over with tears in her eyes and a little pee running down her leg.

Wait, wha...??

Yes, pee.  Oliver and my perfectly timed comedic routine caused Kimberlie to wet herself.

And then I almost wet myself.

And then Katie rolled her eyes.

And then we chased our dogs to let a family bike by.

And then we walked back to the cars.  Pee spots and all.

Fun times....

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.

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!

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...

How many brunettes does it take...

Funny things happen when you put three girls in a room with a deflated air mattress.

(You may think you know where this is going, but you really have nooooo idea.)

For as long as I can remember, me and my sisters would climb into the same bed on Christmas Eve and giggle about Santa, about the presents we hoped were under the tree, about how we couldn't fall asleep, and about Kimberlie, who couldn't stop farting, until we finally passed out.

Eventually, we outgrew twin sized beds, but never outgrew the tradition.

Until I had to go and get married.

See, Corey had this strange idea that as a married couple we should start our own traditions.  "Pppsssshhh,"  I said.....or spit, actually.  But he was right, and Katie, Kimberlie and I, again, modified our tradition.  We would hold our annual Christmas Eve sleepover on Christmas Eve Eve.

This is actually where the air mattress story begins.  I just felt the need to give you way more background material than you probably wanted.  That's just what I do.

So here we are.  The three of us.  Ready to sleep, a deflated air mattress in front of us.  I should mention this air mattress requires many, many batteries to inflate (which we did not have).  Oh, or a car charger. 

Where does ass-uming get you, L.L. Bean?

Anyway, as I am ready to give up on the mattress and claim a couch, one of the two sisters (can't remember which one, they both kinda run together) has the bright idea to inflate the dang thing using a car charger.  As in a car charger in a car.  Outside.

So, we suit up and go.

...plug the thing in there.

And then that thing plugs in there.

Oops.  Wrong thing.

My feet.

Ahhh, yes.  The mattress.  Focus.

Now, to get it inside.  Snow free.

...and up the stairs.

Ahhhhhhh, success.

In short (see what I did there?  This story was in no way short...that's what makes it funny), we survived.  So did the tradition.  And the air mattress.