Nine Months

Aunika turned nine months yesterday. Nine months! It's hard to believe. She's soooo cute. Unfortunately, I can't find the cord for the camera, so I can't show you how cute she is, so you'll have to take my word for it. But, she's adorable.

She has a little bit more hair than she did a few months ago. Not a lot. But it's growing. Slowly. It's coming in very definitively red. There's no question. She's about the size of a year old, judging by the clothes that fit. We're in kind of a conundrum here. There are no sizes between a year and 18 months and Aunika has grown out of her dresses. She's either going to have to settle for a too short dress or swim in one. Her t-shirts have the same problem.

She has remained the sweet, easy going baby that we brought home. She'll spend HOURS just cruising around on the floor and checking things out. I don't have to worry about leaving the room, she'll follow if she wants. Or not. Whatever. She's really into electronics though. I have to keep an eye on my computer or she'll get to it. And the remote.

Her "crawling" is funny to watch. I would post a video of it except for (a) I can't find the camera cord (b) I don't particularly enjoy watching videos of other people's kids. Unless they're doing something particularly cool/funny/unique. Otherwise, I just skip over them. Why? I don't know. I just don't like watching them. Yes. Even yours. And so I'll try to explain it as I did to my mom over the phone.

You know how in the knee capper movies (movies about war or violence where lots of people get their knee caps blown off--hence the genre name "knee cappers") there's always the one guy that gets hit in the leg and the arm, but manages to crawl his way out of Viet Nam/A Warehouse/West Valley by "army crawling" using only the one leg and one arm that is working to propel himself along the ground? That's Aunika's signature move. And she's quite adept at it.

I'm not sure what happened with the wiring in both kids, but Josh was an army crawler as well. I don't know that he really did learn how to crawl properly. And he didn't start walking until he was 15 months old. But, one day he just stood up and he was gone.

Aunika is still an amazing sleeper--usually 12-13 hours a night plus two naps of an hour to two hours long during the day. I love that she doesn't wake up until 8 am. When Wade was gone on his scout trip, she didn't wake up until 9:45 two mornings that week. I think she wakes up when she hears Wade getting ready for work. But 8 am--can't complain about that. I am EXTREMELY blessed that both Josh and Aunika are good sleepers. I can just put her down in her crib, kiss her goodnight and leave the room. There's no big production. Occassionally, I'll hear her babbling to herself, but then she drifts off and we see her the next morning, happy and bubbly.

Josh had a fussy time--6:00-7:00--every night. In fact, he still does. It's the hardest part of the day for him (and us). There's nothing particularly wrong, just that everything seems wrong. Aunika is not like that. I have to warn babysitters that she's not a fussy baby. If she starts fussing, it's because she needs something. This stemmed from a few episodes with a relatively new babysitter. I came home one night to find her mom here. I didn't think much of it--the mom said that she was just taking pictures of how cute Aunika was-- until I went to change Aunika's diaper. As soon as I undid it, Aunika let out a huge sigh of relief and started smiling again. It was on way too tight. Apparently, according to the neighbor, every time I had this particular babysitter, she'd call her mom to come over and help because Aunika wouldn't stop crying. It was because her diaper was too tight. I talked to the babysitter and mom and everything is good, but I tell all the babysitters that Aunika is NOT a fussy baby, so if she's crying it's because she needs something.

It also helps that she's on such a good eating schedule. She eats every four hours, within a half hour. Most of the time, you can hand her a bottle at 4 hours, and she'll slurp it down. I can go days without hearing her really crying. Nap times are pretty much the same time every day, so it makes it easy to schedule my day.

Aunika thinks Josh hung the moon. She is so in awe of him. No one can get her to laugh as much or as hard as he can. And he can be mean too. But she doesn't care. 10 minutes later, she's cooing back at him.

Our only problem, thus far, has been getting her to eat finger foods. She just doesn't get the concept. She can pick them up. She can hold them. But she just doesn't get that you're suppose to put them in your mouth. So she'll sit in her high chair with both fists full of cheerios and screech until YOU drop one in her mouth. On the plus side, she doesn't put things she finds on the floor in her mouth either. Bonus.

Aunika is a delight to have around. She's constantly making us smile and I can't imagine our lives without her in it. As I've mentioned on facebook, she's freakishly angelic and I hope that it stays this way.

Payback

For the photographers I knew would be at the half marathon last weekend, I decided to re-enact my "Bozo the Clown's Sister" pose from a half I ran in January 08. I had been thinking about what to do for the picture because when I attempt to look like I'm running, I look like an idiot. When I don't see the photographers, I look like an idiot. And so, why not purposefully look like an idiot? I even re-pulled my hair back at about mile 9.5 because I knew the photograher was going to be right around any corner. Aside from the spandex shorts--the merits of which I explained in the Running Skirt post--I think I'm looking pretty good here, at 10 miles. Especially for how horrible I was feeling. And look. I don't have both feet on the ground, though my stride definitely needs some work. I am 5'8" after all. I can afford to lengthen a bit. Maybe get to the finish line faster. Who knows?

I wasn't aware of this picture being taken and I'm looking a bit grim. I imagine this is how I looked pretty much from mile 4 on. This is right at the finish line. I was gaining on the girl with the blue arm. We had about .10 miles left and I was trying to overtake her. But she sniffed me out and took off with alarming speed, only to be left winded and crossing the line ahead of me at a less than stellar speed. Ha! That will teach you.

Definitely one of my better shots! 13.1 miles? What 13.1 miles? Aside from the fact that you can't tell that I accomplished something since they (the only half marathon I'm aware of that practices this) only give medals to the first 100 finishers (male and female) and I was well beyond that mark. I should be given a medal because I was still running when it creeped from "Bake" to "Broil" on the thermometer, since they were 45 MINUTES late starting. Or I know, I still ran 13.1 miles, even if it was slow, so I should get a medal for that. Or at least something to eat. (Funny story: Some other friends--a husband and wife duo--ran the race as well. They finished about 25 minutes after me and said that when they asked where some water was, they were directed to a table of Dr. Pepper. My theory is that they had bagels and muffins for the people in under 1:30, watermelon and pretzels for those under 2:10, pretzels for me, and Dr. Pepper for the slow ones.)

Are We Having Fun Yet?

I'm often asked "Did you have fun?" following the conclusion of some athletic endurance event. The answer is complicated.


See, when I think of fun, I think "I could do this for another four hours and still be having a great time." Like riding roller coasters. However, after finishing a half marathon or triathlon, I'm pretty much spent. Another four hours of it would kill me. Heck, another 30 minutes would kill me. And often, in the midst of said event, I'm thinking "this was really dumb".


But amazingly, when I finish, I'm (1) happy I did it and (2) ready to sign up again. For a few weeks down the road. Definitely not for, like, tomorrow or anything.


And so was the case on Saturday. In the spring, I convinced two friends to do a half marathon with me in August. August being so far away and everything. I ran a half marathon with one of them a year and a half ago (a truly bad idea, since it was January and a week after a cruise to Mexico--warm, warm Mexico--in which I had gained 7 pounds. But at least I would PR in this August's half marathon despite pretty much whatever happened). The other one just started running consistently this May.


I self-penned an insane schedule that loosely followed something I found on the internet (yes! Love the internet). I calculated our pace times and our intended target for the race. We were going to try to hit a 2:15 half marathon, which equates to roughly 10:15/mile. (Slow. Okay. I know. But it is 13.1 miles.).

H., who began running in May, blew us all away this summer. She ran her fastest 5k in July at under 25 minutes and finished 2nd in our age group for the triathlon. When I sat down to calculate her theoretical time for the half, it was possible she could come in under 2 hours, an unbelievable pace for someone who (a) has four kids (b) is still nursing baby #4 (c) hasn't had a full night's sleep in over 15 months and (d) just started running in May. I was a little tentative to tell her the good(?) news, but I did. And she was understandably quite nervous and excited. A 2 hour half marathon is a 9 minute pace, and it's definitely an admirable goal.

C. and I are about the same pace, though C. is a machine and doesn't have to abide by the same rules me, as a human, has to. Like naps. Or walking breaks. She also has 4 kids, though hers are a little older than H.'s but not by much. A 2:15 half marathon would take nearly 6 minutes off of her time from the one we did in 2008 together.

Saturday, we started off, and naturally, H. was gone before we knew it. C. and I stayed together for at least the first three miles. I don't remember much between miles 3 and 5, just that at one point, I realized that I had started out way too fast and I was going to pay a price come mile 10 if I didn't rein it in, so I told her I was going to slow down a bit, but that she should keep running at her current speed if she felt comfortable.

At around mile 5, I saw C. veer off towards some restrooms, and being the good friend I am, I walked until she caught back up to me. (Yeah, because I'm a good friend. Nothing more. Just being a friend. Right. Right.) She caught up a lot faster than I thought she would (dang it) and then I'm not sure when I lost her again. Somewhere. I was still fighting my inner demon to take a nap. I didn't see her again until the finish line.

I fumbled my way to mile 9 and then I really was going to pull out of the race. My left knee hurt SO bad, I didn't think I was going to make it. But, the race organizers only give t-shirts to those that finish and dang it if I wasn't going to get my t-shirt, so I mustered the strength and continued forth.

At mile 10, I posed for the picture. I *think* maybe this one turned out decent enough. I'm still waiting for the picture to post, so consider this your warning for the next blog entry.

Miles 10-13 kind of passed in a daze. It was like 1000 degrees and my insides were frying, though the overwhelming need to take a nap had diminished.

At the finish line, I saw a familiar face. A friend from Orem (THANKS Juliana) had come down to watch me run in. I was surprised that she lasted as long as she did, considering I was 11 minutes slower than I thought and we were 45 minutes late getting started at the top. But there she was. It was great to see someone cheering me on.

After I ran through the finish line and was informed that there were no more t-shirts left (I have to wait for mine to arrive in the mail), I found my two training buddies.

H. blew 2:15 out of the sky. 1:55. That's an 8:51/mile pace (yeah, you try it!). I don't even want to think what she's going to be like when she's getting a full night's rest and not nursing. C. did awesome too at 2:09, including the bathroom stop. A full six minutes faster than our intended target.

As I mentioned in a previous post, the three of us train together really well because we all bring something unique to the table. H., obviously, is the fastest. But she's not in-your-face about it. She slows down--claims it's funner that way--so she can run with us snails. But having her in the group makes us faster. C. is a machine. She hardly ever misses a workout even if it's scheduled for an insane time or it's hotter than hell (one or two workouts bordered on that this summer) or there's rain or lightning or her leg is broken. She'd probably do the workout and then go to the hospital.

My talent--I'm the brains behind the operation. I put together the training numbers. I calculate the paces and offer encouragement. I also keep the blog of our training. They say I make them laugh on occassion, and really, how boring would training be if you didn't laugh, right? So I'm important. I am. I am.

Though I came in at a disappointing (to me) time of 2:26:08, I still shaved over 24 minutes off my time from 2008. And that was with having a baby inbetween and a hurt knee and everything.

But the real payoff came when I finally found my buddies at the finish line and H. teared up when she told me her time because she was so proud. I felt like a mother hen. It didn't matter how slow I was. I was still instrumental in helping her reach her potential. Sometimes you just need someone to tell you you can do it. And help you get there. And be there when you do do it. And hug you because you did it, even if she didn't.

So, what's our next plan: St. George Marathon 2010, baby. You heard it here first. Because, even though I thought the half marathon was a dumb idea at mile 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, and 12 (11 was looking pretty good), the memory didn't last long. We've only "hypothetically" theorized about the M-word but I think the three of us agreed that 2010 is the year for us. Maybe we'll even take pictures this time. And, though I can dream of making it to Boston next year, I don't think it's going to happen. I have a lot of time to make up. But, I would love for the three of us to go. That would be AWESOME!! Maybe I can convince them to all do another marathon when I'm ready to qualify.

So, did I have fun? YES! But it more the company (and the running skirts) then the actual running part. If only I could convince all of you that it's not the running part that makes it so much fun, then you'd all be out there with me. Remember: It's the journey, not the destination.

Skirting the Issue

I spent 13.1 miles--2:26:08 if you're counting--formulating this blog post inside my head yesterday.

Well, actually, maybe only part of it. Because, from mile 4-6 I was fighting my inner demon to take a nap. A full fledge lay-down-in-the-woods-and-sleep-for-10-minutes kind of nap. While running a race. My rational brain was saying "you can't lay down. You still have 9 miles left. Who takes a nap during the race?" But the other brain, the one I listen to more, it was saying "it's okay. Only 10 minutes. You could make it up in no time flat. You'll feel so much better." And so there I was, running along, trying to sort out my two brains who were clearly at odds with each other.

After I kicked Irrational Brain to the curb and recommitted myself to the task at hand (which, I belatedly realized was a stupid task) I had a lot of time on my hands since both training buddies were long gone and the music on my ipod sucked. So I spent a lot of time looking around at the other crazies out there. And then it dawned on me what I needed to write about. The latest trend in sport wear. The Running Skirt.

I do need to preface my comments by saying that I don't particularly like skirts. I don't necessarily choose to wear them on my own time. And so maybe my thoughts are slightly skewed, but nonetheless I'm going to share them.

First, the structure of the running skirt:

In theory, this looks to be a good idea, if you like skirts and that sort of thing. It'd be like running in just your underwear but you'd have a little coverage so it wouldn't really be like running in your underwear. And it does have the theoretical look of being very versatile, perhaps covering those parts you're insecure with. In fact, Wade, aftering seeing pictures of the running skirts announced he needed to get back into running. However, there are a lot of flaws with most--not all, but definitely most--running skirts that I saw yesterday.

Normal, everday (well fitting) skirts have the ability to camoflague your thighs and your butt. The material gently flows away from the body, creating the illusion that you are trimmer than what may appear in shorts or pants.

Running skirts? They are most definitely not hiding all you think they're hiding. Especially from the backside. I saw pretty much everything. All out there jiggling around for everyone to see. And while I can't, under any circumstances, be the fashion police for running since I run in spandex, which is VERY unforgiving (but doesn't ride up or down or inbetween and makes all jiggly parts jiggle in unison) I can make comments about how you look in your skirt.

Because it's my blog, that's why.

And so it was very surprising when I would be following behind someone's jiggly bum and then I passed them (boo-yeah), I would notice that the runner was, indeed, very attractive from the front side. Even toned. But, all that remained in my memory bank was their back side.

For the record, these ladies were out running 13.1 miles. Which, I would venture to say is roughly 13.1 miles more than most of my loyal readership ran Saturday morning. And so they do deserve kudos for that.

But...

13.1 miles is a long way on a good day. Running behind jiggly butts and thighs, it's even longer. Funny, I don't remember being this introspective for the marathon I did 2 years ago. But then again, two years ago, running skirts were very new to the running scene and I was listening to a really funny book on my ipod. Now I know the secret.

To be fair, not all the skirts I saw were bad. The longer ones would actually be considered cute if you're into those kinds of things. And I'm sure the ladies up front looked dang cute in their skirts because they're machines and don't have to worry about jiggly body parts like us humans do. But, where I was at, the majority of them were not attractive.

So let this be a warning. If you are so inclined to purchase a running skirt, opt for one that is long (almost knee length) and all the runners behind you will thank you for it.

Lessons I've Learned Today on People.com

While many find celebrity lives to be fascinating--a look into what life is like for the "other" half--I find them to be quite informational. I like to study their lives as to know NOT what to do.

• If I sire a large number of offspring--say six--in one pregnancy, under no circumstances should I allow television cameras to follow me around and record each moment for millions of viewers to watch. Also, I should make sure that my husband is not a sleeze bucket. Oh wait. That's right. I wouldn't have married a sleeze bucket in the first place.

(He's like, totally, my first love. I mean, it was like love at first sight. Because I don't have enough self esteem to find someone who doesn't have 8 kids he's (supposedly) supporting.) http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20298218,00.html)

• IF I were to make a "nude" video, there wouldn't be any copies. In fact, it'd just be erased. Because no one *needs* to see that. Especially if I were to become famous. And while fame isn't necessarily on my list of things to accomplish, I wouldn't want to be caught off-guard with a "nude" video of myself should fame bestow itself upon me.

(What I love is that class acts like Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson have sex tapes, while Eric Dane has a "nude" tape. Of course, I haven't witnessed any said tapes, so I can't vouch for their authenticity. However, let it be a lesson to us all. No copies should leave the premise. http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20299465,00.html)

• Breaking News: Kourtney Kardashian and Scott Disick (Must. Resist. Urge. To. Make. Bad. Joke.) are talking about how they're preparing for their baby by stocking up on baby clothes and *studying parenting. OMG, I think I did the same thing too. Where's my exclusive?

(*studying = actually knowing how you got pregnant in the FIRST place. It might be a little late now, ya know? http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20299418,00.html)

• You can all safely assume that the headline "Sandra H. Expects DNA Test for Husband's Alleged Love Child" will never cross your path for a number of reasons: (a) Wade would never do that, no matter how far he rises politically (b) if (a) is wrong, then I wouldn't be sticking around long enough to get the results of any DNA test. Same goes for the "stunned-wife-standing-by-mayor/governor/senator-husband-as-he-apologizes-for-not-being-faithful" press conference as well.

(It's just so sad in so many different ways, I can't even make a quip about it: http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20299355,00.html)

• I'm no fashion expert. You can tell by my current outfit--a t-shirt and pair of capri length running pants. And my current hairstyle--pony tail knot designed to keep the most amount of hair out of my face as possible. But even I can sense that 90% of what celebrities are photographed in is unbelievably ugly. So ugly that I'd probably be laughed out of my neighborhood, and most definitely out of my marriage, should I even attempt to mimic their style.

(Case in point--Lady Gaga. At the airport. Sadly, she woke up that morning, doned her fishnet stockings, vampire fangs, and leotard (but thought, oh I better cover up with a jacket) and (presumably) looked in a mirror and thought Man, I look good. Could you imagine sitting next to THAT on an airplane ride for 13 hours? http://www.people.com/people/gallery/0,,20299264,00.html#20661275)

It's been a very educational day here at People.com. It helps keep my mind off the fact that Saturday, I spent 13:54 (seriously? Was I asleep or something?) in a man-made lake that has no inlet or outlet but is frequented by ducks--lots of ducks--and I've been paying a hefty price all week. (Remember me laughing on Monday that I didn't need to drink a sip of water during the biking or running portion of the triathlon because I had enough to drink during the swimming portion?) Oh, yeah, and there is that pesky half marathon I'm running. Luckily, the fire is out in the canyon we're running down. All that remains is smoke and ashes. So we'll smell like campfire. And sweat. Lovely.

I promise to be back in working order next week with a slew of promising blog entries that should make you at least smile.

Let it Rain, Let it Rain, Let it Rain

There are certain situations where I can, almost like an out-of-body experience, stand back and observe and wonder why I'm there.

Saturday's triathlon was one such experience.

For starters, Wade had been gone at scout camp since Monday morning and wasn't due home until later on Saturday afternoon. So I had to secure a babysitter. My parents were gracious enough to come out and babysit. They were going to bring the kids over and cheer me on the course. I had the perfect cheering spots picked out and everything.

But when they showed up Saturday morning at 6:50 am, my mom announced that there are only certain activities that warrant her ruining her hair--she is of the old school generation that gets her hair done once a week (Thursdays) and then tiptoes through life as to not mess it up until the following Thursday--and standing out in the rain watching her only daughter participate in a triathlon was not a good enough reason to walk around for five days with flat, matted hair. So, they sat home with the kids while I braved the elements.

I really thought they were going to call the swim portion of the triathlon. I mean, with the thunder and the lightning, putting 100 people in a lake is probably not the wisest decision. But it's a good thing that I'm not in charge. Note that while I don't think it was the wisest decision, that didn't stop me from getting in the water. We all lined up on the sandy beach leading to the lake and the first heat (of two heats) of swimmers readied themselves. The siren went off and they took off. Then it was my turn. I stepped into the slimey water (the water was actually warmer than the air) and noted a gorgeous rainbow above my left shoulder. Surely, if God was going to smite us in the water, he wouldn't have given us such beauty to look at beforehand, right? Wrong. Because just then I saw the sky illuminate with lightning and then the siren went off indicating it was our turn to go.

First thought: "Oh, this is going to make a good story for the blog."

The second heat of swimmers is filled, primarily, with those who's forte is not swimming. Thus, that is why I was continuously attacked by people who were swimming on their backs. In fact, one lady was ON TOP of me and I was swallowing quite a bit of water. So much in fact, that I was hydrated enough for the both the bike and run portions without so much as having to take a drink of water.

When I finally got out from under her, I was assaulted with various limbs of other swimmers. Strangely, I didn't really think about the lightning. I spent some time wondering where all those bullfrogs come from I see smashed on the road and then that led to what I'd do if I saw a snake swimming by and then I was interrupted by a swift kick to the face. Finally, I made it out of the pond and was quite surprised to find that the clouds had opened up and spewed forth copious amounts of rain. I had no idea it was raining while I was swimming. But I was well aware of the fact that my socks and shoes were soaking wet BEFORE I put them on.

While on the bike, it rained. And rained. And rained even more. I saw someone biff it taking a corner too fast. And the water was dripping off my helmet. 12 miles later, when I finally got off the bike (yes, I totally beat the 13 year old on a mountain bike. Barely.) it was still raining.

I started on the run with close to a quarter inch of water in my shoes. My socks were soaked. My shirt that I had waiting at the transition area to run in with my number pinned on it was soaked. I was soaked.

The run was pleasant enough. I was surprised to find that I wasn't at the end like I thought maybe I was. That made me feel good. I felt REALLY good when I beat the local spinning instructor on the bike. Perhaps I have future calling?

When it's put in words, it reads to be a horrible experience, but it was actually pretty awesome. Except for it was a little cold. Being wet and all for 2 hours. It took 15 minutes in a hot shower before my teeth stopped chattering. And even though I got my butt kicked by both training buddies and one of the neighbor ladies (the other one couldn't talk herself into going in the lake so she didn't even show) I still had a great time and can't wait for next year.

Competition

I'm a competitor by nature, though there are few things that I actually come out on top of. I'm decent, though not spectacular, in most (all?) areas.


This summer, I've been training for a triathlon that's here in the community. Two years ago, I did the same triathlon and convinced three friends to do it with me. We were the only ladies from the neighborhood doing it and were looked upon like the royalty we clearly are at church the day after the race. Even though the four of us nearly rounded out the bottom of the finishers, everyone seemed amazed at our endurance and strength to complete a task so foreign as a triathlon.


This year, one of the original four had a baby and another one decided not to do it, so it's me, another original member of the quartet and a new gal that's also been training with us for a half marathon next weekend. The three of us make a good team. H. is incredible in the water. Last year, she competed on a relay team and was the fastest woman out of the pond. 3 months after giving birth. She's also a great runner. Having only been running since May, she's cut nearly 10 minutes off of her 5k time. She's definitely an inspiration. C. is overall good. She's middlepack for all three events, but she shines in endurance. The last two years she has done the triathlon in conjunction with battling a stomach bug. Two years in a row! She's a machine and will push us on our runs. She's also 37. My event is biking. It's the long legs. Both H. and C. are 5 foot
tall, so my advantage is that I have a good 8 inches on them. I also have 40 pounds on them as well, which is a hinderance in both swimming and running. I hold no illusions that I will beat these two. But the thing is, I don't care. I love these gals and I'm equally excited to see them do well (both placed in their age categories at the Tooele July 4th 5k, beating out quite a few women) as I would be for myself. We make a good trio and can keep our competitiveness at bay with each other. We train well together because we all bring something unique to the table.

However, a few other women in the neighborhood have jumped on our royalty bandwagon and signed up to do the triathlon. Which would be all fun and stuff except for they are considerably better than us,--by which I mean, me. They're presumably faster bikers and swimmers, and most definitely faster runners. Therefore, they're going to beat us (me).

And the thing is these two ladies are the NICEST, KINDEST, most charitable women in the entire neighborhood. I don't think they've even given one thought to who might win. They're just doing it for "fun". They will stand and cheer me in even if I'm the last person on the course. They'll tell me I did incredible and there will be no fakeness about it.


But my posse and me...we've discussed it ad nauseam. We've pummeled every possible scenario into the ground. We've strategized and theorized and planned every microsecond of the triathlon to get the edge. It's been very brain-consuming.

Which kills me inside. Because I don't want them to beat me. I've worked dang hard and one gal flip flopped all summer about doing it and then decided just this week she was going to compete. She'll go out and it will be a walk in the park. A nice Saturday jaunt in the gross, carp-infested water, while I've literally been training for this thing for two months. Getting up at 5:30 am to go to the indoor pool. Running intervals at the track. Flat tires and near misses by passing cars on the bike.

And really, it should just be about doing my best and having fun. Which it will be. Provided my tires don't pop. Or I don't get eaten by four foot carp. And it wouldn't be an issue if the triathlon was three weeks later because one of the gals would be 30 and in the next age group. The other one is 33 and so I don't have to worry about her as much (C. does though). But, my age group just got better and I'm pretty much guaranteed not to place. Which is an ego buster in an event that only has like 30 woman.

But, you know what? We'll go out, do our best, beat the one person we need to beat (because there is someone that we MUST beat at all costs), not come in last (though somebody does have to come in last. And my mom assures me that you will not die if you come in last. From personal experience.) and have fun. And relish in the fact that we did a triathlon on a Saturday morning before most people were out of bed.

Toastmasters and Feet

If Wade had a blog, he'd have some funny stories to share. But since he doesn't I'll have to share this one on his behalf.

Last night, Wade was driving home from his parents' house--where he was holed up because of I-80 being closed due to a cop-involved shooting following a high speed chase--when he discovered that I-80 was closed again because of a grassfire that had jumped the freeway.

He called me, at Toastmasters, to warn me about this turn of events and to advise me on taking a different route home. (Quickly running out of routes because the other one--201--was closed as well due to construction). (Did I mention that I had to drive the backway into Lehi to get to Salt Lake yesterday because I-80 was closed? Took an extra hour. So you can imagine how I was feeling about the new closure at 9:00 at night.)

In his cell phone, my cell phone is saved sans the area code. But now, in Salt Lake, you have to dial the area code for all numbers. So Wade punches in what he thinks to be 801-________. But instead of 801, he accidently typed in 800.

Then he hears the message. Classic 800-number message, only it's about FEET. A hotline for people who have foot fetishes (fetishi?). The very thought just grosses me out.

Of course, Wade, who was *ahem* driving at the time, can't figure out what this message is all about--especially when he looks at the display and it says "Sandra" (because the phone picked up that he had dialed part of my number). He will admit that for the briefest amount of time, he did wonder "Toastmasters, huh? Maybe that's not where she is after all."

Of course, like a bunch of 15 year olds, we both had to call back the 800 number and snicker. And admit it, there's a little part of you that's curious, isn't there?

Catfood Catina Addendum

At lunch the other day with my mom, I was reminded of a few things that I had, apparently, suppressed in the Catfood Catina incident:

(a) It was not the salsa that smelled like catfood. It was the refried beans. The very refried beans that my dad was shoveling in his mouth at the same time the comment was made. Hence the red face and the barely audible gasp. Because, honestly, who comments at all about refried beans? Everyone knows that they aren't the most appetizing looking food. So, you don't need any comments to draw attention to that fact, right? Dustin, did however, try to get me to smell the refried beans to back up his statement.

(b) He said that the salsa was NOT salsa, but merely tomato sauce with a few spices added. And he picked it up to smell it to see if his theory was right. He then preceded to push it into my face so that I'd smell it and agree with him. For the record, Dustin was some white boy from West Valley and hardly in any position to be a worldclass expert on salsa considering his family didn't even like Mexican food.

(c) My mom called over the waitress and asked for a new bowl of salsa. "Excuse me. Someone has put their nose into OUR salsa." Cue death glare. "Could we get a new one?"

(d) Apparently--and I've completely blocked this out of my memory, but my mom SWEARS it happened--I excused myself from the table and pratically dragged Dustin out of the restaurant by his ear to give him hell in the parking lot. She could see us from the window. And after we returned to the table, Dustin was as good as gold. So whatever I said, it must've been made an impact.

Again, my reporting is flawed. I blame it on the incident being so mortifying that I supressed much of the detail.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

The Good
Ran 8 miles today. It was like I was some desert wanderer though. I actually had to sip water from someone's sprinklers--twice--lest I shriveled up and died on the road. I watched some unsuspecting soul walk to his car with a bottle of water and actually considered tackling him for it. I was SO thirsty. Lucky for him, he was moving faster and I couldn't catch him.

The Bad
Last week, we decided we were going to stay in our house. This week, Wade's renewed the efforts to find a new, better house. And he thinks he might have found one back--dare, I say it because I swore I'd never leave--in the valley. It might even trump the dream home. And it's cheaper. Oiy. We still have to see the inside. And there's probably a very good reason why it's on the market at the price it's on. But, whenever we spend time looking at new houses, that means we're not spending time working on the basement. Which needs to be finished before we even think about selling. So, it probably won't be for a while. And I'm a little nervous. But, if it's right, it's right. And it will be right when the basement is done.

The Ugly
I don't own a full length mirror for a reason. And so I was surprised when I received an email telling me to check out my pictures from the 10k I ran on July 24. Thinking I was flying on that run, so I must've looked good, I, stupidly, clicked on the link. It took me to a site where there were 6 shots of me "running". I don't remember ever seeing a photographer on the course, because I know I would've at least tried to look like I was an elite runner. They must've been hiding because these are two of the shots I got:


Yes, that would be both feet on the ground. For those who are non runners, it's virtually IMPOSSIBLE to have both feet on the ground at the same time while you're running. It's amazing I even made it to the finish line with how little of steps I'm taking. And as Wade so steathily put it, it looks like I'm holding up my boobs. And that, my friends, is my deep summer tan.


Clearly, I've stopped to dance for the crowds. This is me bustin' my 80's moves. And to think the drill team didn't want me. I'm showing them now, aren't I?
On a good note, look at that muscle definition in my leg. It's been a long time since I've seen that.

So, yeah, if I would've seen the photographer, I would've at least tried to look like I was having a good time and running as fast as I could go (confession: I was running as fast as I could go). But chances are, I'd still look something like this. Because I KNEW there were photographers at these next two races.

This is during the marathon. I was so fast that no one was around me for most of the race.

I look like Bozo the Clown's little sister. And it was like 20 degrees. I'm wearing 3 layers. And I had just returned from a cruise six days before in which I gained 7 pounds. This was another half marathon and I believe this picture was taken at mile 11. So, all things considered, I'm thinking I look pretty good here.

But, don't despair. Despite how not photogenic I am as a runner, I'm not giving up and I bet there will be pictures at the half I'm doing later on this month (hey, did you know I was doing a half marathon in 2.5 weeks? That's 13.1 miles. On my feet). I'll try to pay attention and get a better picture.

Joshisms

On occassion, the shell of the monster currently residing in my home will open up, and my sweet little four year old boy will emerge. When he does come out, he says the funniest things:

• At his grandparent's house the other day, he was talking about his friend Jeremy. Unfortunately, grandma and grandpa couldn't figure out who he was talking about. Jamie? They asked. Jimmy? Jenny? Finally, exasperated, Josh said "No. J-E-R-E-M-Y. Jeremy."
• Saturday, my parents were watching Josh and Aunika while I went to a meeting. Josh and my mom cooked French Toast for breakfast and my mom was encouraging Josh to drink his milk. "Drink your milk honey. Or your teeth will fall out." My mom said. "Papa's (Wade's dad) teeth fall out." Josh replied. "Really?" my surprised mom asked. "How?" "Like this. Blah." Josh said, holding his hand out to catch an imaginary set of dentures.
• "If I add an 's' to Jesus, then I get lots of Jesuses."
• "I love mommy, daddy, baby and this house." Josh said last night at bedtime. "This house?" I asked. "Yes. I don't want to move." He replied. "Why?" "Because then Jeremy can't find me. I love this house."
• I was quizzing Josh on what makes Aunika a girl. He doesn't *know* the answer, but I was curious to see if his friend, Jeremy--who's two years older--had clued him in. "What makes Aunika a girl?" I asked. Josh thought for a moment. "She's happy." he replied. "So, she's a girl because she's happy?" "Yep." Josh said, smug that he got the right answer. "But you're happy sometimes, aren't you? Does that make you a girl?" I asked. "NO." Josh practically screamed. (Clearly, Jeremy has clued him on to not wanting to be a girl.) "So, what else do you think makes Aunika a girl." Josh thought about it some more. "She laughs." "But you laugh too." I said. "Oh. Well, then she likes the color pink. Girls like girl colors and boys like boy colors." Very astute, I guess. And good thing that he doesn't notice really what makes Aunika a girl.

Catfood Catina

Another story I'm pulling from the annals of family history lore for lack of anything else to post.

There is a Mexican restaurant out in Kearns that my family has been frequenting for about 15 years now. It has the best-THE BEST-fajitas I have ever tasted. In fact, they are so good that I have only tried one other thing on the menu--about 10 years ago--and it paled in comparison, so I've kept to my usual order. Steak fajitas ala carte. Because I don't want to have to share my plate with beans and rice. Turns out, you get less fajita when you order the whole meal. Took about 7 years to figure that one out.

My sophmore year of high school, I met Dustin. We started dating and he was invited to come to dinner one Friday night with us to our favorite Mexican restaurant. On my dad's dime.

Most guys would've been gracious and happy that their girlfriend's parents were taking them to dinner. They would be polite and respectful. But Dustin was not like most guys. This event severely marred our relationship and sent it cruising downhill.

We arrived at the restaurant and sat down. The waitress brought out chips and salsa and placed it before us. Before she walked away, Dustin picked up the bowl of salsa, put it right under his nose and took a big whiff.

"This smells like catfood." He said--quite loudly. People stopped eating and stared at our little table. My dad's face went bright red. My mom let out a barely audible gasp.

But instead of realizing what a scene he was making, Dustin pushed the salsa into my face.

"Smell it. It smells like catfood."

I was MORTIFIED. This was not how normal human beings acted in restaurants. Even if the food smells like catfood, if someone else--especially your girlfriend's father--is picking up the tab, you smile, you nod, you eat, and you make small talk. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And at the end of the meal, you say thank you for a pleasant evening out. That's it. This isn't rocket science.

There might be something in the "rules" that says keep your nose away from all communal food that will be shared by the rest of the table, but that should be implied. You shouldn't need direct verbal confirmation that this won't happen with your girlfriend's parents present.

And so christened our favorite restaurant "Catfood Catina". Today, roughly 13 years after the incident, I was at my parents house with the kids deciding on where we should eat for lunch.

My dad suggested Catfood Catina--just like that too. Hey, let's go to Catfood Catina. Like anyone would eat at a restaurant named Catfood Catina--and off we went. I have to think about the actual name of the restaurant when I tell people about their amazing fajitas. (I'd name the restaurant, but if someone were to google it, they'd get this and the reference to Catfood Catina and we've probably hurt them enough with our casual mention of Catfood Catina to friends over the years. If you care enough, call me and I'll tell you).

It was only a couple of years ago that my sister-in-law, who has been in the family for 9 years, confessed to just having found out that the name of the actual restaurant was NOT Catfood Catina. She never could figure out why someone would name their restaurant that, or why we would choose to eat there.