Fa-lah-lah-la-lah-la-lah-lah-lah

This week has gotten me totally reminiscent of Christmases past. (Is 'Christmases' the right usage? IDK. It is now.) As I get older, Christmas loses it's luster a little bit each year. I don't know if it all just seems so redundant or what. Usually what puts me in the spirit is remembering how things were when I was a kid. My parents (my mama) were the total balls-to-the-wall Christmas people. I'm talkin' bout decorations ev-er-y-where. Regular towels and bathroom accessories were switched out for Christmas themed towels and bathroom accessories. Dishes had snowmen on them. Windows had fake candles in them. Multiple Christmas trees in the house. REAL live wreaths were made for outside that even had REAL fruit stuck in them. A well-lit village sat on the hutch that was so big it had its own zip code. There wasn't a doorknob in my house you could touch that didn't jingle. Then I move out and it's like, "ughhhhhh a tree costs $200? Oh HECK no!"

 

I will report that my living room now is happily decorated with a tree, stockings, village people (as in Mayberry, not Los Angeles-like my mother's) , and coffee table knick-knacks. But the only fruit in this house, I assure you, is an expired can of peaches in the pantry.

 

While I was a ridiculously spoiled to the bone child--let me rephrase that--While I AM a ridiculously spoiled to the bone child, I've always found 'giving' more exhilarating than 'receiving'. I like to think long and hard about the gifts I'm giving and I like to be dramatic with the presentation of said gift. One year, the grandchildren decided to get granddaddy (an avid hunter) a talking deer-head to hang on the wall. Did I mention we could get tacky with our gifts? As the entire family opened gifts at Mammaw's on Christmas night, I couldn't sit down because I was so wound up with anticipation over the fake deer. GD goes last, so when he got to his last present, I rounded up the family and we headed to the garage--because really, what woman wants a deer head hanging in her living room? And that goes for all animals, living, stuffed, or singing. When GD walked into the garage, we were all holding our breath for his reaction and I was bursting at the seams to shout, "YOU CAN'T SHOOT A DEER IN REAL LIFE, SO WE GOT YOU THIS ONE!" It was classic.

 

A few years ago, Mike and my cousin-in-law were slightly tipsy on a beach trip. They performed a spine-tingling rendition of Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" while, unbeknownst to them, I recorded their entire musical debut on my phone. At Christmas during their time to open presents, I plugged my phone into the speakers and blasted their botched version as I presented them both tiny ballerina (aka, tiny dancers) Christmas tree ornaments in front of the entire family. Hey, go big, or go home I always say.

 

One of my favorite shows has always been Modern Family. Cam--the insanely flamboyant gay guy is my all-time favorite character. His character is so much like me it isn't funny. Especially when it comes to dramatizing and flaunting when I'm around certain groups of people. I can't help it. It's just in me. My students have a program this week and during practice, I have to remember to tone it down a notch because sometimes my Cam is showing. He's always a Nazi for having things done perfectly and 'showy' (especially if his hand is in something). Today our students were practicing on stage and in the middle of a student speaking, I cut her off, walk up to her and say through clinched teeth just for her to hear, "Sugar, you better get on that microphone like it's a Hershey bar and smile like President Obama is sitting on the back row". Then I turned and walked away and mentally cringed, because I had opened my mouth and let a 40-something gay man come out. I apologized and the child wasn't traumatized. If her cheeks are still hurting tonight from smiling all day, well then, so be it.

 

Cam is also a fan of "themes". He'd be so ashamed if he came in my house right now because even though one room is decked to the walls, it's sadly lacking in other departments. However! A small Christmas miracle has occurred and tomorrow is Tacky Christmas Sweater Day for teachers. It's also the night of my team's Christmas dinner party--at a restaurant. In public. Like my mother, I can totally get balls-to-the-wall into a theme and while Lynette and Cam would turn their noses up my house right now, they would totally cry out in joy when they see my outfit for tomorrow. It's the epitome of 'Christmas tacky' and I'm so glad to be able to make them proud. How I acquired Mammaw's sweaters and 1990's puff-painted sweatshirts without totally offending her is beyond me--but I'm so glad I did. I'm proud to sport the clothes I remember her wearing when I was a child because it totally boosted my spirits and put me right into the jolly holiday mind frame I should have been having all along.

 

So! If you're having a hard time getting into the swing of things this season, think back to your earlier Christmas memories because I'm sure it will put a smile on your face. And as always, be grateful for what you do have-not what you don't. Except for tiny snowmen and reindeer statues in your bathrooms. Because you should be grateful Frosty isn't there anymore to stare at you while on the toilet.

 

 

 

 

BFF

I've been on a Facebook ban here in the last few weeks (with the exception of stalking purposes as needed) and have become OBSESSED with Instagram. I've basically gone from one addiction to another and instead of reading everybody's every waking moment on FB, now I get to see them through pics. Plus, I limit who I follow and who follows me so nobody's feelings get hurt when I delete them, which I was doing daily on FB. ANYWAY! One of my favorite authors posted a screen shot of her blog that had over 1 million views. She was flipping out, as she should have. Then I logged into my blog to write and I have reached over 8,000 views!!!! Is 8,000 anywhere near the ballpark of 1 million? Heck no. I'm so far away from the ballpark, I'm sitting in a restaurant across the street taking a sipasomething watching the ballpark on TV. Yet, I about spit out my imaginary drink when I saw my numbers tonight because I'm tickled pink. Are 7,000 of those views from me when I check to make sure everything is written appropriately? Probably. Do I care? Not even in the slightest. Y'all are freakin' fantastic and I love that you are interested in me enough to read my nonsense. And I'm even talking to the ones who just accidentally clicked on this; hey, every click counts!

 

This post is dedicated to something that owns nearly half my heart. Mike has a chunk, my family has a chunk, Los Cocos' Pollo con Crema has a chunk, but a huge portion of that particular organ is designated to my child, my best friend, my confidant: my baby dog, Rudolph (Rudy) Giuliani Peebles. Tomorrow is his third birthday and he is deserving of an entire blog about him, but he'll just have to settle for an article tonight. Some might say I probably have an emotional attachment that probably needs to be psycho-analyzed. A therapist would probably conclude that since I'm (human) childless, I've got a furry friend to replace that longing. However, if you know me, you know that I've been in love with this K9 since his breeder turned the corner with him in her palm.

First night

 

I've always been a dog person and my first true doggy love relationship was with my mama's Yorkie, Sparky. We got Sparky when I was in 9th grade and he, unfortunately, saw me awkwardly make it through adolescence. When I painfully went through the worst (at the time) situation of my life, that poor dog would come into my room at night, curl up beside me on the bed and let me cry into his fur whenever I needed him to. I probably should've listened to the dog's advice in the first place when he attacked my dirty bastard of a cheating boyfriend every time he came to my house. If your dog don't like 'em, you need to ditch 'em. That's philosophy I learned at a young age and stand firmly beside it to this day, thanks to Sparky.

 

As for Rudy, he's seen me at my best and my worst. There's not many things he can't do that an actual child can.

 

He begs for food.

 

 

 

He's nosey.

He wears clothes.

 

 

He laughs at jokes.

He goes on vacation.



 

 

He sleeps.

 

 

He models for 330 of the 430 pictures on my phone's camera roll, apparently.

 

He tries to emulate his mommy when she exercises.

 

He watches TV.

He gets in your personal space.

 

 

If this dog could go with me to work, it would only make me the happiest person on the planet because leaving every morning for eight or more hours is the hardest thing I have to do, most days. I'm convinced that God thinks I may not be able to love an actual real child as much as I do Rudy, therefore we haven't been successful in that department. I've also prayed these actual words, "God, if I can't have children, please let Rudy live forever". It's quite sad, actually.  And by that I mean, I've made fun of crazy people before but I'm a certifiable crazy dog lady at age twenty-eight. If I had extra money, you all would have gotten Panda-themed invitations to his birthday party tomorrow night where you would've been asked to wear tuxedoes (which color-coordinate with the guest of honor). In a nutshell, be thankful I don't have extra money.

 

Dogs have traits that people look for in other people all the time. Loyalty, companionship, good listeners, lets you walk around naked without making gagging noises, etc. Since I'm counting my blessings lately for the things I have, Rudy will have to be number two on the list. I can't speak highly enough of him and I certainly hope I've brought as much happiness into his little doggy life as he's brought into my little human one.

 

Don't Forget the Tablecloth

Mammaw gave me an article weeks ago that she cut out of the Richmond Times specifically for me. No offense to the woman who’s in my top five list of favorite people, I wasn't overly eager to read what she had found. I stuffed it in my bag and honestly had forgotten it until yesterday, when I was emptying things out and saw the envelope and became overly excited for two seconds because I thought somebody had slipped me some money. Whomp whommmmp.

The article was written by a woman who had experienced three miscarriages and was speaking out about the “hush hush” that always accompanies the people around women who have experienced loss of pregnancy. It has been my priority for two years to talk about my own experience with this topic—um, obviously, I have an entire blog dedicated to it. I’ve never wanted anyone to feel uncomfortable around me because of what I’ve been through and I CERTAINLY do not want women I’m around to feel awkward because they have children or are pregnant. I also don’t want to go so far in the other direction…shove my experience in your faces. (Although the “miscarriage card” has been used in the past and I’m not afraid to use it again, in dire situations, specifically this one: ‘oh I can’t exercise that way because I’ve had trauma to my body and my doctor doesn’t want me to over-do it’). (Insert winky face).

As I was reading what this woman had written, I found myself tearing-up because she nailed what I’m feeling exactly. Freaking nailed it. Her analogy compared every miscarriage to a magician’s trick of yanking a table cloth from under a fully-set dinner table. For a brief moment before the cloth is pulled, there’s nervousness, anxiety, chaos. Then, the thing is yanked from under the china—and there’s a moment of complete shock and silence. Yet the table stays set, everything in order, and its dinner as usual. But what about the tablecloth lying crumbled in the floor, away from the table, looking on?

Since this last time, almost two months ago, I’ve drowned myself in things to keep my mind literally running non-stop from the time I wake up in the morning until the time I lay my head on the pillow at night. I volunteer for things. I take over things. I keep crazy-lady post-it notes covering my desk so there’s not a single second of time wasted thinking of things I can’t deal with. I don’t think about a single thing concerning uteruses, periods, egg-whites, temperatures, counting days, and on and on and on. I mean, I do think about it, but I’ve tricked my mind into thinking of other things when those thoughts pop up in my head so I won’t dwell on them. So technically, I have been dealing with it. Probably not in the best way a licensed therapist would suggest, but hey, it’s been two months and I’m still here, so that’s saying something.

The article also brought up the writer’s feelings toward God. Her feelings reflected mine almost exactly. After the first MC, it was, “Okay that was a fluke, my bad. Please let me get pregnant again soon.” After the second, it was, “Um, God…can’t believe you let that happen again…c’mon man. Please, I want a baby”. Then the third, “Um, excuse me, sir?!?!?! I don’t know why this is happening or why I’m being punished but I’m letting you handle it”. And then the fourth, “WTF!!!!!!” Now, my prayers are pretty much just me listing all the things I’m thankful for and I’m not asking for a damn thing. I used to pray for things in general, like, “please let us have a successful pregnancy.” Then I broke it down and started asking for specific things, like, “please let this sperm make it to where it needs to go and let this extra folic acid build up and this aspirin not clot my blood and these vitamins provide me with extra good stuff.” Now, what’s the point in asking for anything? God isn’t Santa. God isn’t my mommy. I can’t just ask and I’ll receive. I needed to be the tablecloth lying on the floor so I could take a step away from the situation and look at it as a whole. My table is set. I can’t change it. Whether it’s God or fate or the Jedi in charge of my destiny, it’s already been determined and there’s not a cotton-pickin’ thing I can do about it but fold my tablecloth up and eventually make my way back onto the set table.

I’ve been so disgusted with myself because of the bitterness that I’ve allowed to overcome me. Bitterness towards time (because it’s slipping away from me). Bitterness towards people who I don’t think deserve to be pregnant (because I’m so much more deserving? HA) Bitterness towards any faltering relationships of those around me because my next thought is usually ‘oh I’m sure they’ll end up pregnant’. The first step is admitting the problem and I just did. I’ve been a bitter person and I’m frankly sick of myself.

This is me, shaking out the wrinkles in my tablecloth. Folding myself up neatly. Forgetting the tugging that was done and living in the present and being thankful, so very thankful, for what I DO have and giving not one more single solitary thought about what I DON’T. After all, tablecloths can withhold being snatched, balled up, and tossed on the floor. They get cleaned and go right back to doing what they’re meant to do. Except for exercising, because, you know. Tablecloths must be stationary to keep their decorative, festive appearance. (Insert winky face).

Silver Medal

I just finished writing my fourth post from the last few weeks and unfortunately, because 'we got it like that', my husband was able to talk me down from publishing it. Again. I have been strung so tight lately with stress from situations I have no control over. Stress from situations I've had to deal with personally and stress from worrying over other people’s situations. Needless to say, the last four posts I've written have been bitter and straight-up opinionated on said situations that I have no say in whatsoever. So until I’m a famous author and can get paid for officially offending people, I’ll keep my posts sugary-sweet. Regardless of how I’m dying inside to let out all my thoughts. 

Why do men have such an emotional attachment to football? I mean, I’m obsessed with books, and while yes, I get caught up in characters that I wish were in real-life, I don’t pretend to know them personally. For a week now, my husband has been in a constant state of depression because of Aaron Rodger’s injury and inability to play for the next three weeks. When I say depression, I mean, almost actual tears shed. We've lost four pregnancies and have dwindling hope for a successful one I’m the only one in the relationship who has ugly-cried. Rodgers goes down and we are ready to spend our next paychecks on airfare to Green Bay to support Aaron in his time of healing. It’s not depression anymore. It’s daggone emotional cancer.

Mike sleeps literally twelve hours every night and will set Rudy on fire if the poor dog needs to go out before said hours are up. Yet, he’s up at the crack of Christmas to check his phone for notifications from the Packers on the return of Aaron. I feel like he has used his policeman resources to stalk the man’s doctor’s contact info so he can be reached personally on Aaron’s status. I can’t make this stuff up, people.

Ironically, my husband’s obsession with football played an integral part in how our relationship started in the first place. In 2007, I was working as a front desk clerk at a hotel in town. Mike was a police officer for the town. Because we were the only place open later at night (other than gas stations), the cops would come in and hang out in the lobby. It wasn't uncommon for a select few to come hang out with me nightly until my shift was over. On a Friday night, I stopped by the hotel after a class I had just to see what was going on. (I’m not lying when I say that working at a hotel was the best job ever, so much that I wanted to hang out there even when I wasn't working.) Back then, I drove a new GT Mustang. I parked it in the same spot every day, which was pretty much at the entrance. That particular night, I hung out inside for a while then came out only to realize a K-9 police car had me blocked in. One of my frequent cop visitors (the non-K-9) was parked next to it. I made my way over and was basically “shootin’ the shit” with the cop I knew when I noticed the K-9 cop’s uniform. It was different from the other cops’, like a tactical outfit instead of the dressy one. I said to the K-9 guy and my future husband, “Why is your uniform different from everyone else’s?” and he replied in what I can only describe in a "jerk voice" something a total jerk would say. Ugh. Jerk. Too bad I can't remember what his actual line was. I stood outside of his car, awkwardly, and tried to hang with the conversation.

This K-9 cop was sarcastic, like, over-the-top with the sarcasm, yet I couldn’t help trying to check inside his car for glimpses of his left hand for a ring. I’d always heard his name and even knew he used to work with my mom at the same hotel, but I couldn’t drudge up any current info on him in my brain. And obviously, I'm a girl, and it's in our DNA to be attracted to well...jerks. So the next day at work, I did what any self-respecting female in 2007 would do when she was interested in a man. I My-Space stalked him. Low and behold, I had an email waiting for me when I signed into my account.

The email was a one-liner. “When can I drive your car?” What a jerk. I replied, “When I can drive yours" (meaning the police one). We basically bantered back and forth like this over the next few days. Since the Super Bowl was quickly approaching, one of us came up with the idea that we’d make a bet. If the Colts won, Mike got to drive my car for an entire day. If the Bears won, um, I actually don’t remember even having a prize, so obviously I didn't have much stake in the game. Peyton won and thus, Mike did too. I was school girl giddy the day we planned to meet. Mike says all he remembers was wanting to drive my car...I met him and he drove me to Raleigh for our first official date. I think I said three whole sentences the entire afternoon/night. If you know me, you know it would take a zombie apocalypse to make me shut up for five minutes, therefore, it can be said I wasn't myself that day. I was insanely nervous. He is a smoker, so I think at some point I even tried to smoke a cigarette to be cool like him, but that worked out horribly because I didn't inhale and basically wasted a cig from his pac--which he was obviously not a fan of.

From his emails, I knew he was intelligent because there were hardly any grammar and spelling errors. Aside from teeth, that’s my thing. We spent most of the evening together, silently, and ended the night with not so much as a peck on the lips, and I mean the dry kind that you give your granny. I liked him, but our age difference worried me. He says to this day that he wasn't going to contact me after that date because of how snobby I was. I had a court date for a speeding ticket the following week on Valentine’s Day and I think he texted me to see how it went. I was on another date that night and after that date was over, I texted (is this even the correct tense of "text?!") Mike back and we haven’t STOPPED talking since then. He may not have gotten me to say a word on our first date, but I can promise you, he relishes every opportunity to get me to be quiet now.

I guess this is why I take this unhealthy attachment to a football team and in particularly, a star quarterback, in stride. When the going gets tough for us, (and that's quite frequent) at least we still have each other--baby or not. If it wasn't for a stupid bet on a team, I’d never be where I am today with the person who has helped shape me into what kind of person I am...which is clearly a silver medal to the thirty-something, broken-down quarterback for the Green Bay Packers.  

Meerkatted

Sometimes I feel like I'm sitting cross-legged in the middle of a field smack in the center of a tornado brewing around me. My mind has been trapped in this stationary position the past two months and so often I can literally see the world flying past me. Since I've been MIA for the past week or so, I'll backtrack a little and catch you up to speed...or shall I say...get Kristin connected.

 

Let me start by saying if my loss of pregnancies have been competing with each other in the "Which One of Us Can Make Her Have Unbearable Pain the Most", Number 4 takes the W, hands-slap-down. (Side note: since all 4 haven't technically been "miscarriages", I like to be fancy and call them "My Loss of Pregnancies".) Two weeks ago, I kept having majorly serious pain in my lower right side--no blood, though. This was very different from the first 3 because of the location of my pain. Everything I read screamed "tubular pregnancy" so after the third day of not being able to stand up straight, we went to the ER. Per usual, my stay at Johnston-Willis was top notch yet inconclusive. It was actually pretty fantastic because we had a room with an actual DOOR this time. Mike and I agreed it was only because I had my "Miscarriage Frequent Flyer Card" with us so they went ahead with the upgrade. After being sent home for a few days and multiple trips to the hoo-haa doctor with no progressing pregnancy showing in the uterus--but my hormome levels still shooting up--I decided I couldn't take the pain anymore. Plus, I had started bleeding and it was ridiculously gross. A week after my first trip to the ER, I found myself curled up in my bed in excruciating pain, contemplating a second trip. I'm used to miscarrying so the pain's usually "wham, bam, thank you ma'am" then gone. (Much like the situation that got me where I was in the first place...whomp, whommmmp.) This pain though, was like "wham, bam, thank you ma'am, I think I'll stay and chat awhile".

 

Bless my man's heart, I knew I couldn't call him home from work because of this mess again because let's face facts, the poor man had missed work a month earlier because his mom had a stroke and he'd already missed the week before because his wife was potentially miscarrying (but apparently I like to fake myself out...one day I'm pregnant...one day I'm not). So I did what any young adult would do when desperate times call for desperate measures: I called my mommy. An hour later, the doorbell rang at my house and, to my utter surprise, there was Mama, Lynn, and Ryann waiting to haul me away. I knew, I KNEW! the minute I opened that door that I would be completely and totally distracted from the pain (both physical and emotional) that I was going through because those 3 were with me.

 

Mama went to the back with me and after being stuck, IV'd, questioned, yada yada yada, I was finally able to focus. I wasn't allowed up to that point to take anything for pain except TYLENOL (which is pretty much the equivalent of poppin' gummy bears to me) but my nurse brings me a shot a straight morphine almost immediately. HOLLA. Even though my room the second time around only had curtains, they punched my MFF card and upgraded the painkillers from the week before. An ultrasound tech comes to take me away. Once I get to the room where I have to show my cookah (for the umpteenth time to some random person who is not my husband in the last week), I realize that I need new panties. Like, yesterday. I get back to my ER room and I tell Mama to text Lynn so they can go get me some 'draws. In between watching Modern Family on the mini TV and scoping out the paramedics/firemen delivering patients (by the way, TOTAL waster of time!), Ryann sends Mama a text that says "we're gonna head over to Broad Street". I meerkatted out of the bed from a flat position. (See below if you don't get the reference). They weren't fooling anybody. If you go to Broad Street from Midlothian in my family...you are going for one reason and one reason only. KRISPY. KREME. Those heffas! I made Mama relay a text that said something along the lines of "oh $3!! no, give me another shot and I'll be good to go". See, it doesn't take much to get me motivated.

 

Shortly after, my ultrasound results came back and I was pretty much just given a boatload of pain meds to help me deal. Basically, after a quick jaunt in the hospital for the second time with a diagnosis of, "you had an ectopic pregnancy, it's going to hurt, you're not going to die", we head to the parking lot. I settle in and Lynn says, "So what am I doing walking around with underwear in my pocket?" We all start laughing until I turn around and look at her in the backseat. I am a big fan of boy shorts so that's what I requested they get me from wherever they were going. I would've worn $1 panties from Dollar General at that point, so when I gazed upon THE most random item of women's lingerie on the planet, I lost my bearings and laughed hysterically, ignoring all the cramps, soreness, and shooting pains coming from down under. I don't think I've even heard the name "Ninja Turtles" since I 1991, much less seen their faces sprawled out all over the piece of bikinis I was going to have to slip on.

 

They are truly classics and I wish I didn't have to use them that day or I would've framed them. They remind me that no matter how low I find myself, I always, always, have family to reach down into the rock bottom where I'm at and pull me back out. Thank you, Ninja Turtles. And thank you, purchasers of said Ninja Turtles, for not letting me take residence in the place where my mind has so often found itself lately.

 

 

 

 

 

4

The title of this post isn't one I wanted to ever have to name. I starting writing this several days ago but waited to publish it. I've deleted and changed my words so many times because my thoughts keep changing and even I can't keep up with the jumbled mess that is currently my brain. I've gotten flack because I haven't posted in a few weeks and here's the reason: my readers are my favorite people, even the ones I don't know. I can share whatever I want and I don't feel like I'm being judged about any of it. I can tell you my secrets and my fears and my funnies. I guess the reason I couldn't write for you lately is because I couldn't share the secret that I was pregnant. By now, the cat's out of the bag and I have to share my newest secret...I had an ectopic pregnancy and had it terminated today for the sole purpose of saving my own life.

I feel like each time has presented a harder pill to swallow. We are literally up to elephant-tranquilizer-sized pills with this one. I'm completely dumbfounded with myself. My doctors are dumbfounded. My uterus is apparently dumbfounded that Mike's lazy-ass sperm couldn't even make it to where it was supposed to be. I've tried to write about this over the last few days but I'm tired of trying to be funny and optimistic. I'm tired of reading "have faith" quotes to boost my spirits. Every time has taken a little bit of my faith from me and if that makes me a bad Christian, then so be it. I mean, I have faith that every morning we'll get a fog delay for school but reality says (as I pull into the parking lot and walk into the building at 7:45 every day) "it ain't happening". Some small part of me, buried way in the back it seems, still believes there is a chance at having a baby. But the reality is this has happened 4 times in the past 2 years and it is certainly NOT a coincidence each time. Reality is that I finally have to wrap my head around the idea that I may not be able to have a child. Honestly, the fact that the Redskin's record (1-3) is better than mine (0-4), is frightening.

Regardless of my morbid, sappy words here, I am trying to handle this situation the best way I know how. I get out of bed to function and at the end of the day, I'm thankful that I made it through. I put on a brave front and I literally tell myself every second "your faith is greater than your fear". If I can say it enough maybe I'll actually whole-heartedly believe it. I hate that I make people walk on egg-shells around me. I know I'm faking most of the time here lately, but faking it is making me get through this. Treat me like I'm the same person--I promise it's the best medicine for me!! We have tough decisions ahead of us--namely whether or not we want to continue to try. I realize that I'm only 28 and have years ahead of me, but how many more miscarriages do those years entail? Is it really worth it--or even at this point after this one, is it worth me risking my health?

Arrrrgggg I just want to lay in my bed and eat KitKats and Nerds and chips and load up on whatever the medicine my nurse at the ER the other day gave me which was appropriately called "Heroine's 2nd Cousin". Yes. THAT good. There is a video of the influences of this medicine on yours truly that my other half possesses and maybe if you ask nicely, he'll share it with you. It's Tosh.O worthy. Just don't ever let me know you watched it. Every fiber of my being wants to shut out the world but I'm too stubborn to actually let that happen. I'll get up in the morning and I'll go through the motions because that's what I HAVE to make myself do. I'll fake it til I make it--and in this case, perhaps one day I'll actually make a baby.

Kristin Blanks

I am so proud of myself, y'all, I could just spit! First of all, let me be clear that I'm not one of those annoying runner people (no offense to my MANY associates who run daily) and am bragging. Not at all. 'Running' and 'Kristin Nicole Tanner Peebles' don't even belong in the same article, much less same paragraph or sentence. Since I've been a resident of Beaver Creek the past week, I've only been able to exercise for about 30 minutes. I was averaging my daily walk at 3.8 miles or about an hour, so I felt like dropping down to only 30 minutes was a total waste of my time. (I mean, it wasn't, since I was sweating and panting and gasping for air even in the shortened time.) But I decided that I should try to push myself a little harder since everybody I talk to seemed to be doing the same. Can't have everybody getting skinnier than me now can we? Okay, so the first night I decided to jog/walk/walk/jog/walk/walk. I've done a little more everyday and tonight I finally made it around the pond AT MAXIMUM JOGGING POWER which is pretty much the same speed it would take a grasshopper to hop around it. I did a 12 minute mile!!!!!!!!!!!!! I know my fellow athletes are busting out laughing at their screen as they are re-reading that, but it's so true. And it's so awesome. For me. In high school I did about a 10.5 mile and that was considered the fat girl pace...and I wasn't fat in high school. I just liked to hang out in the back to socialize. Which totally prepared me for real-life. Take notice that I always sit in the back at church or at events, etc. Back pew people are always the fun ones.

 

Things have been piling up for about a month now and it actually felt fantastic to sweat all my issues out. I still have a boat-load of issues, but they aren't as heavy as they were yesterday. My jogging was also supplemented tonight by a brief kick-boxing stunt. There are several bridges I pass on the trail and earlier it rained. I basically knew what I was setting myself up for, but I did it anyway. It was the perfect atmosphere for an invasion. An invasion of frogs, that is. My students know we don't use the 2 'F' words in class--'frizzy' or 'frogs'. And yes, I realize I teach science. I just choose not to teach anything close to the species. I DESPISE--let me repeat--DESPISE frogs. I can't handle them in any capacity and I will flip the flup out when one sneaks up on me.

 

Tonight I passed 2 bridges at a jog then came upon the third which is directly over the water. My feet were pounding on the grass and as I approached, I could see the bushes shaking just slightly. The hairs on my arms stood straight up. I always know they are around me, but like people who eat near me who smack their lips when they eat, I use tunnel vision and focus on getting myself out of the situation.

 

I ran a little faster. My right foot hit the bridge and 2 frogs simultaneously jumped at the same time across the planks and into the water. It was like they planned it; it was totally synchronized. I don't remember much, but I was able to contain my yell. I'm living at Beaver Creek where the average age is 78. These people wouldn't have been able to handle my horror-flick-ready scream down by the pond. I know at that point my left foot never touched the bridge. I'd like to think I was suspended in the air and just floated across it, never having my precious toes within an inch of those tiny bastards, but ninja-punching ensued because I'm pretty sure I have a torn muscle in my shoulder from it. I was instantly taken back to 2001 in the middle of a Billy Blanks Tae-Bo episode. I turned full-circle, kicked out, punched out, jabbed, and upper-cutted, all the while I'm positive there was a row of amphibians on the stump by the water eating popcorn and enjoying the entertainment.

 

I hauled tail up the hill from the bridge and never stopped. You may be secretly making fun of my 12 minutes, but those 12 minutes were hard-earned and I'm dang proud. Tonight was a lesson. I didn't exactly face my fears, but it's obvious somebody was trying to tell me something. As the British say, I've been shit lately. My successful run was a metaphor for how things are going, and that's just it--they ARE going. My fears and bad things keep popping out in front of me and I have tiny freak-outs, but I keep going. It's all I or anyone can do. Keep going. Whoever planned the frogs, I thank you. I'm mumbling ugly words under my breath as I say thank you, but I'm saying it. It made me feel better and it made me get through something that's difficult. Now here's a mental picture. Minus the tan. Enjoy.