It's taken me almost a full week to formulate a response to the terror attacks in Boston. It's been a crazy, mixed up week, full of "Breaking News" interruptions, record rainfall in some areas, ricin at the White House, and a chemical plant explosion. As I type this, the manhunt for the second bomber is still under way in Watertown. I've decided my best course of action right now is to 1.) turn off the TV and 2.) pull my thoughts out of my brain and put them on paper.

Like the rest of the country, I've been riveted by the bombings in Boston. When the news first broke, I thought they (the bad guys) were targeting runners. Explosions at the finish line? What? As my high school friend Jill eloquently pointed out on Facebook, the finish line is "for bananas and water." The finish line is a good thing - it's the goal, the accomplishment, the gold star. And at a race as prestigious and challenging as the Boston marathon, any kind of interruption would mess with the concentration of all of the participants.

Clearly, I had no idea the extent of what had really happened.

When I saw the footage for the first time (quite possibly the only time in my life I've willingly turned the channel to ESPN), the realization that someone was targeting the bleachers made tears come to my eyes and fury build in my chest. The bleachers. The stands. The place where family, friends, and race volunteers wait and cheer. My concern quickly turned into terror as I thought, "Who are we dealing with here? What kind of sicko would do this?" The bleachers are nothing but a happy, joyful, supportive place. Why?

The people in the bleachers get none of the glory. They may not be waking up at 5am to log their miles, but they do their part by emptying the dishwasher, folding the running socks, and endlessly entertaining the kid(s). Over and over again, Brian has taken Scotty out to dinner, to the park, or to breakfast in order to allow me time to get my runs in.  Just a few weeks ago, he left work early to pick up the Bear because I was running a "fun" 5K. He left early so I could run around a park. Seriously. He didn't even complain.

Brian hasn't felt the sore muscles, but he's silently and without criticism tripped over the piles of running shoes by the door, allowed me to lay on the couch and moan, and run to the pharmacy to purchase whatever heat wrap/anti-inflammatory requested. He's accustomed to my early bedtime, fewer date nights. The night before last year's Summerlin half-marathon, he held my hand while offering numerous (cheesy) lines from sports movies, trying to calm me down and inspire to run my best. In the face of a weather forecast that was calling for gale force winds and rain, I was ready to cancel the whole thing. He told me to "die for that inch" (or something like that) and how did that translate? A new PR for me.

And what of the friends? Sonnya and Tiffany both sent candles and bath salts, along with letters of encouragement, before my first ever half-marathon. Or Michelle, who showed up in the dark of night at the Red Rock half, clutching a box of my favorite cupcakes? And my son, who innocently and joyfully ran with me through the last 10 feet of the Summerlin half so we could cross the finish line together?

This is who the bombers were targeting.

Vile. Repulsive. Horrifying.

All runners have a Brian, a Scotty or a Michelle in their lives. Runners get to enjoy the endorphin high, the medal and banana waiting for them, and the fun of posting pictures on Facebook, wearing their bibs and flashing the "#1" sign. Friends and family are the silent partners, the ones cheering us on, the ones getting none of the credit but still give their time, energy and love.

So thank you to everyone who's ever attended a race, sat in the hot sun, or froze in the bleachers. Thank you to the people who pass out medals, bananas, and water bottles. Thank you to those who don't get the Facebook shout-outs but instead, battle the crowds to park the car. To my husband, my son, my friends, and my family, volunteers, the good people of Boston, and race watchers everywhere:

For the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Editor's Note: I planned to post this book review yesterday, April 15, but it didn't seem right following the terrorist acts in Boston. I, too, was shocked and horrified by the images on TV; the very thought that someone (or some people) would target the bleachers of a race, of all places, is beyond unspeakable.  As a fairly new member to the sport of running, the Boston Marathon is by far the gold standard, the ultimate achievement, of the running world. It seems as though nothing is safe in this world; movie theaters, elementary schools, the finish line. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to find any words of wisdom and something eloquent to say at this time. Just...what is this world coming to?

There is a reason I don't read much anymore. Despite the name of this blog, which would suggest I not only read often but perhaps belong to an actual book club (neither of which are true), I just don't have the time for it. It's a sad confession, one I'm not proud of, but it's honest. Laying down with a book seems downright luxurious; my little Virgo brain likes to remind me that there is always a closet that can be cleaned, laundry to be washed, or a drawer to be purged.

However...within that, I haven't read a really really good work of fiction in a long time. Probably the last good book of note was In the Woods, by Tana French. I read it in 2009 while on bed rest. Literally, nothing has come across my desk in almost four years that made me think yes! Yes! YES! Nothing. Fifty Shades of Grey? For shame, E.L James. For shame.

Because here's the real deal...when I find a good book, I revert to 12 year-old Kim. The one that hid behind a book, curled into a ball on the couch, ignoring everyone and everything around her. The one that attended Christmas dinner with the relatives but refused to talk to anyone, because I just had to finish this chapter. The one who stayed up all hours of the night, fighting off sleep to get to the epilogue. The one who devoured books the way an over-eater devours a plate of brownies.

When it comes to really good books, I think I have a reading disorder.

It's best when really good books don't cross my path often. The dishes get done, dinner is made, and I get to bed at a decent time.

Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn, is one of those really good books. And therefore, Ms. Flynn inadvertently ruined my weekend because I just had to see how it ended.

Maybe you've already read it - it came out in July 2012 - or heard how 20th Century Fox dropped seven figures to produce the film version of it, starring America's sweetheart, Reese Witherspoon, as Amy Dunne. (I pictures Amy as more of a Gwyneth, but what can you do?) Here's the thing - if you haven't read it yet, go get it. And plan to have your entire weekend taken up by this book.

At it's most basic, it's a thriller. Amy, a beautiful young woman, vanishes on the morning of her fifth wedding anniversary. Her husband Nick is the prime suspect. The cops are small town, the motives are plentiful, and the secondary characters are colorful. Told from the point of view of Nick for one chapter, and Amy's the next, you get a very, very interesting picture of what kind of marriage they really had. And how they both viewed the same things so completely differently. At it's most complex, Gone Girl is a great read into modern-day marriage and all of its shortcomings; just how well do you know your partner? How much do we disclose...and how much do we fake?  Do we really know who we are sleeping next to at night?

I don't want to give too much of the plot away as it would spoil the fun. My jaw dropped numerous times and poor Brian had to listen to me spew my shock, venom, and anger at him at the clever turns, crazy characters, and mixed-up motives. The writing is tight, funny, and incredibly current. The ending is not what I expected and since I had purchased it on the iPad, I didn't even know I  had reached the end until I hit the page that said, "Acknowledgements." The hallmark of a great book is when it stays with you for days after you finish it...and this one will likely be with me until 2014.

Great job, Gillian Flynn.

Grade: A+.

Three years ago, we moved into our current home. Some folks celebrate this with a party. Others redecorate.

I touch up walls.

After all, it has been a very busy three years.

We went from barely walking...

...to asking Mom to take his photo with odd, unrelated objects.

(yup, that's our Bear. Wearing his favorite Superman shirt (with attached cape) and my Vegas 1/2 Marathon medal, posing next to the Packer Christmas tree, which remains up year-round, holding what I believe to be my favorite pair of tweezers. He requested this photo, I might add. Strange, strange little boy.) 

...and thus, my walls have paid the price. Perhaps you can see the pencil scratches on the wall next to him? He was practicing his 'good grip' when we weren't looking. Likewise, countless play dates with other toddlers, ramming cars into walls, driving trucks, and throwing balls at each other has resulted in chips, dings, scratches and marks. All signs of a home well-loved.

But...three years ago when we first had the house repainted, I selected brown for just about every room in the house. I like brown. It's neutral, southwest-y, and better than white. In my infinite wisdom, however, I selected a different shade of brown for every room. Perhaps I thought I was clever?  I remember at the time thinking each paint had it's own unique undertones, and therefore, I tried to match each with the appropriate area. God forbid I pair the purple-y undertone brown in our bedroom...that clearly needs to go in the guest bath.  Did I think I was some kind of color sommelier?

The painters must have hated me.

And now, they are clearly having the last laugh. Because I can't remember which color goes in which room. I have no guide, other than a spotty memory and lots and lots of half-empty cans.

So please know my weekend will be spent running through the house, trying to figure out if the living room is Splodgy, Knapweed, or Equator. Did we do Scotty's bathroom Tranquil, Roadside or Gotham? Does Swiss Coffee have the red undertones, or was that bittersweet?

Why...why did I do this to myself...??

And here's more vintage fat Scotty, since he was so cute. I mean, he still is, but wow, has our little butterball leaned out!

The last three weeks have been a blur of activity and change. The lack of entries is never related to not having anything to write about -- oh, there is sooo much to write about -- but simply a reflection of how busy we've been. And that perhaps I've taken an afternoon nap here and there...

So let's get to it. In the last three weeks, we have seen...

more silliness between Scotty and my mom.

I mean, what am I going to do with these two? Just a smattering of crazy hijinks between Grandma and the Bear: removing arms from store mannequins, walking through downtown Vegas in just their underwear (okay, that was just Scotty), and vigorously shaking pine cones from trees. Scotty can't walk by a sewer without throwing a rock in it and I have my mom to thank for that.

Sadly, my mom's time in Vegas came to a close last weekend and we tearfully said goodbye to her and Zigmund. They made it home safely and Scotty and I are already looking forward to our Indiana trip in June. I hope the sewers are ready for us.

This whole time, everyone has wondered how Scotty would handle Zigmund's departure...I'm happy to say, he's doing fine. Me, on the other hand...not so much. I'm kind of a mess. The house feels so quiet without him. What can I say? The little furball grew on me. I guess we'll always have CatGate.

Easter came and went.

For the third year in a row, I forced the family to dye Easter eggs. For the first time ever, though, I think Brian actually enjoyed himself. Scotty is at such a great age where he "gets it" but is still so curious and full of questions. Watching the little color tablets dissolve in vinegar was a big highlight, and then the eggs absorb the color?

Mind blowing for a three-year old.

Summer arrived in Vegas. And it stopped the kids dead in their tracks.

Impending summer in the desert means only one thing: lots of time at various water parks and pools. Which means I just involuntarily sucked my stomach in. But this year, I resolved to not hide under a cover-up so I made boot camp and clean eating a priority. As in, a real priority, not just a priority Monday through Friday. (weekends are so tough...) After six weeks, I'm down almost 8 pounds, but most importantly, I'm gaining muscle. I feel strong, energetic, and lean. It's a good feeling.

I feel like a special thanks is in order to the clementine farmers of America. Anytime I had a sweet craving, I ate a Cutie. Consequently, I'm downing 20-30 Cuties a week. I can even peel one while driving.

In one fell swoop, I managed to offend both the snake-haters AND the snake-lovers in the world by posting this picture on Facebook:

In what I am dubbing "SnakeGate" (naturally), our gardener (not Victor, but someone I hadn't met before) found this little guy while trimming the shrubs in the back. The UnNamed Gardener presented the red racer to me as though it was some kind of gift or sacrificial offering and laid it on our driveway with great authority and importance. After choking my lunch back down, I started snapping pictures for identification purposes, because quite honestly, if he was poisonous, we were moving to Antarctica, stat. And when the snake had some kind of post-mortem seizure on the driveway, my first thought (shamefully) was, "OMG it's a ZOMBIE SNAKE! WE ARE ALL INFECTED!"

Brian and I have been watching a little too much The Walking Dead.

And if you are curious, I did not stab it in the head. I screamed and clutched my chest like I was dying. Once again, despite all the bravado, my potential usefulness in the zombie apocalypse needs to be re-evaluated.

Scotty, however, loved the snake. He promptly named him "Pawn" and insisted we take the snake around the house to "show him the flowers." (In Scotty's defense, the thing was dead AND in a bag by the time he met him. There was no involuntary zombie-like behavior from the red racer that would have sent him into therapy immediately). Pawn spent several days in our garage, safely dead in the bag, and then we had a touching little ceremony that involved putting him in the garage can and tightly closing the lid.

Rest in peace, little racer.

All of this talk of cold-blooded animals spurred a new game Scotty likes to call "Lizards."

Every three minutes, I hear, "Mom! You wanna play lizards with me?" It's great.

The game, which involves two fake lizards, consists of a "Mommy" lizard and a "baby" lizard. Scotty manipulates them into all kinds of different situations and I just follow his orders. These lizards have a tough life - they are constantly going to the hospital, in need of medical care, or requiring rescue from any number of emergency vehicles. I hope they have good insurance.

I finally found out what is wrong with my back. I've been having lower back pain for five months now, and it turns out I have a degenerative disk between my L4 and L5 vertebrae. According to my doctor, this is "as common as grey hair and wrinkles." FYI orthopaedic doctors everywhere: this is not what you say to a women who's 35th birthday is looming on the horizon. Regardless, I walked out with a script for an anti-inflammatory, 4 weeks of physical therapy, and this incredibly helpful pamphlet full of pictures of overweight, elderly folks engaging in "light exercise" to help their spines.

::head desk::

And finally, Brian has been in trial all week which makes life just a bit more stressful for the whole household. He finished up yesterday and we (well, they) celebrated with cheesecake on the ottoman while watching "Peter Rabbit."

Oh, to be three.

Happy Friday, everyone!