Hello friends.

So, any plans this weekend?

What about me, you ask? Does it have to do with the goofy picture above? (and just so you know, I'm posting outtakes of that photo at the bottom of the column. Sadly, it took me fifteen minutes to get what I considered to be a semi-decent photo, and it still looks ridiculous, mainly because I have a headlight on, well, my head.)

Let's start off with a little story. Way back in early August, I found myself sitting on the couch with the Ipad and a glass of wine. It may have been a Friday night, I don't remember. Either way, the wine was excellent so I poured myself another glass. And then another. And with bum comfortably nestled into the couch and the wine coursing through my veins, I thought to myself, "Let's Google local races. I can run another half-marathon, right? In Red Rock Canyon? No problem. A thousand foot ascent in the first five miles? Bring it. At night? Sweet, I love the stars. Oh, an you have to wear a light on your head because it is pitch black? That sounds amazing." Click, click, click and done.

Moral of the story: drinking is dangerous.

So friends, tomorrow night when you are snug as a bug on your sofa, perhaps watching a movie and eating popcorn, please think of me as I hoof it through Red Rock. With my head light on (literally).

Outtakes:

Prying information about school out of a toddler is like squeezing water from rocks. I ask questions but expect nothing in return. But the other day, Scotty gave me a tiny, tiny morsel. And I pounced on it.

"Who did you eat lunch with today?" I asked. It was my fourteenth question in an hour.

"Kate," he stated matter-of-factly. I think I had worn him down.

My eyebrows shot up. "Kate? Who's Kate?" Ooh, this was juicy.

"She's a nice girl," he stated with a shrug, and promptly went back to playing with his tow truck.

And that's all he had to say about that.

On Monday after pick-up, an adorable little girl noticed him from across the parking lot as he was climbing into his car seat. "Bye Scotty!" she yelled. We both looked over. "Bye SCOTTY!" she screamed, this time adding an overly-enthusiastic wave for effect. She was tiny, blond, clad in a plaid jumper and had ribbons in her hair. I liked her immediately. She continued at the top of her lungs: "BYE SCOTTY!"

I finally looked over at my non-plussed Bear. He had his head down. "Scotty, who is that little girl? Can you say 'bye' to her, please?" I asked quietly. He looked at me and shook his head. "Oh, Mom," he started. "That's just Carsen," and then turned his head in the other direction, as though he could not be bothered with this dribble any longer.

Well then.

And yesterday, we had a movie date with our friends Jessica and Grace. We plopped the kids in the photo booth after Nemo and encouraged them to make faces. This was the result:

As you can tell by the fourth picture, he was not having any of it.

Perhaps we have reached the "girls have cooties" stage? Or he is just so focused on identifying all of the vehicles on the street that he doesn't have time for a relationship right now? (those car transporters are not going to name themselves.)

And for all of these sweet little girls that are trying to get his attention...is it the eyes? Or the smile? Perhaps the irresistible draw of the squishy cheeks?

Or...is it just because every woman loves a guy that plays hard to get?

:-)

It needs to be stated: I have a tiny artistic side. I can draw. I can paint. I can sculpt things (butter being my favorite medium). That side, however, is more often overrun by another side: neurotic perfectionism. Therefore, my artistic side usually stays safely in the closet, far out of reach. Consequently, my kitchen floor remains spotless and I sleep well at night. I'm okay with this.

And then, I discovered Pinterest.

Yes, yes, I know all of you have been on it for decades. I steadfastly refused since my life is already one giant stereotype. I realized this last week as I shopped for coconut water at Whole Foods after spin class. I do not need to learn to fish-tail braid my hair or make the perfect cat eye, nor do I need to decorate our fireplace for fall. I must preserve some semblance of wit before I lose myself completely, right?. But I will say, have you seen the little witches you can make out of marshmallows and Hersey kisses? They are really adorable. And they look so easy to make...

I logged on only because I wanted some paint color ideas. I know, it sounds innocent enough. And then I was all "OMG!" and "Nu-uh!" and "Hey Brian, leave me alone - I'm pinning!" Yes, I realized I used "pinning" as a verb (technically a gerund but who's counting) and then every night after Scotty went to sleep, I found myself looking forward with great anticipation to ignoring my husband and happily pinning stuff to my wall. Ah, happy times.

With that, I became obsessed with making the perfect wreath for fall. I'm not a sticks-and-twigs-kinda-gal, nor am I a fan of dried flowers. I believe in the miracle power of a hot glue gun, so when I found this monster wreath, I thought it was whimsical, clever, and in my artistic ballpark.

I happily trotted off for my first trip ever to Hobby Lobby (I didn't even know we had one in Vegas!) to buy all kinds of crafty-looking materials: a 14-inch styrofoam wreath, styrofoam balls, foam board, some fabric, and 100 yards of tulle. Paint and a glue gun were already at home. I figured I'd bust this puppy out in 45 minutes, and then spend the rest of my night looking at ideas for decorating our mantle for fall.

(how quickly the proud fall.)

Six hours later, our kitchen was a disaster. I had erased all of my fingerprints due to hapless hot glue incidents, and I was swearing like a sailor. I think Pinterest should come with a disclaimer: "Items featured here look much less complicated than they actually are. Proceed with caution."

Maybe I'm confusing artsy with crafty, but my god, this wreath was almost the death of me. I cut the strips of tulle into 12 inch sections, like the directions said, and then spent HOURS tying those mother-f'ers to the wreath. Like, hours. HOURS. Do you know how long it takes to purchase a wreath? A few clicks on your mouse (and I'll spot you a few minutes for having to get up to get your credit card number. I have mine memorized to be more time-efficient.) Why, in God's name, did this sound like a good idea? Do you what I can do with six hours of my life? Tying 1,000 pieces of tulle on a crappy plastic wreath thing is not on that list.

Making the foam teeth...let me just ask, when is the last time you cut foam board? That sh*t is tough, man. I sawed away at the board for 45 minutes before I got something that looked like teeth. Upon closer inspection, the teeth are all jagged and lopsided and the monster has a serious overbite to boot. I know he's a monster and not a super model, but it still looks tacky.

I thought I would feel this sense of completion having finished the wreath - but then the bow tie fell off. Like, eight times. Clearly, hot glue is not as powerful as I imagine it to be. And then the wreath wouldn't stay on its hanger on the door, causing me to pin the ribbon on its back within an inch of its life. It's especially windy today in Vegas, so as a precaution, I brought it inside. It only weighs like, 3 ounces, so better keep it in the house. I'd hate for all of my hard work to perish down the street in the manner of our garbage cans in the wind.

So I guess my point is: Pinterest can be dangerous, for any number of reasons. Don't believe the pretty pictures. A lifetime of work went into that decoupaged mirror. Thousands of dollars were spent on that tree made out of buttons.  Don't worry - I'll stay on it for the humor boards. But as for my craftiness? I think it might stay in the closet. I am still picking up bits of foam board from my floor, and I've glued the bow tie back on now four times today.

I feel like this sums it up best: 

Word.

Dear Kale,

I'm not sure how to say this, but...I think it's time we go our separate ways.

It's not you - it's me. Really.

I am just not digging this relationship anymore. I know, I know - it started out with fireworks and excitement. Me, pouring over the beautiful, frilly varieties at the store or farmers' market, stocked so your best side was showing and your leaves were at the peak of their green-ness. I fell hook, line and sinker for the nutritional claims touted by experts. Friends claim they love you. I've seen t-shirts shouting your praise. I wanted to love you too, really, I did. But now...well, it's been a few months, and the shine has wore off. And I think it's time we go our separate ways.

I don't know how to say this, except to just say it: you're kind of bitter. And you don't pair well with others. You can't say we haven't tried, either. I've baked you, blended you, sauteed you...you've joined my salads, my smoothies, hell, even my soups. And time and time again, I've gagged, choked, and nearly spit out that mouthful because you, my dear, are simply not palatable.

Okay, I don't want to come down on you too hard; I know you are trying. And to be totally honest, well, there's another person in this relationship: spinach. He's a lot nicer, plays better with others, and comes prewashed. He's always happy to jump in a smoothie and does not try to steal the show. Spinach is a lot less "look at me" than you are, and I appreciate that. Maybe something to think about, eh?

So listen, I want you to know I wish you the best. Your star is rising and I think you have a bright future ahead of you. Just not with me. So best of luck and maybe we'll run into each other again, perhaps in a bowl of minestrone.

Sincerely,

Kim

A few weeks ago, Uncle Jay came to town.

He's not actually related by blood - neither Brian or I have a brother. Jay is one of Brian's friends from his law school days. He was in our wedding. Jay is one of the sweetest, most likable people on the planet with a big heart and an infectious laugh. He's single, loves kids, and is the best kind of friend to toddlers - he's the guy that doesn't hesitate to get on the floor and play with your kid. Scotty adores Uncle Jay for any number of reasons: he's a human jungle gym. He willingly plays chase. He taught Scotty about the "uh-oh" bar in the car (which Scotty still gleefully grab if I take a curve to quickly.)

Jay was in town for his Fantasy Football draft and met up with us for dinner on Friday night. He had plans with his friends for the rest of weekend, but assured us he would stop over on Sunday before he left to get in some quality Bear-time. I knew Scotty would be delighted to see Uncle Jay, and I spent most of Saturday thinking about what to serve for brunch as well as tidying up the house.

The phone rang on Sunday morning at 7:20am. It was Uncle Jay. "I'm just going to bed now," he told Brian. He wasn't going to make it. When Brian relayed the news to me, I blinked once, then uttered a most random sentiment: "Good thing I didn't thaw the good bacon." You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can't take the Midwest out of the girl.

Back to the matter at hand: Did Uncle Jay really just trade in time with my child for some ubiquitous Vegas vice? Or vices? 

I had the tough job of breaking the sad news to the Bear. Scotty looked confused but took it well. What broke my heart later was that for the next week, he kept mentioning Uncle Jay. His lack of awareness of time made him think that Uncle Jay was still planning to come over - any minute now. Poor little disappointed Bear.

I'm fairly certain Brian had some terse words with Uncle Jay about the cancelled date. I don't know what transpired in the course of the conversation, but a few days later, this showed up on our doorstep:

Yup, that's right. A tiny firetruck that can only be described as THE GREATEST GIFT FOR A TRUCK-LOVING LITTLE BOY EVER. It has sirens, bells, whistles - even a miniature pick-ax on the back (for breaking tiny windows, I'd imagine). The truck is fast, too - and big. Scotty's little legs aren't long enough to reach the pedals, but when they are, we're going to need to run to keep up with him when he drives it. The thing is so big that I couldn't pick it up to put it away, so on a day when Scotty was in school, I ended up driving it through our house. I almost took out the pillar in our living room. And I'll be honest - the thing corners like it's on rails. Sweet ride, yo.

Needless to say, Scotty ADORES his new firetruck. The only thing better would be if it came with a real live Dalamatian puppy. (no Jay! Don't get any ideas!!!)

So Uncle Jay, thank you for such a wonderful, generous, and thoughtful gift. In the future though, all you need to do is just head to bed a reasonable hour and then spend some time with the boy. And then maybe I'll defrost the good bacon.

# of races I've completed in the past year: 7

# of races coming up in Sept, Oct, and Nov of this year: 5

# of half-marathons completed: 2 (3rd one is in two weeks)

# of minutes it took me to run a mile a year ago: 12:35

# of minutes to complete a mile now (average, comfortable pace): 9:22

# of minutes for my best mile ever: 8:04

# of minutes for my best 5K: 29:33

# of minutes I'd like to run a 5K in: under 27

# of running shoes I've gone through in the past year: 2

# of packets of Gu I have consumed over the past year: approximately 14

# of tiny Asian men who's marathon dreams I've crushed after bowling into them during a race: 1
 
# of times I've thought to myself, "I hope that guy is okay" over the past year: 16

# of toenails I've lost: ZERO (whoooo-hoooo!)

# of times I've had to poop outside: ZERO (though there was one very close-call...thankfully, a grocery store was nearby. Gross, I know. Sorry.)

# of friends I've encouraged to come to Hill Day: 27

# of friends who've actually come to Hill Day: 1 (thank you, Courtney B!)

# of times in a conversation Deana and Jen roll their eyes at me whenever Hill Day is brought up: approximately 2

% in an average conversation that Courtney S and I dedicate to talking about running: approximately 44% 

# of times someone has actually gotten up from the table during a conversation with Courtney S and I because they are bored because we are talking about running/racing: 13

# of times I've considered doing the Vegas Half-Marathon again: 6

# of times I've had to remind myself, "DON'T DO IT!" and snap myself back into reality: 6

# of moments before a run I've thought to myself, "Why am I doing this?": 301

# of times I've finished a run and thought to myself, "This is the greatest feeling in the world!": 301

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It's been a great year in running. I want to point out that there is nothing remarkable, unique, or special about me; I'm just a woman rapidly approaching middle age (gahhh!) who happens to own a pair of sneakers and an alarm clock. (Trust me - elite/advanced runners would sniff at these stats, quite rightly so). But the point is: If I can do it, you can do it. I am just delighted with this sport and everything that comes with it. If I could pass that feeling that running produces in me along to others, I would - and am trying to. :-) So if you've ever thought about it, wanted to do it, but weren't sure where to start, don't overthink it. Just get out there and run!

Sometime last fall, I came to conclusion that if I wanted to get all of my miles in each week, I was going to have to wake up before the sun. This was very depressing for a number of reasons: 1.) I'm definitely more of a night owl than an early bird, and 2.) I would be running in the cold (okay, it's Vegas cold, but it's still cold to us), dark, chilly morning all by myself. This creeped me out sufficiently. We live in a nice gated neighborhood, but in order to get the longer runs in, I literally had to scale the gate and head towards the mountains.

Of course, all kinds of "worst-case-scenarios" flashed through my mind. I was going to be attacked by coyotes. Or fast-moving burros. (we have those out here, people, and let me tell you, they look vicious.) I would fall and break my ankle or get hit by a car and would be left to die all alone on Hualapai. But my greatest fear involved man's greatest enemy - man. As I selected my running clothing with the light reflectors on it, I thought to myself, do I want the cars to see me? Or do I not want the cars to see me?  The hours upon hours of watching Dateline in graduate school were working against me. Stone Phillips' voice thudded in my conscious mind as I considered all of the scary people out there who were willing to wake up early and kidnap a slow, chubby runner.

I'm happy to say that not only have I quicken my pace (which let's face it - I'm not going to outrun my attacker but at least I'm going to make him work for it), but I've also employed several safe guards. Brian always knows when and where I'm going. I have my phone, which has GPS, so the police should be able to track my whereabouts relatively easily. I don't carry Mace but I stay on well-lit paths near stores and homes.

And Brian has the script down in the event I go missing. I told him to tell them I'm 5'8", 118 pounds, with a charming personality and laughter that twinkles like bells. Brian, of course, was quick to point out the obvious: "...but I do want them to find you."

::sigh::

Stay safe out there, friends! 

...okay, here we go...I can do this...music? Yup. Map my run? Okay, got that...okay lady, move out of my way. Oh! There's the gun! Weeee! Ooooooo...downhill! Sweet! [pant, pant, pant] Oof! Hill. Oof! Another hill. What - another freaking hill? What the hill? Uuuuuuuugggggghhhhh....man, that sucked. Okay, get a good pace. Just chill out. Why is there a kid on the course? Dude, move over. Gosh, he can't be more than seven or eight. Is this allowed? Where are his parents? He's like, running in a zig-zag motion. Sheesh kid, get outta my way...I will run you over...arrrrrrgggghhhhh....okay good, he's gone. Whew. Mile one: 8:33! I'm a running god! Whoa, that's way too fast. Who cares, it's a 5K...okay, slow down, just breathe...ooh, good song. I can do this...I can do this...oh, camera! Smile! Oh damn, another hill. I got this...[pant, pant, pant]. This is just like Hill Day. Okay, so it's not and all of these runners are driving me crazy but I'm almost done...Mile 2: 9:08. Hmm, slowing down. It's all good, I can do this. That woman in the pink shorts is annoying the crap out of me. Just focus on something else. Pretty golf course! Damn, another hill? Seriously? Oh no, Pink Shorts is back! I thought I had passed her. Do I look like that when I run? Move over, honey! Whew, feeling good...and we're at Mile 3! Yes! I'm right there! Argh, it's Pink Shorts again! Ok bitch, move aside because THERE IS THE FINISH LINE! Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I did it!

And then I called my mom.

The end.

Editor's note: In honor of my one year anniversary, I thought I'd dedicate an entire week of entries about running. As many of you may remember, I started running as a way to cope with my dad's untimely passing in June 2011. What I've found, however, surprised even me. Running is not only a great way to handle my grief, but it's become my natural stress reliever, my form of meditation, and has introduced me to some of the kindest, neatest people I've ever met. I am so thankful I found the most basic of all sports. :-) So whether you are young or old, new or an old pro, it's never to late to get started! Throw on your sneaks, head out for a run, and then come back and read the blog. I hope you enjoy it!

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TOP TEN SIMILARITIES BETWEEN RUNNING AND BEING A PARENT

10.) It forces you to get up at unspeakable hours.

9.) It introduces you to a completely new group of people that you wouldn't have otherwise met.

8.) It gives you this weird, tingly high. Occasionally.

7.) Some days, it's hard as hell.  

6.) It gives you something else to focus on outside of your own little myopic world.

5.) When you tell others about your crazy tales, they look at you with a mixture of fear, awe, and horror.

4.) You realize you are capable of withstanding much more than you ever thought possible.

3.) It gives you a sense of purpose.

2.) It forces you to live in the moment. This can be very challenging - and freeing - all at the same time.

And the #1 similarity between running and being a parent is...

1.) Never far from your thoughts is a single word: poop.

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Man, I am sick of talking about this. I'd imagine you are, too, right? I mean, how much can a person ramble on about a three year-old in school? Like, everyone goes to school. A lot of people have kids in school. This is neither unique nor interesting. Yet the funny thing is, despite my dislike of the subject, the complete cliche that is my life right now, I cannot stop the verbal diarrhea coming out of my mouth when the world "preschool" is mentioned in a conversation. Unknowing but kind friends will unwittingly ask me how Scotty is doing and I am remiss to stop the torrent of words that flow out of my mouth. Twenty minutes later, they are secretly checking their watches and stretching to cover their yawns. Are you yawning yet? Seriously? I know you are.

But since you are here, let's chat about preschool for a moment. (ha!) So...yeah. It's been a roller coaster. Okay, maybe not a real roller coaster like you'd find at Six Flags, but more like "Elmo's Flying Fish" at Sea World. It doesn't seem like a big deal, but then you get on it and you realize it moves a lot faster than you expected and the ride won't end anytime soon. You try not to hurl your overpriced, stale popcorn all over your shoes, because no one else seems to be the least bit bothered.

And that, friends, has been our experience. Last Friday, Brian and I had the unique honor of being "those parents" who got pulled aside during pick-up. "I need to talk with you," said Scotty's teacher in a hushed, quiet tone. She avoided all eye contact. Oh geez, what did the kid do now? My mind raced from minor infractions to major ones, like flinging his own poo around the classroom and perhaps at other children. (Editor's note: this has never happened before, but I am a catastrophist to the nth degree). Finally, finally, the line of parents picking up kids finally winded down so Mrs. G could tell us what horrific crime our spawn committed as I willed my blood pressure down to normal limits.

"He's very...upset," she said. Oh really? Tell me something I don't know. "He really misses his mom." Big surprise. "He was very emotional today, particularly during lunchtime and nap time." Still waiting. "A few of the other kids tried to console him but he wasn't having any of that." Well, that's a fun visual. Our little Bear is pushing other kids away? Good lord. "So," she continued slowly, "In order to facilitate a better day at school, I think it's best if you use the drop-off system. And he is dropped off by Dad.."

And with that, I got kicked out of preschool. 

I get the logic - saying bye to me at the house is easier than at school, and their drop-off system, which consists of simply driving up the front and letting an aide take the child out of the car is quick and mostly painless - but man, I couldn't believe it was day 2 and they were already giving us "recommendations." That involved...me.

Despite some serious eye-rolling on my part, we heeded their recs. And Day 3 (this past Wednesday) went swimmingly. Scotty was grinning ear-to-ear when he saw me at pick-up. Of course, he darted out of his seat to smash his face against the glass and howl, "Moooomaaaaaa!" but he took the redirection back to his seat quite well. This morning, Day 4, yielded equally beneficial results as he only got a little teary as I buckled him in the carseat in our driveway. "Momma come to school, too?" "No sweetie," I told him gently. "Momma will see you after art today." Momma was going to make herself some breakfast and enjoy a completely silent house. Score!

And Brian just called to say that upon exiting the car, Scotty happily told the aide, "Dada go to the pig farm, Momma go to Junior League, and Scotty gets ice cream after school." That is all mostly true, though I shudder to think what the school must be thinking of us.

Speaking of the school, let me just say: I am blown away. Two weeks in and I have yet to pick my jaw off the floor. The expectations are high, the curriculum is "aggressive," and they aren't messing around. In just a few days at school, Scotty can now **mostly** use the bathroom unassisted, he puts his backpack on without help, and is drawing and tracing up a storm. For a kid that we could not drag away from the train table or his cars, he now happily sits at the kitchen table, practicing his "'tamping" (stamping) and tracing. And he's good! It's shocking. And I think he's going to be left handed.

I'm not sure when this ride is going to end (does it ever?!) but I'll take the momentarily lapse in drama with appreciation. After all, next week, they start the letter 'A' and the number 1. Who knows what melee will result.