What's for (Thanksgiving) dinner?

Part of this post is to take a moment and reminisce about all my favorite Thanksgiving foods (aka starchy foods). Part of this post is to remind people that in between Halloween and Christmas there is a holiday that may not have all the glitzy songs or decorations, but has what I consider to be most important: kick ass food.

This week is Thanksgiving and I for one am most excited to pile a load of cheesy, sweet, deliciously comforting carbs on a plate and devour it. It's the one tradition of Thanksgiving that I've been able to keep. As a kid, we didn't have a ton of Thanksgiving traditions. In fact, the only tradition seemed to be that we got together, which looking at it now seems like a good tradition to keep.

The Wrye Family Thanksgiving included getting up and going to both sets of grandparents. Some times we went to my mom's family first. Sometimes, my dad's. It just depended on when my mom's set decided to do something. My dad's side, aka my Grandma Wrye, always had dinner ready about 4 p.m., complete with setting off the smoke detector. Thanksgiving wasn't really Thanksgiving unless one of my tall, male relatives was reaching up to take the 9-volt out of the detector at some point. Never for anything big. Usually just some forgotten rolls. In the end, it was the BEST.

My mom's side, on the other hand, makes dinner for other people 363 other days a year as they own a restaurant. So my grandpa would insist that my grandma not cook a big meal. Sometimes she listened and we ate pizza. Sometimes she didn't and we had all the fixins. Toward the later years, my grandpa made sure my grandma didn't cook and made reservations for us to eat together. That was also awesome and the best. Again, the theme being that we actually got to see each other.

But as I got older and my time off was saved for the "big" holidays and people became more scattered, sometimes the only "Thanksgiving meal" I would get would be from the potluck at work (which is actually the smartest way to do it. Our office would pay for a precooked turkey and everyone brought in everything else. For the price of one dish (or bag of rolls if you were really lazy), you could get a full Thanksgiving meal.)

Now I'm fighting to keep Thanksgiving. It's hardly worth it to go all out for a full dinner for just the two of us
when I know the leftovers will never get eaten. So, I've picked my favorite carb and his and we'll dine on them. It will be delicious, if turkey-free. Maybe I'll get a pumpkin pie too. I love me some pumpkin pie. Or better yet, some Pumpkin Delight from The Pub (pumpkin cheesecake + pumpkin pie=heaven.)

What's your favorite Thanksgiving food?

A Week Ago. . . .

Naughty Auda and Me

In continuing with my shortened recount of where I was on my trip last week, I'll continue with last Monday. I got up at 6:36 EST. I only mention this because that equates to 3:36 PST. Which is kind of how my entire week went in some way or another. I ended up sleeping about 3 hours each night. Kind of explains why I started sneezing and being stuffed up last week and have spent all weekend sleeping and draining.

I got to Oakland City to visit my dad, took a tour of his campus and then headed off to see my grandma Wrye, aka Naughty Auda (which rhymes and is perhaps the most awesome nickname of all time, which makes sense because she's the most awesome lady of all time). We had a nice long visit. The only bummer of this trip was not getting to see my aunts and uncles on my dad's side. Since it was wedding on the Mom's side and I hadn't seen them in a LONG time, they got the visit. But it sucks having to miss people.

After seeing grandma, I met my dad at the Barnes and Noble, which used to be favorite jaunt of mine, and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian."

checked out the bargain books. Sadly because of suitcase space and the "it's cheaper on Kindle" rationale, I only really check out local authors and discount books at the chain bookstores. Independent bookstores are a whole different matter. Apparently Evansville doesn't read enough because I got three bargain books for less than $16 and was a happy camper. What didn't make me so happy was the FIVE bookshelves dedicated to "Teen Paranormal Romance" and "NEW Teen Paranormal Romance." I totally blame Stephenie Meyer. Damn, Twilight books have made all teen girls think that true love is only available with a vampire, zombie or werewolf. I might end up writing something in YA just to go against the grain. Although I'm not sure I can do it as well as Sherman Alexie's "

I totally want Hermione's wand.

But they did redeem themselves with this little beauty from Hermione. :)

Dad and I went to a movie ("Now You See Me"--not too shabby) and dinner (for Father's Day) and just had a nice night. ... so I could get up again the next morning for more visiting.

Annual Midwest-South Tour

Me, my cousin Holly and my aunts Mio
and Patty from one of my trips back
to Indiana. I love this picture.

I'm heading back to Nashville. . .and Evansville. . .and Princeton. . . and Indianapolis. . .and back to Nashville this week. It's my vacation! Or at least one vacation that I'm using to take my annual pilgrimage back to the land where I came from. My cousin is getting married tomorrow and I want to be there--plus I get to see a few other cousins and an aunt that I haven't seen in a long time. BONUS!

What's tough about these trips is fitting it all in. I fly in and out of Nashville because it's typically cheaper and easier than Indianapolis. I rent a car and the real fun begins. It's a little more than two hours from Nashville to Henderson, KY/ Evansville to see my family there. Then it's about 35 more minutes north to see my dad and the wedding location in the Princeton area. After that, I get up on Sunday morning to roll up to Indy to see MY GIRLS!!! No trip to the Indiana vicinity is really complete until I see my girls and start some trouble.

From there I go back to Evansville to see more family that I neglected on my first pass and then to Nashville for a little more than 30 hours of trouble with my friends down there. Then back to work next Thursday unless I collapse from exhaustion.

A blur. A whirlwind. A marathon. Whatever you call it, it's quick, packed and a load of fun.

It's still hard not to refer to my annual trips as trips home, but Chef corrected me a few years back. I did the same thing when going just from Nashville to Indiana. "Home isn't somewhere else that you visit," he had said. "It's where you live. And you live here." And he's right. Home is where I live, and I live in Los Angeles.

I look forward to going back each year and catching up, but it obviously also brings up so many memories. I'm lucky because the good ones outnumber the bad by a landslide.

While I was raised in Indiana, I like to think that I actually grew up in Nashville. And when I left, I sobbed like a baby in the moving van all the way to Memphis. Completely inconsolable. Chef felt horrible and asked me why it was so hard. "Nothing bad ever happened to me there," I said. It was a possible exaggeration, because I don't live a completely charmed life, but on the whole, only great things happened in Nashville.It was home.

Of course, almost three years later (CRAZY!!) I can say the same thing about Los Angeles. Maybe my life is somewhat charmed? I dare say, a semi-charmed life?

But I digress. It's time to return to the land where highway driving means that miles and minutes are virtually interchangeable when estimating drive times.

Lock up yo husbands. Lock up yo wives. I'm heading your way TODAY.

Flashback Friday: 1999

Thanks Natalie for digging this relic up.

It's hard to look at this picture. Mostly because I look at it and it's hard to believe. It's hard to believe this picture was taken 13 years ago. What the hell? Where did the time go?

It's hard to believe that I was that different looking. Fine, I'll be honest. It's hard to believe that I was that fat. The sad (or happy?) thing was that I got even fatter before I turned it around.

It's also hard to believe that at my height I thought I could pull of a floor length skirt for work wear.

But I digress. To give you some context, this picture was taken in Evansville (I'm guessing you deduced that but just in case) in 1999 in my second year of interning for the local paper, The Evansville Courier & Press. It was my first real look into having a real job (well, technically my second look since I had had the internship the year before and loved it). I realized at that point whether it was working for a newspaper or just working that I needed to be in the communications field. I wanted to write, talk to people, and tell stories. Also I realized that despite it being the second round of people that I was exposed to, I liked them just as much as the first. That was the first time it dawned on me that most people drawn to the communications or media field have fairly similar and congenial personalities. There are some exceptions, but all in all it seems to be true.

You know how people are always looking at themselves younger and say "If I knew then what I know now. . . " or "I wish I could tell my younger self. . .". I'm not sure I feel either way. I mean, I've seen enough time travel movies in my day (and I believe them to be almost like documentaries in their depiction of how time travel would work) to know that telling my younger self things about the future could derail me from the track I went on. And honestly, I like my life. Plus if I told myself that I was going to live in Nashville for almost a decade and then move to LA, I would've thought that future me was severe drug addict. Because I'd only been to Nashville twice in my life at that point--once to go to Opryland and once to go to a basketball tournament-both as a child--and I had never been to LA.

The one thing I would say to me in 1999 is this: Things are going to get really shitty for while and it's going to be really sudden, but it'll be okay. You'll be okay. Just do what you do because you're instincts aren't too shabby.

Hopefully me in 13 years will look back and say the same thing to 2012 me. Minus the shitty part.

Ready for a Vacation

It's not like I've been stressed by the new job since I've only been on it for 8 business days, but leaving the old job in a decent place and the stress of beginning a new place have left me craving my trip out of town. I can't wait to land in Nashville tomorrow and see all my old friends. As luck would have it, not one but TWO of my friends who live in other cities are going to be in town too, so BONUS visit.

And then to Indiana to see my family, who (and I can't really believe this), I haven't seen in over a year. How is that even possible? Oh, right. I live thousands of miles away now. Unfortunately my hubby is staying in the temperate climate of Southern California while I sweat my ass off in Tennessee and Indiana. But the distance will only make me miss him more until I get back.

24 hours from now, I'll be at dinner with friends. . . .

A New Career Adventure

It's bittersweet, but ultimately more sweet than bitter that I decided to leave my current job at SAGE after nearly 18 months. I will desperately miss my UK counterpart who held my hand through trying times and my team who work so hard each day.

I will not miss the commute.

In fact, my new position will cut more than 42 miles off my commute. One way. So about 84 miles a day. In LA traffic. Basically it will be like getting 2 hours and 30 minutes of time back each day. And thus allowing me to actually start living in LA. Making friends. Volunteering. Sleeping past 5 a.m. on a weekday. Staying up later than 10 p.m. That kind of thing.

What am I doing next? Great question. I am going to try a completely different atmosphere (yes. more different than LA) again. I'm going to work as an Account Supervisor in the LA office of  Porter Novelli, an international PR agency. I've never worked in an agency before but I've always wanted to try it and I've always been able to handle it thus far, so why not take the risk.

And because I'm still enamored with the ways of LA, I am SUPER excited that 1) my new job is about 3 miles from home and 2) the office is on Hollywood Blvd. Like THE Hollywood Blvd. You can walk out the front door of the building and be stepping on stars. The Oscars are held about a block away. So the side of me that is impressed with this kind of thing is excited.

So if you wonder where I've been the last month, the mystery is now over. I've been transitioning and as my mom used to tell me "Work as hard on the last day as you did on the first." It's a good mantra. I wanted to make sure my friends and colleagues are left in a good place.

Celebrating until I go into my new gig on Monday morning. Why no longer gap?

Because I'm heading to Nashville and Evansville in two weeks (also became officially official today)! Make plans to hook up with me, friends!

From Christmas Past: Oregon Street

For years when I lived in or around Evansville, I would make an annual pilgrimage to the best, tackiest, most over the top display of Christmas decorations that I have ever seen in person anywhere.

Growing up in Big Vin City of Sin (aka Vincennes, IN) I was accustomed to large Christmas displays. A local doctor had life-size moving exhibits of Santa in his workshop, checking his list, etc on his front lawn. The year I learned to read, I figured out that my brother's name (Matthew) was on Santa's list on one of the exhibits but mine wasn't. I cried. My dad called the guy and two nights later my name was on the list. The decorations are long gone, but the memory remains.

After that, I didn't think Christmas decorations could be topped. Until my friends Brooke and Lara introduced me to Oregon Street. This was YEARS before people really knew. We used to drive by late at night and a couple of times got to talk to the guy who did this every year. He started out with one home with a free lot and then the display grew so much he had to buy the house across the street to house the decorations. Of course, that also gave him another yard to decorate. He mentioned that people would just leave that year's latest decorations on his doorstep with notes of goodwill.

The girls and I loved this place. We even exchanged Christmas presents outside the display. In years when we were apart for Christmas, I would take the gifts they had sent to Oregon Street and open them there on my own. It just made my holiday brighter.

So in an effort to make your holiday brighter, and to give you a baseline of the type of Christmas extravagance I've come to expect out of life, here's a video done a few years ago and posted by the Evansville Courier & Press.

You're welcome.

Our Own Little Walk

I called my stepdad this morning and he and his special lady, Sara, were walking in the rain. It was the first year that I can remember that the Evansville Race for the Cure got rained on.

It was hard being here instead of there, but Chef and I had a great walk on the beach this morning. It was not sunny at all, but not too bad. A bad day on the beach is better than most any other day, right?  Here are some pictures and thoughts to go with them.

I wrote this and almost immediately it got washed away by a wave.
So this is take two.

There were so many surfers out this morning. I told Chef I wanted to try surfing.
 His response: "We'll sign you up for classes next spring."
 I think I really want to do it!

The beginning of our not quite 5K in honor of my mom.

A view from Santa Monica towards Venice beach.

I kept saying to Chef "Let's just walk to the next lifeguard station."
That only worked for so long.

Walking From a Distance

My mother gave me this picture in October of 1999. She had just done her first Race For The Cure event as a survivor.

"I'm the one in pink," she said with a smile. Then went on to talk about how nice the event was, how many people were there and how she liked walking with other survivors.

"Why didn't you call me?" I said from my campus apartment at IU. "I would've loved to have come down and walked with you."

"We'll walk together next year," she said.

My mom died in August of 2000. Just a few weeks before the next Komen walk. It was too hard to walk that first year. Too much anger. Why did all of those ladies get to parade in with their survivor pink hats on, but my mom couldn't?

But the next year, my stepdad and I did the walk. I even got to walk with my friend Amanda, her mom (who would also die far too young from cancer) and her sisters. And from that first walk, I've been back every year. Wherever I've been I've made an effort to get back to walk with Jack. We have others who join us for the route and they're always welcomed guests, but it's really our time together. Time to remember my mother, his wife, but also a time for me to remember how much my step dad means to me. He was so key in helping me keep my shit together at a time when I was trying not to fall completely apart.   He doesn't get Christmas or Father's Day or any other holiday for us alone, but the walk has always been our special day.

Except this year, I have to walk it from a distance. I knew it would probably catch up to me one of these days and this year's the year. I just couldn't get from California to Indiana to do it, but that doesn't mean I'm not doing it.

So tomorrow morning I'll be up with Chef at the Santa Monica beach walking our 5K at the same time that everyone in Evansville is doing their 5K. If you're at the walk, text me. Send me pictures. Walk in honor of my mom and everyone else whose lost the fight or is battling breast cancer.

Because you never know when there might not be a next year.

I Haven't Played Putt Putt in 11 Years

There is a difference between Putt Putt and Miniature golf. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but I know I haven't played either in 11 years today. You might think it's weird that I remember when the last time I played Putt Putt was, but it was a very surreal experience and I will never forget any moment of that day.

Eleven years ago today, my mother passed away. And because that has been one of the most life-changing events I've dealt with, I get to write about it. And because this is my blog, I get to be sentimental about it whenever I want. This is one of those days.

My mom's family, nearly all of it, lives within about an hour of the house we were living in at the time. And most that weren't close flew in to help Jack and I out towards the end of my mom's home stay. She had wanted to avoid hospitals and with a lack of full time hospice facility outside of a hospital in Evansville, that meant she was at home for the duration of her illness and death.

Our house that day was like many other days during this time. People were in and out. My brother and aunt were staying with us as the hospice nurse who checked mom's vitals told us for the 10th straight day that she only had 24 hours to live. This was the only day of the 10 that her prediction was right. My aunt had bought The Cake Mix Doctor cookbook and the great joy of it was that everyone in the house got to take turns picking that day's cake. I don't remember the cake on that day, but I do remember the best one we had was a orange dreamsicle cake that my brother had picked out.

My mom died while my aunt and I were on our daily ingredient and errand run. My brother was watching Star Wars in the family room and my step dad had been outside cutting the grass. It could've been a normal Tuesday in our lives, but it was clearly wasn't. Waiting for someone whose seriously ill to pass away is a blessing and a curse. Every day you get to say things that are meaningful to the person, whether they can hear you or not, and you get to think that you're preparing for their death. But in reality there's a whole slew of things that happen, decisions that have to be made, after someone dies that no amount of waiting or dreamsicle cake can cure.

After the funeral home came to pick up her body, the door bell rang. My uncle Mark and my cousin Austin had dropped by as they were going to visit. Sadly, instead of visiting, my uncle got the pleasure of taking me and my brother to play Putt Putt. They had promised my 5 year old cousin that if they went to Evansville they would take him to play and because there seemed like no better option, my brother and I tagged along.

I remember wondering if the people at Putt Putt could tell that I was sad. If they knew that the world had just lost one of its biggest advocates for living. I wanted to be treated special. I expected the world to know why I was pissed. But it didn't. It just wanted to fit in a round of putt putt golf on a hot Tuesday night before school started back again.

My cousin's 16 now and I wonder what he thought of that night. I haven't asked him so I have no clue. Does he remember us playing putt putt together? Did he have any clue what had gone on?

For the record, I'm not anti-Putt Putt or miniature golf at all. I'm totally willing to hit the mini-links once again. I just hope the next round is utterly forgettable.

Visiting Both My Homes

Last week I got to go home. . . to both of them, well, all three of them if you include my current home. I took a flight to Nashville and spent some time with my friends there. On my first night east of the Mississippi River in a while, I had dinner with some of my co-workers. It was so great to be among friends again. Not only that, but they were so sweet and threw me an impromptu bridal shower. Mostly it was just the opportunity to hang out with people who knew and liked me and whose lives I feel like I'll always be a part of or at the very least interested in.

The next day I got to hang out with my friend Greg and hit two of the places that I miss most in Nashville: Signature Nails and The Patterson House. I got a fantastic pedicure with a complimentary drink, a great foot massage and wonderful service. There are tons of nail places in LA, but I have yet to find the one that has all of those qualities. And the Patterson House. I think I've waxed poetic about the place and its drinks enough. It was the one place I visited last week that made Chef jealous. And the big bonus was that I got to have great conversations with Greg, which made me miss him even more.

The next day I went further north and saw my Uncle Ric and Aunt Deb, Grandma and my Aunt Mio. We had some damn good barbecue, which, along with quality pizza, is something I've yet to discover in LA. People don't just use smokers like they do down south. The history of barbecue isn't there. Then I visited my dad at his work, which was nice because it's always kind of cool to see friends and family members in their career element. Then I visited my Uncle Jeff and my other grandma, who didn't recognize me with the new hair and then when she did, she repeatedly told me how much she didn't like it. I also got to visit my mom's cousin and a family friend before heading off to New Harmony for the night.

Once in New Harmony, Robin and I went to dinner and then rolled around the city via golf cart. We picked out a location for the wedding reception next year (yay!) and then she showed me the coolest thing ever. We went down a dark path into the woods near the river and were surrounded by thousands of lightning bugs. It was like being in the middle of a twinkly light Christmas tree and looking out.

The next morning I had breakfast with Dad and Robin, took a tour of New Harmony and dad's office there, then headed to Evansville to hang out with Jack. We did lunch, then chatted and made muffins. Actually that's not a typo and I didn't make the muffins at all unless you count cheering him on from the sidelines. Did drinks and dinner with the Dicuses and Aunt Mio. Made tons more memories and was in bed at a decent hour to get up and in a car by 5:30 to catch my flight to New Orleans.

All in all, it was a packed but very much worth it trip to my previous two home states. I saw just about as many people as I could in the time allotted. Now I can't wait for them to come out West to enjoy some sunshine and the ability to be warm without being surrounded by air you can feel moisture in immediately.

When I Was Fearless

When Chef and I were swimming the other night, I relayed to him a story from my childhood. I don't exactly remember how we got on it, but it was a story about a trip I took with my mom (and probably some other kids too, my brother I'm sure, I just don't remember who else was there) to Kramer's Lake. Kramer's lake was clearly a body of water, as the name implies, but also included some water slides and big trapeze, as well.

I think I was about 10 years old and all I wanted to do was swing out on that trapeze. Fly through the air and land in the water below. I'm not sure if my mom told me specifically not to do it or if she just communicated that with her eyes and demeanor. Either way, I ignored it.

So picture me as a not yet five foot girl, standing on top of a large trapeze that was on an elevated platform and landed in waters, the depths of which were unknown (at least to me). We had a pool, so I was a pretty good swimmer. None of this seemed to matter more than the thrill of the swing and release. I had to stretch my little toes as far off the platform as I could to grab the trapeze bar. I had just laid my fingertips on top of it when I heard a familiar voice yelling in the distance. I can see her now in a colorful, yet sensible one-piece bathing suit, her shoulder length hair pulled back in a pony tail, and large sunglasses (before they were really fashionable). Her arms were waving and she was yelling "DON'T GO! DON'T GO!".

The "lifeguard" who was watching the lake was distracted by the woman who was walking as fast as she could through thigh-high lake water to get to me. I used the distraction to my advantage and swung off the platform, letting go at the crest of my pendulum swing. I landed with a thud in the water and swam--albeit slowly--to my mother. At that point, I figured the lecture was probably going to be the same if I had gone or just prepared to go. The embarrassment of being called out in front of all of these older kids was more painful than any landing I could've taken, so I let 'er fly.

"You're too short." "You're too young." "We don't know how deep that water is." All were reasons that mom said made the trapeze too dangerous for me, but okay for my 13 year old brother. None of them really mattered, because I had already gotten what I wanted. A moment to disobey and FLY!

When I told the story to Chef, I said "That was back when I was young. And fearless."

Since then I've decided it's time to get a little more fearless again. We'll see what that ends up meaning.

I Have to Admit

This is going to be one of my confession blog posts, but before you get all excited, you must remember that I'm not all that scandalous. But here are things I must admit:

• The commute is getting to me. At least this week. There's something about leaving the office at 5 and getting home by 5:30--not 6:30--that's appealing. Maybe I just need some good new music or books to listen to. Suggest away!
• I'm not writing as much as I should be. I used to get up early to work out and then write, but I don't have time for both now and I refuse to get up earlier than the 5 a.m. that I'm already waking up at. So unfortunately, the writing has taken the hit.
• I miss the South. It was instantly warm (although not entirely genuine) and had tons of polite people who took me under their wing. Some of those wings I wrestled out of, but it was nice to have people that care that much.
• I don't miss the frequent and often inappropriate mixing of business and religion that was common in the south. It made me uncomfortable. It also made my non-Christian friends uncomfortable.
• Me not being into weddings or wedding planning has nothing to do with Chef and everything to do with the fact that my mom's not here to do it with me. There are lots of great people who ARE here to help me and I appreciate them, but her absence is still felt. I know if we ever choose to have a child, that's going to be much worse.
• I miss being around women who know football.
• I have a shoe addiction. But that's a different post for a different day.
• I think Mark Wahlberg is a pretty good actor that has made me laugh on numerous occasions. I'm a peacock. You gotta let me fly.
• I'm about ready for a trip to Nashville then Evansville. One will be planned in next couple of months to see both.
• I can't look at Jenny McCarthy without thinking she's bat shit crazy, no matter how much money she raises for autism.
• I only eat 370 carefully measured calories every day for lunch so that I can splurge on dinner. And then I get pissed when Chef talks me out of dessert.
• I don't think I'm as good a friend as I used to be.
• I haven't tried really hard to find friends in LA.

Those are my confessions for now. Add any you want to call me out or just want to add one of your own.

Stromboli, Banana Fritters and the Dirt Diaper

All of the above items were available to eat this past weekend at the West Side Nut Club Fall Festival (aka the Fall Festival) in Evansville. I went home this weekend to see my best friends and we met up at the Fall Fest for old time's sake. I honestly hadn't been in more than a decade. It's a big deal in Evansville. Like a huge event with about 1/2 mile of trailers all offering disgustingly named, but deliciously tasting, items of food. It would probably be fair estimate that about 75% of the food items offered are fried.

We decided to divide and conquer for the most part so that we didn't end up getting sick like so many others. It's pretty easy to go from a good time to the vomiting with just one wrong calculation of fritters. I actually ate all or some of the following items: Chicken and Dumplings, corn fritters, Stromboli, fried macaroni & cheese, lemon shake-up, and banana fritters. It sounds like a lot, but that's actually not too bad. The only huge disappointment was the weak, microwaved Stromboli by the Young Democrats booth.

While those are some of the less weird items, there were a few items that were new (or oldies but goodies) that those not from Evansville find odd. Here's a few:

• Brain Sandwich (a LONG time festival favorite)
• Fried Oreos & Fried Twinkies
• Dirty Diaper (a pumpkin turnover)
• Pigeon Poop (I have no idea, but calling things something related to excrement tends to be a festival tradition)
• Gumbo, shrimp and other seafood (it's best to avoid as Indiana is a land locked state)
• Pronto Pups (similar to a corn dog, but not corn related at all)
• Orange Shake-ups
• Homemade potato chips
• Cheeseburgers
• Kuchen
• Fudge
• Yoohoo Shakes
• And more. . . .

While the food was pretty good--actually probably better than I remember--it was more awesome to spend time with my girls. We hung out all day and then headed back home on Sunday. I was also lucky enough to squeeze a quick visit in with my dad and my mom's side of the family.

The only think that sucks about the trip was the mold. There's a mold in southern Indiana that makes me miserable if I end up spending more than 24 hours in the area. I'm now still taking Claritin D and sounding like a congested crazy person. In fact, it's been three days now, so I'm beginning to wonder if I'm actually not only fighting allergies but also sickness. I have gone to bed at about 8:30 the last two nights.

No matter what if I had to do it again, I would gladly do it to see my friends and family.

Coming To The Jesus Phone

Chef and I had a come to jesus moment this week. Although instead of it being Christ, Jesus was in the form of the iPhone. AKA the Jesus Phone.

It all started about two weeks ago in Fort Walton Beach, FL. We were there for a brief stop as Patrick's Grammie had passed away. I have to take a moment and say how truly awesome Grammie was. She literally opened her arms to me the first time I walked through the door and was one of the best pen pals I ever had. I also know she was a fantastic mother and grandmother that is sorely missed.

Anyway, while in Florida my work cell started freaking out on me. . . again. So I was relying on my personal cell phone which was literally the smallest, cheapest flip phone Verizon had to offer. I still contend that no one was meant to text 26 letters with the use of only 9 keys. It's against nature. It also made the texting experience suck and I began to realize just how useless my personal cell was.

The trouble with the work cell continued and finally culminated in the cell phone crashing while I was in Evansville this past weekend for the annual Komen Walk. It was a great day where I got to see some of my cousins and aunts, and of course had a very memorable day with my stepdad Jack and his fiance Sara. It's always a great experience and would've been perfect except that literally all my contacts, email and other relevant information was gone from my work cell. It's super awkard when someone texts you and you don't have any contacts so you know it's from Indiana and you assume it's a family member, but really you're flying in the dark.

So after two days with a personal phone that didn't work and a work cell that was going nuts for the 5th time, I decided that I couldn't wait 6 more months to upgrade my phone. Chef did the research and it was easy enough for us to switch over to AT&T (who thankfully have dropped Luke Wilson as their spokesperson--at least for now) and get iPhones. We both really hate lining Steve Jobs's pockets, but really like being able to communicate without punching 100 keys to spell two words.

So, two weeks and we've had two trips to our hometowns--both in remembrance of someone. And iPhones. Now you're caught up.

I run for myself, I walk for my breasticles

Last night I went for a run at 9 p.m. after a nice Greek dinner with my stepdad and his girlfriend. I realized at that time that I was running for myself. It felt good. I also realized that while it took several years for the message to sink in, I work at the American Heart Association for myself. It's my own health that I'm trying to inspire and support and that selfishly hearing so many people's stories are my own daily affirmations to keep going.

However, this morning I did something for my boobs. Well, not just my boobs, but everyone's boobs and mostly in memory of my mother. Some of you don't know that I lost my mother to breast cancer nine years ago when she was only 52. Every year my stepdad and I get together and walk the 5K in my hometown in Indiana in her honor. I pin on the neon pink "I Race in Memory Of" card where I've scrawled "My Mom- Terri Winternheimer."

The first year was awful. I couldn't even turn around without seeing someone I knew and I luckily had friends and family that helped me through it (Shout out to Manders and her family for helping me keep it together--also a pleasant memory of Jill Hoffman who sadly also passed away way too young from cancer).

This morning was better. Nine years and a little more hometown anonymity made things earier. While I listened with great intent, I couldn't let myself get too attached. I still have some anger that cancer got the best of my mom because few things did. I listened as the racers rejoiced with the 909 area survivors and thought "I wish there were 910." I don't know if I'll ever get over it. But what was also nice was that just before we crossed the finish line, a woman tapped me on my shoulder and said "I knew your mom. She was a great lady who's missed." It was a random act, but it touched me a lot.

It makes me wonder as I prepare for the Nashville Heart Walk next weekend how many of our walkers will reach out to each other and share a memory. While I'm deeply touched by the Komen Walk, there's nothing that has made my heart stop faster than seeing one and two year old child heart survivors. And so in the end, while I lace up my sneakers and run every day for my heart and for me, I'm glad that I took some time to walk for my breasticles. And I encourage everyone to find a cause they care for to experience a walk because if anything else, it lets you know that you aren't alone.