Can't Fit into My Mommy Genes

Month: January, 2012

Princesses Always Keep Their Clothes On

This past weekend we babysat our niece and nephew.  It was a last minute deal, so I had little notice before having to spring into action.  I may or may not have been 1.5 martinis deep before realizing I had to not be typsy anymore.  You could say it was a team effort.  Anna took the early morning shift (due to the martinis), I took the shift when Anna couldn’t be there, and then Terry took the shift when neither Anna or I couldn’t be there.  It just so happened that Anna and I both couldn’t be there for about 5 hours on Saturday.  So we left some instructions for him on a post it, and we were out the door.

About two hours into his shift, I called to check in.  I could tell he was frustrated that Lucy didn’t want to watch 5 straight hours of Baby Einstein.  He said everything was going “well”, and then my mother beeped in.  He didn’t even tell me bye.

I called back about an hour later, and all I hear is “Lucy, Princesses always keep their clothes on.  That’s right, a princess never takes off all of her clothes.”  Then he says “Molly.  She just peed on the couch.  I have to go”

Needless to say, I was shamefully cracking up.  Not just at the situation, but at how Terry always manages to make a funny situation even funnier.

Super Uncle manages to get all of kids loaded into their car seats, dressed, changed, and fed and brings them into the city to meet Anna and me.   While en route he calls me.  Anna is on the phone in the car, so it is kind of difficult to hear him.  We lose connection, and then he calls back.  I answer and all I hear is this tiny child’s voice that says “hello”.  I realize it is Lucy calling me from Terry’s phone, and I’m mildly concerned.  We start chatting, and then she says “Lucy fell down the stairs!”.

What.  Now I’m more than mildly concerned.  I can’t be sure that I heard her correctly with Anna still talking on the phone also, so I decide not to panic just yet.  Minutes later we meet at our house, consolidate into Terry’s car and head to Maggie’s family residence.   Terry asks me if I can drive and to bring him a pack of Nicorette.  This being my first time to drive with children in the back seat, I was focused on staying focused.  But I still managed to side eye Terry and ask how Lucy fell down the stairs.  His reply?

“NO SHE DIDN’T!!!”  He explained she missed just one step, but that she keeps saying she fell all the way down.  Can’t wait to explain that to her parents.

Once we are all together, we are all marveling at Terry’s job well done.  Besides Stairgate 2012, and the costume ballerina tutu she was wearing (backwards), Terry managed to pull it all off without a hitch.  Maggie, Anna, and I are telling him how great he did when he gets to talking.  He mentions he left Lucy upstairs while he went to put the car seats in. UPSTAIRS.  Apparently she asked him not to leave him, and he said he wouldn’t.  He told her to go get dressed while he did “something”.  She catches him just as he is about to walk out the door with a sad expression saying “you said you wouldn’t leave!”  He then says “I know this looks bad.  I promise I’m not actually leaving” and then tells her again to go upstairs and get dressed.

Did I mention Terry is a certified mediator in the state of Texas?

Doesn’t do a whole lot of good when it comes to three year olds.

We told him she probably did fall down the stairs, and he doesn’t even know since she was all ALONE.  Given this was her first time to dress herself EVER, we hope she was too distracted with that to attempt the stairs.  All kidding aside, I really think Terry did a great job.   I also think it is a big compliment to Lucy that he thought she was so capable of taking care of herself.

For the remainder of the evening sanity is restored for Terry, and he is happy munching on his Nicorette.

The next morning the girls are taking care of the kids while Drew and Terry run to get breakfast.  When they get back, Drew gets held up chatting with the neighbor.  We are all patiently waiting to eat our breakfast sandwiches when Lucy asks where her breakfast is.  Apparently, they really didn’t get her anything since she ate earlier.  But who tells a three year old they don’t get any food?

Terry does.

He tells her she doesn’t get one.  Of course he is just teasing her, but she bursts into tears.  I have to turn around because I’m cracking up.  Drew saves the day with part of a bagel and nutella.  Then he asks her if she wants some chocolate milk.  Lucy breaks out a huge grin and asks if he can stir it like her Uncle T does.  Drew gives Terry a curious look.  Apparently Terry let Lucy have four chocolate milks the day before stirring each of them with the espresso foamer.

It wasn’t until the ride home on Sunday that we found out Terry had never really babysat before.


The Year of the Dragon

Happy Belated Chinese New Year!

I was swept up in other things on January 23, so I’m getting around to celebrating today. Red envelopes for everyone! Let’s all pretend celebrating late is a feng shui way to bring good luck to your life or whatever.

2012 is going to be the year of the Dragon. Specifically, the Water Dragon. I can’t really say that I believe in these horoscopes, but I do think they are fun. My mom was looking into it on Monday, and she noticed that we were both born in the year of the Pig. Awesome. That explains the low metabolism.

I will say it is fun to both be born in the same Zodiac year. I got to researching, and this is what it means to be a Pig:

Occupying the last position in the Chinese Zodiac, the 12th, the Pig symbolizes such character traits as diligence, compassion, and generosity. Pigs enjoy life and because they are entertaining, others enjoy their company. Pigs are giving souls and reap much enjoyment when they’re helping others, but sometimes they give too much. Honesty is what Pigs give and it’s what they expect to receive in return. Pigs seek peace and will do what is necessary to maintain it. This trait, while admirable, sometimes makes it easy for others to take advantage of Pigs. Pigs are always doing for others, helping anyway they can, but rarely will they ask others for help. This can overwhelm and stress them, but Pigs don’t mind. When it comes to money, Pigs enjoy spending more than saving. They gravitate towards name brand items. Thriftiness happens only occasionally, but Pigs do know how to find great deals.

Ask Terry about that whole “not asking for help” bit. I’m sure he would disagree. However, they are spot on when it comes to gravitating to brand names and my love of all things entertaining. Because my mom and I both share the Pig Zodiac, it made me kind of want to share it with my child also. Three generations of selfless brand loving hostesses? Sign me up!

After further research, I was disappointed to realize there isn’t another Pig year until 2019. Unless I have fertility issues, I really don’t want to wait until 2019 to have children. So the three generation pig dream dies. That’s ok, surely there is something cooler to be born into.

Turns out there isn’t. 2013 is the year of the Snake. EW!!!!!!! Why? Why can’t it be the year of the Unicorn or something sweet like that? Here is what the internet says about the year of the Snake:

Water Snake – Years 1953 and 2013

Influential, motivated, insightful, and highly intellectual are words that best characterize Water Snakes. These Snakes work well with others and enjoy being recognized and rewarded. They’ll reveal feelings to those closest to them, but no one else. The Snake is compatible with a Rooster and an Ox and incompatible with a Pig and a Monkey.

Incompatible with the Pig??? Guess I’m not going to be privy to my childs deepest darkest secrets. Wasn’t planning on that anyways. Terry is the year of the Dog, so maybe he can squeeze it out of them.

I hope this doesn’t foreshadow a nasty pregnancy! I need a fortune cookie stat.

A New Routine

Since I’ve started my new job, I’ve become increasingly more relaxed in my morning routine.  Most people don’t show up at my office until 9:30-noon, so there really isn’t a point in getting there early, right?  Right.

In the olden days, I used to have to be at work by 8:30.  They were not pleased when I was late, so I would typically wake up at 5:30 to hit the gym, and then scramble around like a crazy person to be out the door by 8:10.   About twice a week, I would fail and make it in by 9am.  I can’t predict when my dog is going to throw up, y’all.   Needless to say, I was always frazzled and would chance death by speeding to work every morning.

When I started this job, I pretty much kept to the same routine.  I have a little farther to drive now, but I was still making it in by 8:30 or 9.

Then one morning, I woke up and let Louis out (Terry’s normal job, but he is handy-capable right now), and decided I wasn’t ready to get ready.  So I climbed back into bed and watched 30 minutes of Good Morning America.   And I was so happy.  I never meant for it to happen that way, but once it did there was no turning back.  Pretty much how most epic things happen in my life.

Now I find myself morning after morning waking up, taking Louis out, coming back upstairs to pee (trust me it is worth it to let him go first), and then jumping right back into bed to watch GMA until Lara Spencer tells me all of the pop news.  Then I proceed to get ready, make lunch, sometimes prep for dinner, feed the menagerie, and then head to work.  I make it in by 9:30 or 10, and I’m still one of the first people there.  Pretty great, right?

Instead of the frantic mess I used to be, I am educated on current events and totally relaxed.  If only I could keep this up forever.  I realize I have it pretty good, so I won’t abuse the system and stay to watch Live with Kelly.  That is probably pushing the envelope a little too far.   OK maybe I will when I’m pregnant.  Somehow I feel like I can get away with more then.  Well, not the whole Louis peeing first bit.

See Spot Scare

This weekend we celebrated my niece, Lucy’s, third birthday.  She had the cutest crayon themed party compliments of her former event planner mother, Maggie.  If I am ever capable of throwing a party with name cards for all of the food that coordinate with the theme, then I can die a happy woman.

I purchased Lucy’s present probably 2 years ago.  Before you think I’m just that organized, let me assure you that I’m not and that it was purely random.  You see, I happened to be in Pottery Barn Kids one day to purchase a gift for a baby shower.   They had all of these life size stuffed dogs on sale!  I could barely focus on the fitted crib sheet I was supposed to tracking down.  After much deliberating, I decided to buy the giant dalmatian sitting on the counter at the last minute.   At this point, I wasn’t sure who I was buying it for – I just knew I needed it in my life.

En route to the shower, I realized I couldn’t keep a giant stuffed animal in my home.  Although I really wanted to.  I was obsessed with giant stuff animals as a child, and apparently I haven’t really gotten over that.  I’m just about to decide to take this silly impulse buy back, when the lightbulb went off – Lucy!  She would totally get more use out of it.   Except for one small problem.  At this point, Lucy could barely walk and was grossly outsized by the dalmatian.  I decided to wait until it was an appropriate gift.  That way I could share ownership of the puppy for a little longer.  Everybody wins.

What does one twenty-something year old do with a giant life size dalmatian for two years, you might ask?  She plays jokes on her husband.  That’s what.

The weekend of the puppy purchase, Terry was out of town on a hunting trip.  He was supposed to return home at 6AM Sunday morning because he was taking a friend to the airport.  I knew he would be tired and hungover, so I left the puppy at the top of the stairs.

At approximately  6:13AM, a loud (and ever so masculine) scream wakes me.


These antics go back and forth over the last two years as Terry and I both try to scare the bagegous out of each other.  I have to admit, I was kind of sad to let the dog go.   I’m sure Lucy will let me borrow it should the occasion to prank Terry arise again in the future.


I’m not going to divulge too much about my cooking skills because that really isn’t the point of this blog.  I would like the record to reflect that I can cook, I do so frequently (mainly because it is cheaper and doesn’t hurt my stomach), and I enjoy it.

I obviously don’t know much about children or what they eat.  I do know from watching Maggie and the kids that it isn’t always that easy to nourish your child.  One can assume that easy/healthy recipes are the most in demand as a mother, but I think that goes for everyone, right?   Who doesn’t love something quick and easy that tastes good and is good for you?  I’m all about getting as many of those recipes as possible.  When Terry and I retire, then I can focus on the fancy stuff.

Enter muffin recipe that I just received via my mom via Cooking Light.  This recipe is so easy and is perfect for when you are looking to use up some old bananas.   I don’t really have the attention span to photograph professional grade pictures of my cooking steps, so just use your imagination.

I changed a few things based on what I did and didn’t have, and they ended up tasting really good.  See below:

1 cup whole wheat flour 1/2 cup white flour  (I used all white flour because I didn’t realize I was out of wheat until last night)

1 cup oats

3/4 cup brown sugar

1 T wheat bran (I used oat bran.  Pam says there is a difference)

2 teas baking soda

1/4 teas salt (I used fancy sea salt, just to say I did)

1 cup plain fat-free yogurt (I used 1/2 cup Fage Total 0% and 1/2 cup light sour cream)

1 cup mashed banana (I just used two really ripe bananas that I had refrigerated for a week.  I was skeptical, but all turned out well)

1 cup chopped dates (I used these unsweetened natural cranberries from Whole Foods that Anna had left at my house)

3/4 cup chopped walnuts (I used 1/4 cup sliced almonds)

1/2 cup dried chopped pineapple (I used 2 T of coconut and then shredded up a carrot)

3 T. flax seeds (I used ground)


Mix everything together in one bowl.  Be careful not to overstir.  I’m not sure why, that is just what my mom told me in ALL CAPS.

Bake @ 375 for 18 -22 minutes.  DON’T OVERBAKE…TEST THEM AT 18 MIN, then decide if you need to bake them more (more verbatim directions from my mom).  I made 24 muffins instead of 18, so I only needed to bake for 15 minutes.  Since they were smaller, I calculated them to be 100 calories a pop.  Perfect.  I like eating more things for the same amount of calories.  I’m already looking forward to having them again for breakfast tomorrow.  They go well with my 8 oz cup of coffee.



Don’t Get Your Panties in a Wad. Just Throw a Party

Last night I was on the phone with my mother.  I called just to tell her one thing, so I made Terry pause American Idol for just a second.  Twenty minutes later, Terry is happily reading TexAgs, while I’m in a debate with my mom.  Jennifer Lopez is frozen on the screen.  Louis is confused.

Our conversation was about nothing too dramatic, Pam was just shutting down my effort to purposefully orchestrate the greatest love story ever.

You see, most of my friends are single.  I feel at times like I’m the only person married at my age, and on top of that – absolutely none of my single friends are even in long-term relationships.  Terry and I have pretty much exhausted both circles of friends looking for matches, so now that everyone knows each other, we are just one big happy group of single people who know Molly and Terry.  I see my friends going out on date after date, some good and some bad.  In an effort to help, I find I’m constantly looking for dates for them too.  To the point of embarrassingly checking for wedding rings, when I myself have one.  I always get a confused but intrigued glance when they pick up on what I’m doing.  ew.  At least it helps me weed out the bad ones.

Moving on.  I recently have expanded our little group of friends by two.  One boy and one girl.  At last!  Two who haven’t yet met!  At the suggestion of another friend, I decided to host a Superbowl watching party to get these two love birds off to happily ever after.  The only problem is, I wanted to keep the party segregated so as not to ruin their chances of those specific two falling for each other.

What? It’s not like the fact I’m a control freak is news to you people.  I’m severely type A and like to make things happen.  You can stop shaking your head at me now.

Pam of course jumped in when she saw my plan unfold.  She being a veteran of such ridiculous match making experiments, was very against the idea.  She told me I had to invite everyone I normally would invite, and that I can’t predict who will be interested in who.  She instructed to keep my mouth shut and just go on about the party like it was a normal everyday Superbowl party.  When I gave a weak rebuttal, she closed with “Don’t get your panties in wad.  Just throw a party”.

To which I said, “You know that will be the subject of my post tomorrow”.

That’ll teach her.  🙂

Despite my mom’s honey badger approach to life, she is right.  I can’t control who likes who more than I can control Louis from eating every blanket and sock in the house.   This love game tactic only worked in middle school and high school because it was all just a game of strategic succession to popularity.  Now that the game has changed, I’m just going to have to sit back and watch what happens.  And get my grandmother’s dining room table (that I recently acquired) refinished stat.  I can at least control the cuteness of my home.



ANH Style

One of my good friends from college is making a comeback to the blog world. Please take a minute to look at her fashion forward blog which is sure to be infused with good stories and great humor.

I will be spending a lot of time reading my favorite blogs this week, as I have been instructed to not participate in any physical activity for the next 5 days. 😦 I was lucky enough to meet up with my brother’s friend from medical school last night (who just happens to be the nicest orthopedic surgeon in the world) for the prognosis. My ankles have really been bothering me for a few weeks now, and it had reached the point where Anna told me I had no business trying to hobble my way through our long distance runs. Two types of tendonitis and a case of plantar fasciitis later, I guess she was maybe right.

The good doctor said in most cases this only happens in just one foot, so he would normally just “boot it” (read: heinous black ankle cast) for stability until it heals. Since I have it in both feet, he said that he didn’t think two boots would work. I told him we couldn’t have three ankle boots under one roof. There are just some things I can’t and won’t do out of sheer vanity.

I came home and told Terry this joke, which he of course rolls his eyes to. He thinks my ankle pain is trivial compared to his. Maybe so. I think he secretly likes being the only cast wearer in the family. Mainly because it means I have to be the one to let Louis out in the morning now.

Don’t Let That Stop You…

Yesterday I paid a visit to my stomach doctor for an annual give me my prescription, happy new year, thanks and good day check up. At least that is what I thought I signed up for.

After waiting TWO HOURS in the waiting room and another 30 minutes in the exam room, we finally meet.

You should know that I mistakenly scheduled this appointment on a very important day at work. Being gone for 3.5 hours, really wasn’t a cool thing to do. So not only am I a ball of stress when he sees me, I”m also very hungry and my stomach is burning because I’m out of medicine. Thus, why I actually waited 2.5 hours to see the magic doctor.

He tells me a bunch of things I already know, but don’t want to hear. Then he aggressively tells me I need to clean up my diet. Imagine this huge man with a heavy Turkish accent telling you while poking your stomach to abstain (not limit) from the following products:

  • Fatty/fried foods
  • Soft drinks
  • Chocolate (WTF)
  • Coffee
  • Tea
  • Alcohol

So basically he just told me my life was over.

We went back and forth and I got him down to 8 oz of coffee in the morning. Lucky me.

Then I asked him about the medicine I’m taking and whether it is ok to take while pregnant.

He pauses and then says thoughtfully “I am ok with you getting pregnant”.

Like it was maybe not an option?!! This is news to me!

He proceeds to tell me that I will probably have an incredibly painful pregnancy experience since my stomach parts are incredibly sensitive. I can still take the medicine, but it probably won’t be as effective, and then I quit listening for about 3 minutes. I’ll be honest, I was thinking of who I could con into being my surrogate. Any volunteers?!

His little PA bounces in to help me with the prescription and says “don’t let this stop you from having children” and then all this other “children are the most beautiful things” BS.

I am getting really good at my blank bitchy stare. I dish her up two helpings of it.

I left feeling kind of like I had just been crapped on. My mom made me feel a little better by telling me pregnancy was just plain uncomfortable in general. I honestly thought it was only uncomfortable at the end, so I guess this is good information to have at the forefront.

Thus, I’m going to do my very best to change my diet before this fall. I’m going to try to follow his ridiculous rules and hopefully get my stomach ready for baby making.

Well, once I finish the box of wine I bought over the weekend. Don’t judge. It isn’t like it is Franzia or something. Only high class here.

Here She Comes, Miss America

This weekend is the 91st Miss America pageant.  For me, this weekend is my Super Bowl, my World Series, my Wimbledon, my Masters, and my Stanley Cup all rolled into one big event.  It represents everything good and holy in this world, and I am obsessed with every last minute of the pageantry.  I think the Royal Wedding is probably the only event that I held in more esteem.

I like to really immerse myself into the event and will  typically try to host, (or make others host) viewing parties.  This year is going to be a little more casual than years past (I’ve been known to change from bikinis to formals, just as the contestants do).  Maggie, Anna, and I are all planning to run 6 miles together (talent portion) in Katy, and then we are going to eat dinner while obsessively sizing up the 50 contestants.  Terry is coming too.  He just doesn’t know the whole plan yet.  He just thinks he’s babysitting and getting a little dinner out of the gig.  Let’s just consider this payback for all those bowl games.  Kidding.  He knew what he was in for when he met me and I had a cat named Miss America.

I haven’t picked a front-runner this year, although I’m partial to Miss South Carolina since she lost 100 pounds or whatever.  It just makes for a great story, doesn’t it?  I really only care about one thing:  that a Southern girl wins.  Why you ask?  Because they care more.  They were bred for this very role, and they have spent their entire lives understanding it’s importance and prestige.  You can’t tell me that Miss Maine grew up watching every single pageant possible, meeting with voice/interview coaches, and learning a specifically difficult and unusual talent, just so that she could one day have the necessary skills to compete in pageants.  No, she  read about it on a campus flyer and is just trying to get a scholarship to an Ivy.   She probably learned her dance number in 6 weeks.

All regional opinions aside, I think every mom of a little girl is faced with the question of “Do I let her do pageants?”  In reality, they can send a wrong message to a little girl.  Pageants can culture eating disorders and the idea that you can make it on looks alone.  On the other hand, they teach poise, great posture, amazing interviewing skills, and self confidence.  You have to be smart to answer those questions in front of the whole world, and you can’t make it without a significant talent of some sort.  It also teaches the importance of competing in life, which some women don’t have an opportunity to do if they aren’t athletic.

There is obviously no right answer, you just have to do what you think is best.  I do know one thing though.  Please keep doing them, because I hope to be watching and critiquing with my daughter one day.  It is something that every girl and her mother should share.  Otherwise we are forced to just talk about our friends. hahah kidding.

San Diego, It’s Spanish For…

The third day of our trip (see previous posts) we flew to San Diego for a friend’s wedding.  We landed around 11AM, and Terry had already had 2.5 cocktails on the plane.  Yes, we were judged by the person in the row with us.  What he didn’t know was that my boss gave us drink tickets that he wasn’t going to use by January 31,2012, so we felt obligated to make sure they weren’t wasted.   We were really doing a good deed by ordering those drinks.  When I ordered a mimosa, the flight attendant says “who do you think we are, Virgin Airlines?”  I gave her the blank stare that I gave the Trolley Tramp in San Francisco.  I didn’t think champagne was a rare luxury on airplanes, but apparently it is.  So we ended up with three vodka sodas that were so strong, I could barely choke mine down.  Thus, why Terry had 2.5 drinks and not 3.

The hotel where everyone was staying was mere minutes from the airport.  Once we pulled up, we were greeted by some friends who filled us in on the plans for lunch.  Terry was so excited to see everyone (and drunk) that he almost forgot to pay the cabbie, and it was all I could do to get us checked into the right hotel room.  I am pretty sure the girl at the front desk of the Marriott Courtyard, Liberty Station thinks we had some weird swinging action going on.  I was only joking when I asked for adjoining rooms.

Then said friends graciously took us with them in their blue Ford Mustang rental to lunch.  It’s no Bentley, but we still felt pretty cool driving around in it.  Lunch was a total blast.  There was only one other girl there, so we knew immediately to stick together.  It was us versus the boys, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.  After rounding out our bottomless mimosas (they brought the champagne bottles to the table, y’all) with a shot of root beer and jagermeister (vom), she and I decided it was best to head back to the hotel to get ready for the wedding.  Because we all know there is nothing worse than applying eyeliner drunk, only to see pictures of yourself later.

The boys promised they would be right behind us.

Of course that didn’t happen.

I’ve begun to mass text Terry and his friends to make sure they get back NOW.  The only replies I get our “it’s not our fault”.  WTF.  As, I’m blow drying my hair, (the last step of my getting ready process) Terry walks in the door.   He is absolutely obliterated.  Terry is always über hilarious when he is intoxicated, so I’m laughing at him, but using my shrill panicked ohmygosh how are we going to get to the wedding without him passing out laugh.

I proceed to iron my dress, all the while keeping a close eye on Terry.  For one minute, ONE MINUTE, I look away only to look back and see him air born, mid-piroutte, and then crash to the ground.  He shrieks with pain.  I tell him to suck it up and get in the shower right now.  Then I proceed to ask him just how much alcohol he has consumed, in case I have to tell the paramedics later that night.

When you visit San Diego, do you time warp to 2004?  Because I felt like I was in college again.  I was 25 pounds heavier in college and went to the bars every single night.  That is a part of my life that I loved, but also want to keep in 2004.

We get to the wedding and somehow manage not to embarrass ourselves.  In fact, we had a fantastic time and really enjoyed watching the bride and groom enjoy the night.  Terry and I love to cut a rug, so we spent most of the night on the dance floor (remember this part for later).  After a while, a whole table at the reception stopped us to ask  if we were married.  When we said yes, they all couldn’t believe it.  They said they were placing bets on us, but that everyone had concluded we were having too much fun to be married.

Some testament to marriage, huh?!

We smiled in appreciation of the strange compliment.  Then someone asked if we had kids.  We said no, and then they said “oh just wait!  Then you definitely won’t have fun like this anymore”.

Hardy. har. har.

I’m betting we do just fine.

After the reception, everyone heads back to the hotel.  The lobby was the designated wedding after party, so it was packed with familiar faces from the reception.  Terry is limping something awful after a night on his feet and says he needs to look at his ankle.  After the help of a few of his friends, they manage to get his boot off.  And holy Lord, his ankle is the size of a grapefruit.  I’m stunned.   The whole lobby is hovering over us, asking if he did that “dancing”.  I just say “guess so”.   Honestly, how can you explain his hotel room pre-wedding antics to a bunch of random strangers?

He danced on it ALL night.  On the dance floor he joked he had a high ankle sprain from the triple deke he pulled in the hotel room, but I really thought he was kidding.  Mighty Ducks references always fall under the “I’m kidding” category.   That poor guy.  Three days later we find out his ankle is broken, and that he probably can’t run in the half marathon this March.

High price to pay for a fun time.  But it did make for a really good story.

Needless to say, we went back to our hotel room shortly after exposing his ankle to the whole hotel lobby.  We rented Moneyball (paid $17!) and then fell asleep shortly after.  We are ridiculous.

The next morning I woke up early for a 5.7 mile run.  It was only supposed to be 5 miles, but I got lost.  I was so annoyed because I technically had to do run at some point over the weekend, if I was going to train seriously for this silly marathon.  Once I got going, I was really pleased I did it.  The view and weather were both gorgeous.  I now understand why they have the BUD/S program in San Diego.  You don’t feel as bad getting your butt kicked when it is pretty out.

View from my run

I was rewarded with a delicious brunch at Country Waffles.  Please interpret the term “brunch” loosely here.  It was pretty good for looking so shady.  I had french toast made from cinnamon rolls.  So good, but they posted the calories on the menu.  So not cool.   I’d be lying if I didn’t say that ruined it a bit.

Sadly, Country Waffles marked the end of our trip.  We killed a little time before our plane took off, and before we knew it were in Houston again.  It was a fabulous trip, and exactly the kind of memories we were looking to make before becoming parents.