Shop IKEA.

Shop IKEA.

IKEA opened in town today. People had been waiting in line since Monday for the Grand Opening. Monday? Seriously?

I mean, they have some cool kids stuff, but their inexpensive grown-up stuff isn't all that inexpensive or grown up.

Don't get me wrong, it's on my list to go, but waiting in line to get in when the doors open? Entertainers for the opening day crowds?

Strange.

Give up Diet Coke.

Give up Diet Coke.

I didn't think axing Diet Coke from my life completely was a real long-term possibility until today. While out dropping off mail at the post office, I was taken by thirst and suddenly, I realized I hadn't had Diet Coke in a couple of weeks (gasp) and immediately stopped for one at the next Wendy's (who incidentally carries the best-tasting Diet Coke).

And it did nothing for me. No euphoria as I took the first sip, no calming sensation as it slid down my throat--nothing but maybe a little disgust for the taste that had become such a good friend of mine. I didn't even finish the drink-- which has never, ever happened. (I think I hold the record at numerous restaurants for most glasses of any beverage consumed by a single customer).

Then I came home and drank a Gatorade and realized this delightful beverage has been replacing my Diet Coke addiction the last couple of weeks. Gatorade and I --we have a history. We have been through a lot together. Gatorade has been my life-long "feel-better" drink since it first comforted me while I lie dying on the side of the track after my first-ever 400m race in high school. It has since gotten me through pregnancy sicknesses and ugly bouts of influenza and now, without me even realizing it, it has supported me through my Diet Coke withdrawal. Diet Coke, you are nothing to me.

Ah, a new addiction. Sugar-laden, yes, but still better than Diet Coke, no?

Go to the zoo.

Go to the zoo.

It's zoo season and we kicked it off Friday in 90 degree weather with every elementary school class in the state. We had to wait in line to see animals. It felt wrong.

But it yielded some super-cute photos as trips to the zoo always do.




I took this picture of the kids . . .


Then afterwards Taylor walked up to me and said casually, like she'd done it a hundred times before, "Ok, now I'll take one of you" and held her hand out for the camera. Then she took her first photograph ever. . .


Not bad.

Vacuum House.

Vacuum House.

We have been through 5 vacuums in the past 2 years.

Two of those were in the past two months, and when the last one stopped working a couple of weeks ago, I was finally ready to admit there may be a problem with the operator of the vacuums, and not the vacuums themselves.

May.

Not that I am a particularally wreckless vacuumer. Sure, I suck up a cord here and there, get a bathroom rug caught in the brush everyonce in a while, and maybe now and again send a coin or two tumbling around the belt, each time, but wreckless? Nah.

Regardless, since the others were all from Costco and returnable until I wore out my vacuum privileges there, I am vowing to be more careful with our new vacuum, which although is the least expensive one yet, has killer reviews and so far (it's been used once today and I cautiously only sucked up one rug and it only smelt like burning rubber for like 2 minutes), I like and recommend very much.

Broaden Shopping Options.

Broaden Shopping Options.

I just bought myself a super-cute, sporty, kelly green sweatshirt for $4.99 at the mall! It was so cute and soft, I turned on the A/C in the house just so I could wear it. My husband even commented how much he liked it when he walked in the door and saw me in it.

Best part? I bought it on the clearance rack, at The Children's Place, in the boys section.

Life is full of surprises.

Note: For those of you who demanded picture proof I don't look like I'm wearing my kids' clothes, here you go . . .

Write a novel.

Write a novel.

We're reading a book about a high school vampire love story for book club this month.

And it's awesome.

You'll just have to trust me on this--I never watched Buffy or had any vampire affinity before this-- but I read the first 500 page self-indulgent novel in three nights and completed the equally large and sappy second novel three days after that.

I don't know if it's the way I relate to the author (who is LDS, graduated from BYU, lives out west and wrote the book as a busy Mom with little kids) or the way I strangely relate to the characters (Yes, most of them are ten years younger than me and then, you know, they're vampires--so I'm sure this is just excellent writing on the author's part. Well, that and maybe my super-pale skin), but something about reading these books reminded me of the pestering pipe dream I've had all my life that there's a novel somewhere in my head as well.

So, anyone have any ideas what it's about? I haven't a clue...

Oh yeah and the main character in the books we read drives the 16-year old me's dream truck pictured below. Brilliant!

Run around a high school track.

Run around a high school track.

I picked up a new freelance gig and I'm back on the high school sports beat. It's good to be home, old friend.

I don't know, though, if I will be able to attend a track meet and resist the temptation to sprint around that perfect rubber track like I've been longing to, just once, like the good 'ol days.

Isn't is sad how few opportunities we have to break into a full-on sprint when we grow up? That is, in an acceptable setting and not out the sliding doors after a 2-year old, leaving behind your purse and crying older child while paying for craft supplies at Michael's, which doesn't count.

Run more races.

Run more races.


I knew I would need the motivation, so I cleverly convinced two sisters-in-law and my hubby to run a race with me last month. Our professional race photos came in the mail this week and I thought it my responsibility to make sure everyone saw them.

Here is a great mid-run photo of my hubby dashing to the finish line.




And here is a great mid-run photo of my sister-in-law dashing to the finish line.




And here, is yet another great photo of my other sister-in-law dashing to the finish line.




And this. This is my photo.

This is a great photo of me-- about to vomit-- AFTER crossing the finish line. Why didn't I get one of those great photos like everyone else of me dashing TO the finish line?

I like to think it was because I was too lightening fast to be caught on film and somewhere on the photographer's roll is a puzzling streak of fury, too fast to be identified. That, I am certain, is the only explanation behind this injustice.