I’ve begun training for the Buffalo Boogie 5K, which is kind of exciting and a little terrifying – because while I doubt I’ll end up in the back of an ambulance like I did after my first 5K, there are still plenty of embarrassing things that could happen to me. I have that kind of luck. Like I can be totally normal one minute and then someone walks by and I trip on a hair – so if you’re in the DFW area and have committed to walking with me, you should probably wear some shin guards or some kind of protection just in case.
Regardless, you don’t need to wait for an organized 5K event in order to participate in one. In fact, I came up with this idea immediately after being humiliated in the 5K from Hell.
Are you afraid of the humiliation of coming in dead last? Are there no organized 5K’s in your area? Perhaps your budget is super tight and you can’t afford to plunk down $20 to enter one. There are a million reasons why entering an organized 5K may not appeal to you…but there’s no reason why you can’t make one of your own. That’s what I did…and that’s why I’m bringing back the Homemade 5K.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way. The only thing you need to get started…is you.
When I finally realized that diets, pills, and magic shakes weren’t going to lose this weight for me, what did I do? I paved my own way. I sat down and figured out what works for me and I did it…and I continue to do it. The Homemade 5K is that same attitude, but this time it’s about exercise.
A 5K is 3.1 miles. (3.10686 if you’re all fancy about it.)
Just because you don’t live in the Dallas/Fort Worth area doesn’t mean you can’t participate in this 5K with me. Some of you are already following the same training schedule. Why not top your training off with the Homemade 5K?
Here are a few suggestions for your route:
Your neighborhood sidewalk. If your car has a trip odometer, drive around your neighborhood until you get to 1.55 miles and make note of the location. That’s your halfway mark. Once you train for the 5K, simply walk to the halfway mark…and turn around and walk back home. Voila! Homemade 5K.
The running track at the local school. Call and find out if the track is open for your use after school hours and, if so, ask how many laps make a mile. Do the math and you’ve got a Homemade 5K.
Your living room. No, I’m not joking. Not everyone has access to parks – or lives in a neighborhood that’s safe to walk in. Using a tape measure or a pedometer, you can calculate how many times you need to lap your living room (or the entire house…mix it up) in order to walk a 5K. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
Not into measuring? Do even the smallest calculations demotivate you? Fine. An average person can walk a 5K in about 45 minutes. If you’re super overweight, you should add a little time to that. (It took me just over an hour to walk the 5K from Hell.)
Oh…and it’s always a good idea to check with your doctor before starting something like this – so please use your head and your best judgment.
There are dozens of ways to personalize the Homemade 5K and make it something fun for you. What are you waiting for?
Every Saturday, I’ll post an update on my training – and I encourage you to do the same here on the blog in the comments. And when May 11th comes around, I’ll walk the Buffalo Boogie not only with those of you who are able to join me in Fort Worth, but with you Homemade 5K’ers as well. (In fact, I’m working on bib numbers for it – so stay tuned!) You’ll be invited to share pictures of you walking the Homemade 5K…and we’ll even have a raffle to celebrate when we’re done.
This isn’t something that’s going to end on May 11th, either. We’re going to keep the Homemade 5K alive and well for a long time. Who knows…maybe someday it’ll be the Homemade 10K, right? But first we have to start.
Last week, I walked for 15 minutes most days and then 1.5 miles yesterday. Today, I have a 30 minute walk on the training calendar. I’m following Hal Higdon’s 5K for Walkers training program. Don’t like that one? No problem…find one that does. The important thing is that you make this something that works for you…and then come back here and tell me about it.
Oh, and bloggers…listen up! You’ll notice an html button on my sidebar to the right. You can participate in the Homemade 5K by grabbing my button and pasting it into the sidebar on your own blog. Then participate along with us and be sure to let me know when you have the button up and you blog about how you’re doing!
The Homemade 5K is about making fitness work for us. If we don’t make it personal, how will we ever stick with it?
We got this.
So…have you starting training? Where will you make the Homemade 5K your own? Sound off here to get support and give your fellow Homemade 5K’ers a hand.
5K training has begun.
Yesterday, I promised that I would share the training program I’m following today…and that I would also share how those of you who aren’t in the DFW area can also participate. I can deliver on 75% of that. Lemme ‘splain…
First, I’m following Hal Higdon’s 5K for Walkers program. You may ask why I’m not following Couch to 5K and it’s simply psychology on my part. See, Couch to 5K is ultimately designed to get you running. I look forward to that someday, but I’m over 300 pounds and my feet hate me. I won’t be running for a while.
Understand, I’m not being a slacker…even when I weighed 125 pounds I was a regular in the podiatrist’s office. My feet really do hate me. I was always bandaged up or going for physical therapy. Two foot surgeries and multiple stress fractures later, I’ve learned to be realistic about what I can put my feet through at this weight – because if there’s one thing that sucks, it’s getting yourself all motivated and ending up in a stress fracture boot for 8 weeks. That shit ain’t fun.
So the psychology of it all? If I was a grown-up, I could read Couch to 5K and just substitute the word “run” for “walk”…but that’s not what happens in my head. What happens in my head is something like this:
Everyone else is running and you’re walking. You can’t run because you’re too fat. What if you never beat this? You never should have let yourself get this big. Who does this? You’re ridiculous. You’ll never run. You’re a failure.
Welcome to my evil twin, ladies and gentlemen…that’s what will be going on in my head if I do the grown-up thing and try to just overlook the word run. I don’t give myself any credit for trying. I’m horrible to myself. So to keep that from happening, I do what I have to in order to avoid those destructive voices in my head…and I keep pushing forward.
I’ll do whatever it takes to keep that crap silent. Determination is what’s most important to me.
I’ll be posting my daily walking goal on my Facebook fan page every day, so if you want to follow along please do! I’ll also be blogging quite a bit about it here…you know I won’t shut up about it.
So for those of you who don’t live in the DFW area and can’t walk the Buffalo Boogie with us, don’t fret…you can train with us! And that’s not all…there is actually one more announcement I have to make this week, but I’m not ready to do it tonight – so stay tuned.
I’ll hurry it up as fast as I can. I should have it out by Wednesday night.
For now, you’ve got the link to the training program I’m using…and I’ll be back soon with the re-birth of a pretty damn cool project I launched a while back. You’re gonna love it!
Yesterday, I shared the story of the 5K from Hell. Although I’ll always laugh about the ridiculous crap I went through on that miserable July day, there’s an underlying feeling of failure that I can’t shake. I hate that shit. It’s been lurking around long enough and it’s time to get rid of it.
The best way to shake off a bad experience is to go out and have a great experience. I can’t think of a better way to exorcise this particular demon than to walk another 5K. Am I right or am I right? I’m right…right?
I’m walking another 5K – and this time I’m not going to end up in the back of an ambulance, damn it. This time I’m gonna boogie with some buffalo.
I’ve decided to walk in the 2013 Buffalo Boogie 5K in Fort Worth, Texas. Proceeds from this event go to the Fort Worth Nature Center and Refuge.
It’s a brilliant choice and I’ll tell you why:
1. The route is flat and shady and the 5K is in May. Heat is not likely to be a big issue.
2. I doubt they let police cars drive around the Fort Worth Nature Preserve, so there will be no self-esteem motorcade behind me if I’m the last person to finish.
3. The route passes the buffalo range at the Preserve, so I won’t be the biggest mammal there.
I’m pretty sure I have all the major bases covered…except one. So far, I’m doing this alone. So if you’re in the Dallas/Fort Worth area and you’re a Hot Mess Princess fan I have just one question for you:
Are you going to make me do this alone?
Come walk with me!
I created a team and everything. If you’re new to 5K’s, don’t fret. I’ll be back tomorrow to share the 5K training plan I’m starting Monday. You can join me! Remember, I’ll still be well over 300 pounds when this event comes around. I’m sure I’m not going to be showing anyone up.
Once we get closer to the 5K, I’ll give instructions on how we can all meet up before the walk. (For example, I’ll be wearing an orange safety vest and a sombrero and will be standing by the registration table.) I mean, how would you find me otherwise?
First, you have to register. So if you’re free on May 11th, how about helping me make a happy 5K memory instead of the craptastic memory I have now?
Click here to register and follow these directions:
* Select the option for Group Team Members.
When you get to this screen, make sure it says Family/Group Team Members (highlighted in yellow below).
Enter your name and contact information. You know this part.
I selected 5K untimed as my race. The 5K run race begins 15 minutes before the walk does and it appeared to me that the only timed portion was the 5K run. Use your own judgment.
Under “What is your team name?” enter Hot Mess Princess fans. (The top of this screen says your team name must appear in the drop down box, but there was no drop down box…go figure.)
Choose your t-shirt size and you should be good to complete the registration process without my instruction.
Post here and let us know if you’re going…and when you’ve registered!
Oh, also, the website says that clowns will be there…and I am absolutely petrified of those freaks. If the 5K doesn’t appeal to you, maybe you could just show up to protect me from Bozo. Please?
And for those of you who aren’t local and can’t participate…do you really think I’d leave you out of the mix? Hell no!
Stay tuned for my March 10th post. I’m resurrecting a project that you’re going to love – and you can participate anywhere.
It’s time to talk about something ugly…and I’m not talking about my Frankenpants. I’m talking about my first 5K, which shall forever be known in the Hot Mess Hall of Fame as “The 5K from Hell”.
This was back when I was just starting to wake up from all the crap the diet industry was feeding me, so I was really anxious to get the hell on the road to healthy. I was unemployed at the time, which makes things worse because an unemployed Dianne with too much time on her hands can be a scary thing. I’d already lost a little weight and thought I was the shit.
Strictly speaking, this wasn’t my very first 5K. I’d been to a few others, which were more like lazy walking 5K’s centered around fundraising events. Show up, get a t-shirt, sign a poster, stroll the track and chat with friends. Pretty easy.
The 5K from Hell was July 3rd. Here in Texas. Most of you already see what a horrendous mistake this was. Sure, a seasoned runner could tackle a 5K in the Texas summer heat with no problem, but a native Californian with over 200 pounds to lose? Not a good idea. I was dead set on this one because it was at a Fourth of July weekend festival and I’m patriotic to a fault. Yankee Doodle Badass.
On 5K day, I woke up ready to conquer the universe. It was going to be awesome! I was going to power through this sucker. My fellow walkers were going to be so supportive, cheering me on as I kept pace with those who had far less junk in the trunk than me. Chubby people sitting on the sidelines would be Inspired to get up walk at the site of me trudging with much determination towards the finish line. There would be unicorns and bunnies everywhere… and world peace…all because I kicked ass at my first 5K.
That’s not even close to what happened.
There were tons of runners and walkers present that day – so much so that the event parking was overflowing by the time we got there. My friend Brenda was with me, which is good because it’s important to have a witness/moral support when you go through shit like this.
First bad omen: we had to park so far away that we walked more than half of a 5K just to get to the starting line (in 90% humidity, thanks to the rain the night before). No matter. This was it. My day was finally here. It was 8 am, 96 degrees, and I was about to walk my first official 5K. Bring it.
The starter’s pistol fired and we were off.
It was incredibly hot and muggy, but I was bravely shrugging it off. Nothing was going to stop me from turning the page on the next chapter of my new healthy life. I had the road in front of me and nothing but old ladies and fellow chubbies behind me. I owned this day. Fuck yeah.
Mile marker 1 came along and I was ready for water. I didn’t bring my own because I thought water stations were pretty much a given at an event like this. Even the lazy-ass 5K’s I’d been to in California had water stations at every mile marker. No water? In Texas?? In the summer??? Really?
There was no choice but to press on. Just before mile marker 2, my heart rate monitor started beeping. (The kind runners wear around their chest, not the kind they make heart attack patients wear…just to be clear.) The wristband readout was blinking at me. 160. The normal max for me was 148, so the monitor was telling me to slow down. I continued to push forward. Fat girl on a mission…look out!
Mile marker 2. No water. No effing water. Brenda looks over at a group of spectators and yells “Where’s the water?” They just smiled at us vacantly and waved their American flags, cheering us on in what was now beginning to feel like the Yankee Doodle Death March. It was sweltering and the sun seemed to be getting stronger by the second. A toddler sat in a stroller, mocking me with his fucking juice box. There was more juice on his shirt than in his mouth. Cocky little bastard.
My heart rate monitor beeped faster. 170. One by one, the chubbies and the oldies started to pass me. By the time we got to the halfway mark, an old man with a flat ass bedecked in Texas flag running shorts shuffled past us. Not a good feeling. Plus, his legs were pasty white.
Then, finally, a water station. Overexcited Boy Scout volunteers swarmed us, extending countless cups of water, often with one or two fingers inside the cup. At that point, I didn’t give a crap if I found a booger floating in one of those cups…I needed the water. I drank as much as I could without stopping and trudged on.
180 on the heart rate monitor. Crap. I really needed to slow down. And then I heard a car engine behind me.
Brenda and I turned around to find a police car, lights flashing, and a city truck tailing us. Workers were jumping out of the city truck, grabbing up the traffic cones as soon as we walked by them. Effing awesome. Not only was I dead last in the 5K Death March, but I was now holding up the city from resuming its normal business.
Sensing my embarrassment, Brenda jogged back to the police car and asked if the officer if she could at least turn the lights off. Nope. Apparently, it’s a city law that all fatties attempting unrealistic fitness goals be followed by a police car with its lights on. You know…for public safety. Can’t have the fatties just get on the sidewalk instead, right? I kept walking, but deep inside I started wishing I could just disappear.
Pain set in. My arches, heels, knees, hips, and back were killing me. Every step hurt. I had trained for this 5K, but the combination of the humidity, heat, and desperately trying to pick up the pace were taking its toll.
188 on the heart monitor. If I had seen the Grim Reaper standing on the side of the road, it wouldn’t have surprised me.
An hour and 6 minutes after we started, I crossed the finish line.
Five minutes after that, I was in the back of an ambulance.
I had to tell Brenda to get me some help when I knew I was fainting. There was no place to sit and no shade. The heat was unbearable. Trying to save the remaining shred of pride I had left, I begged her to tell them not to come with the lights and sirens. A few minutes later, she came running back to tell me that help was coming. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an EMT jump into an ambulance.
Me: Oh God, please don’t tell me they’ve got the lights going…please…
Brenda: Okay, I won’t tell you that.
Fuck. Lights and sirens a-blaze’in, here came my knights in shining armor.
The damn ambulance couldn’t fit under the “Starting Line” banner. I shit you not.
People were scrambling everywhere now, trying to get the banner down and save the fatty. An incredibly fit woman with a generous heart and no visible body fat ran up to me and handed me her apple juice and energy bar. Great…now I’ve got skinny people giving me food. I looked up to thank her and saw two EMT’s running towards me with a gurney.
Sweet jump’in Jesus…make it stop.
Me (head between my knees): I’m not getting on that thing. I have some pride, guys.
Hero #1: Okay, ma’am, we have to get you out of this heat right now. Can you stand up?
Me: I don’t think so. Can’t you just check me out right here? I’m sure I’m just hyperventilating.
Hero #1: No ma’am, our equipment is in the ambulance and we need to get you cooled off.
Hero #2 (trying and failing to console me): There’s nobody left, ma’am. Everyone’s gone home pretty much.
Ouch. Point taken, Trapper John.
Every time I tried to stand up I would start to black out. I wanted to cry but I was more dehydrated than beef jerky. I had nothing left. I had to let them help me onto the gurney.
Me: Just give me the body bag. I don’t want anyone to see me.
Hero #2 handed me a folded white sheet – you know, the kind they usually drape over dead bodies. I put it over my face and they rolled me into the back of the ambulance.
Heart rate monitor: 192.
The two hunky EMT’s started putting those sticky electrode things on my chest…and then on my leg, which was even more embarrassing because I hadn’t shaved my legs. In my delirium, I apparently apologized for that because Hero #2 told me I needed to lighten up on myself.
Hero #1: What’s that beeping?
Me: My heart rate monitor…see? (I held up my wrist to show him the display.)
Hero #2: You know the ones you just wear on your wrist aren’t very accurate. You should get one of the monitors you wear around your chest.
Me: Yeah, I’m wearing it…you just can’t see it ‘cause I’m fat.
An hour later, the final diagnosis was dehydration. When I declined a one way ticket to the hospital, they told Brenda to take me somewhere cool and to get plenty of food and water. So we went to Razoo’s Cajun Café and I ate 2,000 calories and drank about five gallons of water and diet soda. (I hadn’t conquered my food demons yet).
That’s the 5K from Hell.
Not a good experience by any means. It was the lack of water that got me, but I wasn’t ready for an event like this. I joke about it because, let’s face it, some of this shit is just damn funny – but when I’m done laughing it off, there’s a little funky residue left over. The multiple failures of this day took the shine right off the fact that I finished. No matter what else happened, I finished that motherfucker…and yet that’s not what I’m left with. I’m left with the embarrassment and the failure of it all. And a cute EMT touching my hairy leg.
The memory of the 5K from Hell is one of my exercise demons. Find out tomorrow how I plan to get rid of it for good.
Do you have any exercise demons in your head? Have you had a less than stellar experience in the fitness world? Don’t leave me feeling all crappy with this demon lurking around.
Shortly after the Hideous! Dreadful! Stinky! raffle, I took off to sunny southern California for a few days to visit family – which, of course, threw me off of my mojo and it’s taken me all this time to get to where I can post again. Also, we ate out for every meal every day and I ended up flying home feeling like a busted can of biscuits in stretchy pants. Blah!
Incidently, what you don’t want to do when you have your plus sized ass crammed into an airplane seat is pick up the latest edition of Sky Mall and start flipp’in.
While I was grateful to have the whole row to myself, my legs were pushed up against the seat in front of me and I am still nowhere near being able to fly without a seatbelt extender. This is the last year I need a seatbelt extender. I actually bought one on eBay because it’s embarrassing to ask for one on the plane. I’m really looking forward to the day I can mount it on my wall alongside the bra extender I was able to dump last year. All in due time.
I have some more news on my 2013 goal of making exercise a consistent habit and some fun projects I’m working on, but I have to save it for now because it requires several more blog posts…so stay tuned. I’ve got another blog post on target for tomorrow, assuming Hot Mess Hubby doesn’t drive me insane by then…and he’s been giving me a run for my money lately.
For example, spring is coming. Kevin and I are amateur gardeners. Actually, amateur may be too kind. We’re really more like dipshit gardeners. We have no idea what the hell we’re doing, but we have a lot fun trying. In our first year of gardening, I planted three pumpkin seeds. Why? Well, I’m a city girl and I thought I needed to plant three pumpkin seeds if I wanted three pumpkins for Halloween.
Yeah. 17 pumpkins is what I got…from 3 pumpkin vines that had taken over a third of our backyard by the time we yanked the vine up. Super genius!!!
But this isn’t about my gardening idiocy, it’s about Kevin’s.
We got the Burpee seed catalog in the mail, so we hunkered down excitedly to decide what we were going to plant this year. For me, there are some obvious choices: rosemary, basil, oregano…lots of herbs. We already have garlic in the ground. Before I know what’s happening, hubby shrieks “Ooh! Loofah!!! Let’s plant some!!!”
Sweet jump’in Jesus.
I have to be careful with Kevin – because if I flat out say no, it just makes him want to do whatever stupid thing I said he couldn’t do…but my reaction said it all. He began excitedly planning the loofah harvest while I managed to gasp out a huge “No!!!” He looked like I kicked a puppy right in front of him.
Kevin: But you love those things!
Me: Yes, and I have one. I don’t want 50 of them!
Kevin: C’mon! It would be way cooler to give to the neighbors than stupid pumpkins…
Seriously, sometimes the man renders me speechless. I can see it now.
Knock, knock, knock on my neighbor’s door.
“Hi, neighbor! We just harvested the garden and I thought you could use this loofah. Because, you know, you look like you could use it.”
Somehow that doesn’t seem as much fun as passing out pumpkins to all my neighbors on Halloween…and all the parents who drop their kids off at my neighbor’s in-home day care…and then carving the six I had leftover for the front porch. Maybe I’ll just plant one pumpkin vine this year.
This post isn’t meant to trash the hubs. As husbands go, mine is pretty awesome. However, I did mention on my Facebook fan page this week that Valentine’s Day was the 10th anniversary of the World’s Worst Marriage Proposal…which, of course, prompted everyone to demand that I tell that story. So here we go.
Kevin and I were shack’in up at the time. Yep…living in sin. My sister actually gave me the “Why buy the cow…” speech when we first moved in together, which really pissed me off at the time because I had a genius plan to ensure that I kept my honor. I told Kevin that we could live together for 1 year and then we were either getting married or breaking up. Because that’s what you want to do to any guy…give him a deadline and a bunch of requirements as your relationship gets serious. Classy.
We moved in together on Valentine’s Day in 2002, so by the end of that year I was thinking I might get a proposal. I’m pretty awesome to live with, so it was only a matter of time. Or so I thought.
We’ve been married almost ten years, so I’ve long since figured out that the best way to ensure that he won’t do something is to heap a big ol’ expectation on him. Back in 2002, though, I hadn’t figured that out.
Our birthday came (we’re born on the same day)…nothing. Christmas came…no proposal. New Years came…nothing.
As we neared Valentine’s Day, I began to realize that he was just going to ignore my rules – even though I kept repeating them in a super subtle way. No matter how many times I brought it up, he just humored me and changed the subject. So, with the super fantastic melodramatic flair that I was known for back then, I began simultaneously preparing myself for the end of our relationship and planning a super romantic Valentine’s Day dinner.
Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart. It’s 4:37 pm…exactly 1 year after you moved in. I packed all your stuff. Get the fuck out.
Dinner wasn’t exactly the romantic feast I’d planned. I had spent most of the day obsessed with how I was going to get over him, so I hadn’t done any chores. I had clean laundry folded all over the dining table and every dish in the kitchen was dirty. I burned half of our dinner. I ended up just shoving the folded laundry off the table and resorting to some paper birthday plates I had leftover from the cat’s birthday party I had the previous year. (I’m totally not kidding.)
When we sat down to eat, I was already trying not to cry. I had put his perfectly wrapped Valentine’s Day gift on the table, along with a card that was certain to prompt the most heartfelt marriage proposal ever, right? Nope. Instead, he heartlessly ripped open my perfect wrapping and said “Oh. Thanks, babe.” And then he dug into his dinner.
It’s hard to see your food when you have tears in your eyes. After a few minutes of silence, Kevin looked up at me and said “Oh, I got you a card but it’s in my truck. I’ll get it later, ok?”
I told him not to bother.
Now, this is normally the point where even the most inept ass would realize that they’d gone too far…but not my hubby. He puts his fork down, lumbers down to his truck, comes back upstairs, and flips it to me across the table.
I open it up…and it’s not even signed.
Not. Fucking. Signed.
At that point, I started really crying.
Kevin goes to get a pen, writes something in the card, and hands it back to me. I throw it on the pile of laundry. He gets it and hands it back to me. I realize this is going to go on forever until I either read the effing card or push him off the balcony, so I open the card.
Dianne, I’ve never been as happy with anyone as I’ve been this last year with you. Will you please do me the honor of marrying me?
Or something like that. I’m not going to dig the damn thing out of the “Need to scrapbook” bins I have hoarded upstairs.
He thought he was being super clever and throwing me off by behaving like an insensitive ass. What he really did was convince me that I was unworthy of a thoughtful proposal and that I had guilt tripped him into the one he’d just presented me with. Even now, ten years later, I still insist he only did it from guilt…and he still insists that he planned whole thing and that it was an act of genius that I simply took the wrong way.
Oh, and the ring? He had his mother’s ring from her second marriage (not to his father) that he rescued from a pawn shop and had kept for years intending to give it to some lucky lady like me – but it needed to be repaired. It was missing a diamond and was too small for plus sized fingers. Plus, it had been rolling around with a bunch of loose change in his desk drawer for a year and needed to be cleaned.
Kevin spent the next ten minutes convincing me that the whole thing had been his genius plan to throw me off and then when I finally said yes, this is what he said:
“Okay, well…go get the ring!”
Seriously, he said that. Nothing says I love you like “Baby, I’m too busy trying to choke down this charred steak you made for me so get up and go get your dirty, broken engagement ring from my desk.”
Worst. Proposal. Ever.
(He later stated that if he had taken the ring to be repaired, I would have noticed and then the surprise would be ruined.)
I would never let him get away with that crap now, but he would never do something like that now. We’ve both grown in a million ways since that day. He’s made me stronger. I’ve made him softer. I’ve lost count of the things he’s taught me – and yet, just recently, I told him I couldn’t think of one way that I’d done the same for him. I asked him to give me an example of something I’d taught him. Anything. He couldn’t.
Instead, he looked at me and said “You just make me a better person.”
Aww. How can I not love that?
Five years of friendship. One year of shack’in up. One God-awful marriage proposal. And here we are almost ten years later, arguing about planting loofahs in the backyard and why it’s not okay to put fish fossils on our kitchen backslash (I’ll save that story for another day).
Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason…sometimes love is just love.
Happy Valentine’s week.
(Comment here and share your bad romantic stories…you know you want to!)