So I managed to get Christine to four miles this morning -- even with snow on the ground. Her knee remains bummed -- which means she's bummed, I'm bummed, we're all bummed. I need her to heal because she helps me get through my long runs. I decided to train for the National Marathon in D.C. (doesn't that sound so much more impressive than Steamtown in Scranton) at the end of March. So there's no down time for me.
I got home from a bad 14- miler on Saturday. After I took my jacket off, Grace pointed at my chest: "Your boobs are wet." Yep, m'dear, they are. It beats the previous boob comment.
A video of me appeared on YouTube, courtesy of a non-compliant, cell phone-toting squirrel in journalism class who took pictures of me learning the cha-cha-slide. I heard the video was posted, and I had to see it -- of course. Well, with Grace and Keni by my side, I found the video. Grace's first sentence: "Your boobs are big." After reeling back, I looked at her, speechless of course. She then laughed as she continued to watch: "Ha! Your boobs are dancing!" I guess they were. No holding these girls back.
I need to get fitted for a new bra.
Tonight I asked the girls what they wanted for dinner. French fries? Potatoes? Ham? Chicken?
Keni's response? Punkin pahh.