Ken and the guys....David, Roger, Dad, Ken, Ken's dad, Trent, Jason, and little Wesley.

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Ouch

So I tried one of Billy Blank's special series yesterday, called "Focus on Abs and Glutes." Today I'm having trouble sitting AND breathing. :0) I mean, I knew I was not as in muscular shape as I was before being pregnant, but I had no idea. I had no idea such muscles existed on the sides of my legs....nor did I realize that my obliques wrapped around my middle quite that far. Wow. I think I will hold off on the crunches today and just stick to a powerwalk outside. I don't think my muscle fibers will stand up to more so soon. Billy Blanks is quite a motivator. Though it appears as if he never once took a public speaking course in school, and even though his eyes are a bit harried and even a little bit freaky as they bore through you by way of the television screen, something about him makes you want to go, "Look at me, Billy! I'm doin' it! I'm trying! I can do it! Yeah! That's right!" You imagine that you're actually &qu
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Part of the "Lost" madness.....

Yes, it's official, Ken and I (and many of our friends) are really addicted to this phenomenal show on television called "Lost." Silly as others may think that it is, all have to agree that the plots can be pretty compelling. The only thing that is frustrating is that, as Ken pointed out, there are more questions brought up in each episode than there are questions answered. How frustrating.... But that's what keeps their viewers coming back, and they know it (the producers, I mean). So anyway, to celebrate episode 12's airing (I think it's 12) last night, we had an informal "Lost" party of sorts. We got together some friends and all hung out, making biscotti and drinking coffee, and gluing ourselves to the screen as the plot (somewhat) unfolded. The thing that made us part of the "madness" is that we went all out by dressing up as our favorite characters. Ken was Jack, donning a white tee and jeans, scruffy face, medicine bot
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Gaining inspiriation

I am a person who, well, dwells on the past quite frequently. I mean, I should've been a historian because I revel in history so frequently. I guess you could call me a "history buff," too, of sorts, though I do not collect Confederate swords or wax stamps from the Victorian era. Nor can I spout out verbally every turning point of the battles of our country's wars. I do admire those who are able to do such things, however, one of which being Dad. He is like a walking history lesson, and I always feel richer, wiser, and more well-rounded after one of his expositions. Though I adore history, and swear sometimes I was born in the wrong decade (I think I would have fit right into the times of the 1930s and 40s), I am not talking about that kind of past. The past I dwell on most frequently is my own, these (almost) 27 years that God has allowed me to live here on earth. The journeys I've taken, the experiences I've had, the moves I've made, the friends I
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