The Pain Olympics

We are all Olympians. We can't all swim fast or ski over those bump things or remember the words to our national anthem, but there is an Olympian in all of us. The kind of Olympics we participate in are not the kind that you see every four years, though. These are the kind of Olympics that we participate in on a regular basis, daily or at least weekly for most of us. I am talking about the Pain Olympics.

I've written here before about my disdain for the One-Upper - that person in your life who just has to go one better when it comes to crazy stories or bad experiences. We all hate that person. But when it comes to the Pain Olympics, we all are that person.

You have probably listened to a friend talk to you about some problem and while you feel bad for them and listen attentively, a small part of you is thinking that you would kill for the "problems" this other person is telling you about. You don't wish them any ill will but you secretly wish you could tell them what you've gone through, to show them what true problems look like. You might not speak up but you think it and it starts to lead to some resentment.

But some people do speak up. Some people wait for your sentence to end just so they can one-up you with their life experiences. They tell you that you should thank your lucky stars that your only issues are the ones you just described because that sounds like a cakewalk compared to their own lives.

If you are one of those people, stop it. That's enough out of you. I will pinch you. If you are not one of those people, play on. 

It goes the other way, too. I meet a lot of other parents who have had kids in the NICU or who have medical/development issues. Sometimes we have a lot in common, but when they find out how early Josh was, or how much he is working to overcome his delay, they get quiet and start to explain that they know what they have gone through can never compare to what we went through.

Honestly, I hate that just as much. Not because it bugs me, but because it isn't fair. It isn't fair that because their child wasn't quite as premature that they have to feel like they can't complain. It isn't fair that some people feel like someone else's experience was somehow better than their own because it isn't identical to what they went through.

When my mom found out she had breast cancer, I cried to Daniel that I was upset, and also guilty for being upset because all signs pointed to my mom being totally fine and there were people in the world who were in war zones and being kidnapped. I don't know why my mind went there; I'm sort of a weirdo. But Daniel told me something that has stuck with me ever since:

Pain is not relative.

I love that because it's just so true. You can't compare pain. There is just no way. When Josh was born at 26 weeks and we spent 115 days in the NICU, that was the worst thing that ever happened. When my friend's son was born at 37 weeks and he unexpectedly spent two weeks in the NICU, that was the worst thing that ever happened. When my dad got laid off from his job, when my mom was diagnosed with cancer, when my best friend broke her leg in a car accident - they were all the worst. Not because they were all horrible things that no one will ever recover from, but because in those moments, it mattered the most to them and the people who love them.

You can look at our situation: Josh was really early. But he never had to have surgery like my friend's son did. But he has a more significant developmental delay than a lot of kids. But I know another woman whose child will never overcome his delays. But Josh has so many doctors and so many health issues and it isn't fair. But at least we live in a country where he can get the help he needs, unlike many other children around the world. I could do this for hours. Sure, someone could "outdo" me when it comes to life, but does that make my experiences any less painful or any less meaningful? No. Not even a little. 

Should you still look for the silver lining in tragedy? Sure. Should you leave this post all depressed because I just told you your life was the worst? Well...I would hate that, but do what you will. But just remember that in the Pain Olympics, there are no winners. Because that isn't the point. If you are only listening to someone else talk about their problems so you can one-up them, you need to re-evaluate your friendship skills. But also don't feel like your problems are no longer worthy of being complained about because you think someone has it worse. It isn't a competition. It's just life. Life is complicated and fun and exciting and scary and painful and great and everyone learns that in their own way. No one wins. No one loses. Just listen and be a friend and know you're not alone.

I promised you a happy post after my last one. And you believed me. You fools.

Butseriously, the next one will be soooooo happy. I promise.

The Post That Almost Was

Ever since I started writing this blog, I have been trying to think of interesting and/or hilarious things to write about. It isn't easy, you know. I have to work really hard not to do any laundry or dishes so I can concentrate on being funny for you people. It's my sacrifice for you.

Inevitably, the best ideas for blog posts come when I am either in the shower or about to fall asleep. When I'm in the shower, I usually just give it up. I don't have any paper. Daniel gets mad when I write in Sharpie on the walls. If I write it in soap it washes away and I get sad. So those have to go. I just convince myself that whatever idea I have isn't funny. 

If I think of something to write about as I'm falling asleep, I desperately try to remember it. I'll even write the post out in my head in an attempt to remember it. I will stay awake for an hour trying to think of as many details as possible so I don't forget my idea. 

You'd think I would use all that time to go get a pen and write it down. But my bed is really comfy. 

A lot of times I remember the ideas I have right before I go to bed. Unfortunately, I am not the most coherent person when I am sleepy. I can't even say words correctly. Ask BFF Jen. When I get tired I make as much sense as a drunken ferret with marbles in its mouth. So a lot of my ideas aren't exactly blog-worthy. 

Last night's idea was no exception. I am still wondering why I thought this was going to be a good idea - and a really good idea, at that. I was really excited. Way too excited. Wanna hear? Sure you do. 

I was going to write a post about my eyebrows. 

Yes. 

These bad boys right here:

See, I am very particular about my eyebrows. Actually, I am very particular about everyone's eyebrows. I don't really keep mine groomed in any special way. But I can. not. stand it. when eyebrow hair is brushed the wrong way. Or whatever you do to eyebrows to make them do this:

I can't take it, people. Daniel - who, by the way, has magnificent eyebrows - likes to make his eyebrows look all crazy and follow me around until I am forced to fix them. We have a weird relationship. 

Anyway, as I was lying in bed last night, I turned my head to get more comfy and I felt an eyebrow hair pop out of place. Just one. It sprang out of line like it had been waiting for me to make just such a move so it could finally free itself from the oppressive regime of my forehead. I stand for no such mutiny and immediately smoothed it back in place. Better luck next time, eyebrow hair. 

And it was then that I thought, this would make an awesome blog post. 

I know. I'm just as confused as you are. Why on earth would that make a good post? What else was there to tell? That was literally the whole story, in that tiny paragraph above. Not a lot of plot points left. 

I guess I could have embellished a little. Like if a giant grizzly bear came and messed up my eyebrows and then,  when I woke up, tried to eat me. That would make a good post. Or if someone moved just one eyebrow hair to taunt me and left a note threatening to come back and do it again if I didn't leave $1,000,000,000 in unmarked bills at the QT in 12 hours. That would also make a good post. Although if that happened, I assume one of the conditions would be that I couldn't tell anyone about it so I couldn't write the post at all. 

But none of those things happened. My eyebrow got fresh with me. I nipped that business in the bud. And then I spent the next half hour mentally writing a hilarious post about unruly eyebrows. 

I think the NICU broke me. But I like it. And so does my unicorn. He also has nice eyebrows. 

Conversations that can only be had with your BF4L

BFF Jen and I argued about orphans and snow today. And, lucky you - I have captured the moments below for your viewing pleasure. To give it some context, I had just told Jen that I had accidentally spilled water on a book of poems Daniel wrote for me, ruining the first few pages. I tend to be "over-dramatic" and react "dangerously out of proportion to the situation" so I was very sad.

Aaaaand, cue convo:

Jenna: I know, that's a bummer. But at least you still have it and now you have a good story to go along with it. Or you should make up a good story to go along with it.

Me:  The story of my sorrow.

Jenna:  Daniel was away on a trip for days and it was the first time you had been apart. And it was Christmas. And it was raining...it hadn't turned to snow yet. You had gone out Christmas shopping alone and had taken the book of poems with you to have a little piece of him, and when you were coming back into the house, they fell into a puddle.

Me:  Awwwwwwww that's sad, too.

Jenna:  Well yeah, it's supposed to make everyone pity you in your sorrow.

Me: How about an orphan was in our house and knocked a cup of water onto my night stand. He gave us 6 million dollars to make up for it. And why would Daniel leave me on Christmas?? I don't want him to. He never travels.

Jenna: Oh for the love. Fine, the kid knocked it over and gave you a bunch of cash.

Me:  I mean, what, is he going to leave me on VALENTINE'S day, too??

Jenna: Yes. And leave you with the orphan again.

Me:  I hate that orphan. He always wants to talk.

Jenna:  Shouldn't have let him in the house.

Me:  He just walked in.

Jenna:  Well next time push him out.

Me:  It was raining! About to turn to snow! On CHRISTMAS.

Jenna:  You can't mix stories!

Me:  I just did.

Jenna:  Well then that also means Daniel was still gone.

Me:  Nuh-uh! Aren't you listening? He NEVER travels!

Jenna:  Yes huh, it’s my story.

Me:  It's my poem book.

Jenna:  That you dropped in the puddle.

Me:  I DIDN'T DROP IT. THE ORPHAN SPILLED WATER ON IT.

Jenna:  Yeah, yeah.

Me:  I'm still sad.

Jenna:  Then I can’t help you.

Me:  Then I have nothing else to say.

Jenna:  yes huh. HEY IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY ONE WEEK FROM TODAY

Me:  YAY YAY YAY I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY YAY

Jenna:  Told ya. Bwahaha.

Me:  Aw, shoot. You win this round, Cooper. But I'll be back.

Jenna:  HAAAAAAAAAA. Yesssss.

B. F. 4. L. 

Thanksgiving

Turkey Day was yesterday. Did you enjoy it? Did you have fun? Did you wave your hands in the air like you just didn't care?

BFF Jen gets so excited about Thanksgiving that I always sniff her drink to make sure that is the only reason she's excited. I, on the other hand, have never been one to get excited about Thanksgiving. Not that I don't look forward to it - I love getting together with everyone. It's just not something I get YAY YAY YAY IS IT THANKSGIVING YET excited about.

Except for this year. This year, I was so excited about Thanksgiving that I was literally counting down until the end of the day on Wednesday. I couldn't decide why I was so excited. Maybe it was because I didn't get to see my side of the family as much for Thanksgiving last year. Maybe it was because I hadn't been to my grandparents' in a while. Maybe it was because I knew my aunt would make brownies again - and that woman knows how to bake a brownie, let me tell you. 

But otherwise, Thanksgiving was the same as it had been every year. And then it hit me - maybe that was why I was so excited. Maybe I was just looking forward to relaxing and laughing with my family in the same way I have done since I was a baby. And because my family is awesome and I have never fully appreciated them before. 

I've said before (and stand by it) that my grandparents are better than yours.  It's still true. My grandparents open their home to us every year. They are so excited about their two great-grandchildren and that is so fun to see. Just picture my Papaw leaning over 3-month-old Peyton and making kissy noises. Best visual ever and even better to see in real life.

And I love seeing my aunt and uncle and cousins. My cousin Allen wasn't able to come this year, so we poured some cider out in his honor. But I did get to see my other two cousins, who I hadn't seen in ages, and get to know my newest two cousins, Ashleigh and Tenley! Ashleigh is a grown-up; Tenley is a baby. That will assist in future confusion in this post. It was wonderful to catch up and see them and ask about their lives. And, of course, to totally abuse my friendship with Ashleigh to ask her pregnancy and baby tips.

Seeing my aunt Shonda is an experience in itself :) since she always brings the fun and crazy to the party. But it's a good crazy, the kind your children can witness, so don't be alarmed. She's funny and goes with the flow. And I already told you about the brownies. You want to be her friend. My uncle Stan, who is the quietest one (or used to be; we broke him in), always wholeheartedly participates in our crazy, and doesn't even complain when we change our plans 16 times in a row. He needs a medal.

I get to see my immediate family a lot, but it's still fun when we get to see each other at Thanksgiving. It's like when you see a movie you love on TV and you have to watch it, even though you own it and can watch it whenever you want. I am eternally grateful for my parents and siblings. They are weird and funny and ridiculous and I know I am blessed to have my whole family around all the time. When my sister got married, I worried it would be hard to adapt to a new member of the family. But Andy jumped right in and became one of us so fast it was like he was always there. That is partly due to the fact that my entire extended family has the attitude that after we meet you once, you are now related to us and may come to all events. Please bring a dessert to share.

Then, of course, my great-grandmother and great-aunt made the trip to come see everyone like they do every year. They live a little ways away but they came anyway. And it was so fun to see them meet Peyton and Tenley. That made 5 generations of us in one room! Can you imagine that? My great-grandmother was born in 1918 (I think. If that's wrong, someone tell me, quick!!). Peyton and Tenley were born in 2012. Almost 100 years of family, together for Thanksgiving. 100 years of Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays and being together as often as possible.

And then there's Daniel. Oh, Daniel. Who sits quietly while my family complains about Yankees and people from "up there." Who not only engages himself in conversation with everyone from my great-grandmother to the babies, but spends his time fixing people's guns and showing them how to make all sorts of dangerous things. He got to know everyone and is genuinely glad to be part of my family. I am so grateful that my family welcomed him right away.

Even though I didn't see them at Thanksgiving this year, I have to give a shout-out to my in-laws. They have welcomed me into their family and have made a sincere and loving effort to get to know me and be my friend. I now have more parents, more sisters, more brothers, more aunts, more uncles, and more cousins to call family. Not to mention all of my cute nieces and nephews.

So this year, I am thankful for my family. I never realized how blessed I was until this year. I grew up with grandparents and great-grandparents and this year it really hit me that a lot of people do not have that opportunity. I get to not only meet but have a relationship with so many people in my family. And while so many people do not get along with their in-laws, I can't wait until Christmas so I can see all of mine again. I am blessed beyond anything I have ever deserved.

I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving and have a Merry Christmas. And if you don't have any family to see this year, or just want to borrow a grandparent, give me a call. You can join us any time. 

But stay away from the brownies. I call dibs.

5 generations of awesome. 

Life Lessons from Disney

I love Disney movies. I really do. I love them so much I have a whole playlist on my iPod that is dedicated to Disney and BFF Jen and I jam out to it on every road trip we take.  

But the last time I listened to my Disney playlist, I started thinking of how all of these Disney characters are, in theory, role models for children. Follow your dreams. Believe in yourself. Talk to animals and see if they talk back. And after some thought I realized that most of these Disney characters are complete morons. 

Just look at Pocahontas, for instance. She wants more in her life instead of the hum-drum marriage to Kocuom. Fair enough. And to show us just how excited she is, she sings to us about going around the river bend. Beautiful. Be free, Pocahontas. 

Then she literally gets to a river bend where she has to make a choice: Go the smooth route (aka, marry the dull guy) or fly like a bird in the wind. Except this is no longer a metaphor - she is literally deciding between taking the smooth route around the river or the terrifying, rock-filled, Native American-killing death route. Go the smooth route, you idiot. Is this really a consideration for you? You're so caught up in your desire for a super-cool life that you want to brave the rapids in your little cardboard canoe? Negative. You make bad choices. 

Totally worth the thrill. 

So let's move on to one of my favorite characters: Mulan. Oh, Mulan, you ignorant fool.  You are clearly intelligent. You are clearly clever. So why, WHY did you think that cross-dressing was your best option? Let's reason this out for a moment: You become a man. This is the first warning sign. It was way too easy for you to make that transition. To each his or her own. But seriously, girl, go talk to your school counselor. 

ANYway, you become a man, and then you join the army. I'm sorry; how is this supposed to work out? Do you think that cutting your hair and not showering also gives you the ability to fight a battle? Pumpkin, you're going to get killed. And then your dad is going to have to fight anyway. So maybe next time work on a new plan that involves accepting that life can be hard and talking dragons rarely have pure motives. 

And, yes, I know she did succeed. But only barely. And she had a lot of help. A lot. 

I rest my case. 

And last, but not least, Belle. Girl, you have got to stop going into strangers' houses. Who taught you that that was a good a idea? I know your mama didn't. It must be that fool of a father you have because he did the exact. same. thing. Seriously, don't go into strangers' houses. Definitely don't go into strangers' castles. And, for the love of Nancy, don't go into strangers' castles when it's dark and stormy outside.

And don't go into the West Wing, either! You clearly have some boundary issues. Yes, you're a prisoner due to a selfless sacrifice you made for your father. Cry me a river, build me a bridge, and get over it. IN YOUR OWN SPACE. Just because you get rewarded for your shenanigans by getting to marry a sexy prince does not make it okay. 

Seriously, why would you want to go here anyway? You also have some thrill issues that concern me. 


Crazy broads, all of them. 

The One-Upper

Have you ever been in a conversation where you say something so innocent, so non-confrontational that you are thinking of high-fiving yourself for your awesome conversation skills, only to be brought down moments later by the one person who just had to "go there"? 

I have.

And so have you.

We have all come into contact with this person. We have all rolled our eyes, held our tongues, and utilized stress balls as a direct result of this person.

So who is this person?

It's the One-Upper. 

Sound familiar? Sure it does. This is the person who, upon hearing that you think it's hot outside, immediately says, "You think THIS is hot?? I used to live inside a volcano. You don't know hot until you've lived inside a volcano."

Oh. Em. Gee. That makes me want to pull my hair out.

Or how about this one: Do you ever complain about something to a friend, only to have him or her say, "That's terrible! That's almost as bad as the time I was attacked by a rabid mutant squirrel and lost all of my limbs." Dude. I am just looking for a little support, here. Sorry about your limbs, though.

Here's the thing: When I say it's hot outside, or rainy, or silly, or rainbow-y, I am not throwing down the one-up gauntlet. Really. It is not a challenge. It is not a judgment. It is not a hat. I like hats. I wish it was a hat. It isn't me accusing you of being a moron because you clearly don't understand your surroundings.

I am just making a freaking observation. 

Now, there are times when the One-Upper's attitude can be useful. For instance, if a smarmy butt-face that you know says something like, "I beat all the levels of Mario Kart in two hours" and then smirks at you, it's perfectly acceptable to say, "Oh, really? Took you that long? I did it in ONE HOUR" and then walk away in slo-mo to the rock song of your choosing.

But in general, regular, everyday conversation, no. Just no. And this includes all your basic social media, texting, smoke signals, etc. It's hard to resist, I know. When you see someone on Facebook complain about how hard math class is when you've just had a baby, or run a marathon with one leg, or fought off a manic zebra with only your wits and your trusty jackknife on you while simultaneously reciting the pledge to the flag because you are that dedicated to being an American AND you save a Girl Scout Troop from certain zebra death, it is hard not to write something, anything, to talk about your day and subsequent awesomeness.

That's why you have your own Facebook/MySpace/Xanga/Word Document. Highlight your glories there. Don't go deflate some college kid who has no idea what life is really about.

You don't want to be the One-Upper, anyway. In person it's annoying, but over texting or Facebook you just sound sad. And then people shake their heads and say things like, "Poor Susie. Still obsessed with her volcano. We'll pray for her. Bless her heart."

Listen to Kristen. She knows more than you things.

Two girls and a Native American walk into a cabin...

I have written before about the many virtues of Berry College.  Tonight, as BFF Jen and I were making plans for yet another Mountain Day adventure, a story popped into my head that I realized I had been remiss in sharing with all eight of my fans. So enjoy:

A few years ago, BFF Jen and I decided to go visit Berry - but not for Mountain Day. No, this time we went off the cuff, if you will - and I think you will - and decided to visit in March. Besides going on a non-Mountain Day day, it was also SNOWING as we left for our beloved alma mater. This should have been a sign that our visit was going to be a little nontraditional. But we ignored the warnings.

Say it with me: Dun. Dun. Dunnnnnnnnnn. 

When we arrived at Berry, we found the cabin we were going to stay in. Liz, the super-de-duper check-in gal, said we were the only ones staying in the cabin, even though it could easily hold seven or eight people. We dropped off our stuff in our room and then left for the day, catching up with friends and praying to Martha at her grave. 

When we returned that night, we saw a truck parked outside of the cabin. The porch light was on as well. Then BFF Jen and I had what is possibly the dumbest conversation known to man:

Her: Do you think someone is in there?

Me: I don't know. We could ask the check-in gal.

Her: The check-in office is closed. 

Me: Oh.

Her: So should we go in?

Me: Sure. 

And off we went, wandering into a pitch-black cabin on the most remote part of campus with the distinct possibility of running into a serial killer occupying our cabin. Just a day in the life for us. 

BFF Jen had a plan, though. And if Mrs. BFF Jen's Mom is reading this, I am really, really sorry. Jen decided she would hold open the door while I called out in the hallway to see if someone answered. If a serial killer or even just a regular killer answered, we wouldn't have to waste time opening the door to get out. Brilliant. 

After a couple of "HELLOOOOOOS?" we heard a scraping sound - coming from the room next to ours. Before we could put our award-winning plan into motion, there appeared before us a man that I can only describe as Cloud Dancing from Dr. Quinn meets Chief Powhatan from Pocahontas. 

"'Sup."

He had long, flowing silver hair down to his waist, was half-naked, and looked completely surprised to see us.

"Hello, there," the man said. "Are you staying here, too?" 

I think we managed to nod.

"Okay, great. Well, goodnight." And with that, he turned around, went back up the stairs, and after a few seconds we heard his door shut. Alrighty, then.

Then BFF Jen and I had possibly the second dumbest conversation known to man:

Her: What should we do?

Me: ...ask the check-in gal?

Her: THE OFFICE IS CLOSED, KRISTEN. 

Me: Right, got it. 

Her: So, should we stay here?

Me: Sure.

Ah, but this time we had an even better plan: teamwork. BFF Jen isn't my BFF for nothing - between the two of us there is an understanding that when one of us makes a dumb decision, the other one stands by her come hell or high water. Or strange Native American men. So we put our new and improved plan into place. 

First, we each stood guard while the other one brushed her teeth and used the only restroom, located in the hallway. To get the visual, you have to picture BFF Jen - she is by far the tiniest fully-grown human being I have ever known. And then you have me, the very picture of strength and speed. Together, we made the worst superhero team the world would ever see. But we are nothing if not dedicated and eachstood outside the bathroom door with my tiny can of hot pink (breast cancer awareness, baby!) mace, ready to spray and then run at the slightest provocation.

Eventually we made it into our room. Now that we were inside, how did we keep the man out? He probably had a chainsaw and/or a sword that could cut through the lock. But that didn't matter, because the door didn't lock. Are. You. Kidding me. 

This might be a problem for some people, but not for us - we just adapted to the situation. BFF Jen and I proceeded to stack every single piece of furniture in that room against the door. Nightstands, chairs, wobbly table-thing that had no clear purpose; you name it, we stacked it. 

But we didn't stop there - we set our suitcases against the pile of 1980s furniture to ensure that, in the event the evil murderer made it through the furniture barrier, we would hear our suitcases fall to the floor and would wake up in time to escape. How we thought we could get past a grown man and a 4-foot stack of furniture, I don't know. Clearly event planning is not in either of our futures. 

And, just in case we had to resort to force, we carefully selected some weapons to keep by us on the only nightstand that was bolted to the wall: the pink mace, Jen's curling iron, and my hair straightener. I remember telling BFF Jen, "It heats up in just sixty seconds." Because a good plan is all about how quickly your weapons will heat up. 

Finally, after a long couple of hours listening for noises, we went to sleep. And lo and behold, the next morning we were completely alive! Victory! As we began to dismantle our barrier, I heard footsteps on the floor and froze. 

"Good morning!" the man called through the door. I wanted to open it to be polite, but the furniture was a lot harder to move without the adrenaline rush. "Sorry if I scared you!" he added.

"Oh... that's okay!" I shouted back. "Sorry... we got scared!"

"No problem... I work here," he continued, as if silently pleading me not to call the police and ruin his day. "I know the college president."

"Hey, cool. Me, too." That was really all I could think of at the time.

"Well... anyway, I'm going now. Enjoy your stay." And he was gone, probably glad to be rid of us. Who could blame him?

So, kids, here's the moral of the story: Don't be a moron. And don't go into dark places with strangers. But if you absolutely, positively have to, look for furniture and break out the hair accessories. Works every time.

The Bourne Quesadilla

I went to go see the latest Bourne movie the other day. I have only seen 1.5 of the other movies but I figured nothing would make sense to me regardless so I was game. It was pretty good. I think. I'm actually not entirely sure what happened or why. But the girl from The Mummy was in it so that was fun.

The thing about those movies is that while I don't dislike them, I never walk away from them thinking, "I hope they have six sequels like Harry Potter did!" Daniel, on the other hand, loves them. He is all about Tactics and Strategy and Guns and Other Manly Things. He was so into it that all of my hilariously-timed jokes throughout the movie merely seemed to annoy him. Weird.

So I found a new way to occupy myself: I imagined Jason Bourne doing everyday things but as a crazy ninja spy. And then I found myself planning the next few Bourne movies and their subsequent trailers... **cue action hero music**

1) The Bourne Quesadilla: Jason Bourne is not someone you want to mess with on an ordinary day. But when you mess up his order at Taco Bell, you better prepare yourself for an intense showdown. It's Bourne vs. the teenage employees of the Suwanee Taco Bell in this epic thriller. Sure, Bourne is a trained killer - but these kids have hot sauce and aren't afraid to use it. Will Bourne get his order? Will the Taco Bell be able to continue serving others in a timely fashion while most of their employees shoot the AK 47s in the back? What will happen to the quesadilla? This summer, we all find out.

Tasty triangles or deadly throwing knives?

2) The Bourne Knitter: Knitting is an action-packed thrill. But when you add Jason Bourne to the mix, it becomes lethal. He doesn't like being told to knit one, pearl two - and he's going to do something about it. With two hooks, he's unstoppable - until he meets Granny Fincher, the meanest knitter on the Eastern seaboard. Will it come to blows with a sixty-two-year-old lady? Does she even stand a chance against his speed and agility? Or will he finally knit one blanket too many to make it through to the end? Christmas 2012: Prepare yourself for the knitting marathon of the century.

Will the beads be too much for our hero?

3) The Bourne Fisherman: Those fish may look calm. But beneath the blue-green tint of the Tennessee River, they are planning something sinister - and it is going to affect us all. The only one who can stop them is Jason Bourne. But ever since he fell out of his uncle's boat as a kid, he's feared the water. Now we're all counting on him, but the question remains: Can he brave his worst nightmare to save the world? Or we will all be swimming with the fishes sooner than we think? Catch this breath-taking thriller, in theaters this Thanksgiving.

Now Nemo's found us. And he isn't happy about it.

Look for all these and more in a theater near you.

Come and Worship

I, Kristen "The Great One" Eleveld, have a confession to make: I don't like singing praise and worship songs. That's right. I said it. I said and I meant it and I'm here to represent it unless it made you mad.

It's not the praising or the worshiping that I dislike. I just don't really get into singing. I feel bad about that because every good Baptist is supposed to sing (but not dance). But I missed the gene somehow. I'm not what you would call a "good" singer or "talented" or "someone who does anything but mouths the words most of the time." I mean, I'm not Scuttle. I'm just not Ariel.

Don't look at me; I've got nothing to do with this.

But any time I try to explain this to anyone, I get the Look of Abject Horror. You know the one: Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, sharp intake of breath. Occasionally their hands go to their hips, or, worse, their chest (which in Southern means, "Ohhhh... I'll pray for you."). They sometimes take a step back. A head shake is almost always present. The top three responses are as follows:

1) "Oh, but you're such a good singer!" I'm not saying I'm good or bad. I just don't happen to like it regardless. I am also good at algebra. But I don't do it for fun.

2) "But it's praise and worship. The songs are about God. How can you not like them?" If not liking a song about God is enough to get me in trouble, well, then, don't get me started on 104.7 The Fish (The Fish Atlanta dot coooommmmmmm). It's not the content of the song. It's the singing.

3) "Maybe if you thought about it this way, you would get something out of it." Ahh, so I just need to rethink my strategy. ... ... ... ...nope, still don't like it. Look, it isn't what I am singing or why I am singing or how I am singing. It isn't the praise and worship team or the song choice or the key. I just don't enjoy singing as a form of worship.

Some people will never get that. It's hard for "music people" to get that while I can listen to the words of the song and believe them and worship in my own way, I just don't like to sing that much.

I'm not a total heathen. I get a ton out of other forms of worship - writing, reading my Bible, dramas. For some reason, the writing and the dramas tend to get left by the wayside. Not on purpose and not out of malice. But it's never the praise and worship time that gets left out of church weekends. It's not usually the band that has to worry if all their hard work is for nothing. I hope I'm not sounding judgmental because that is not my intention at all. I just think there needs to be a balance. I think the kids who want to be in the youth program who can't sing should still feel like they can still be a part of something. I want to be able to read the words on the screen or in the hymnal and worship through the lyrics in my own way, even if I am mouthing the words. I want to be able to tell someone I get more out of watching skits than I do from listening to music without getting one of these:

Bless your heart. 

I am definitely all for people who love to worship through singing. My BFF Jen loves to worship that way. My sister-in-law is all about singing and I know she gets so much from it. Sometimes I wish I did, too. But I am content with worshiping in many of the other ways that are just as wonderful to God.

So how about you? Singing or no singing? No judgment either way. Unless you're wrong.

Beauty and the Beast

I love this movie. Love, love, love. Belle was always my favorite Disney princess because she has brown hair and loves to read - just like me!!

The resemblance is uncanny, no?

I love this movie so much that tonight I went to go see it in 3-D!! It was fabulous. We looked really good in our glasses. Especially me because I was wearing my 3-D glasses over my regular glasses.

Daniel, who graciously agreed to see the movie with me, was understandably less thrilled than BFF Jen and I were about seeing a princess movie, and started his own running commentary throughout the movie. I noticed a pattern - he was going through all the plot holes of the movie, including but not limited to:

1) Why didn't Maurice just turn around when he knew he'd missed the turn?

2) How did Philippe get the Beast on his back and haul him all the way to the castle after the wolves attacked him? And what trauma did the Beast endure to make him fall unconscious... if a 90-pound woman can stomach it, so can he.

3) If the last petal falls on the Beast's 21st birthday, and they say in the song they've been waiting 10 years for the spell to be broken, this makes the Beast 11 when the spell was cast. But the painting of him is of a grown-up Beast. Daniel spent half the movie trying to figure this out. He came up with a few plausible solutions if you're interested.

I have heard these from other people as well, all wanting to know what Disney could have been thinking to leave out such obvious details. (Daniel gets a pass because he is a guy and I'm guessing this wasn't his favorite flick growing up. And because I think he's cute.) And while I am no stranger to the movie mockery... come on. Come on. Let's take a step back here for a minute. 

This is a movie about talking dishes and candlesticks and wardrobes. This is a movie where the cups not only talk to you, but offer sage life advice as well. Where an entire town is stalking one poor girl, waiting to see what book she will read next. Where no one is at all surprised at the revelation of a magic mirror and are totally on board with footrests that bark. And the biggest issue is that they might have gotten the Beast's age wrong? 

At best, this movie is a wonderful classic, full of happiness and true love and fabulous music. At worst, we are witnessing the effects of Belle dropping acid in order to get away from all the stresses of this provincial life. That would certainly explain the dancing spoons.

Don't sweat the small stuff. Focus on the awesomeness instead.

Also, the Beast's name? Adam, according to Disney. You're welcome.