Why We Don't Do Santa

(*Christmas isn't over for the Petti for another whopping week, so we'll extend
the holidays for you as well.)

My parents probably mentioned Santa when I was small, but it was most likely in answer to questions like, "What's a ho ho ho?" and "Should I go sit on that creepy old guy's lap?"

I'm not sure exactly why we didn't "do" Santa growing up, but it was most likely because my parents didn't want to bother with the façade and the trickery. It was difficult enough for them to deal with the spontaneous subpillowean transactions of the tooth fairy.

Maintaining weeks of secrecy about something as outlandish as a fat guy fitting through a chimney would have been impossible under the constant badgering and scrutiny of three highly skeptical girls.

Besides, we knew where they hid the presents.

Did I miss out on some of the magic and mirth that pervades the Christmas season?

Perhaps. Christmas movies don't do a thing for me. Non-Christian seasonal songs irk me rather than set my heart aglow. And, as Wade and I recently discovered during a game night gone awry, I truly suck at Christmas Jeopardy.

But, overall, I'm forever grateful to my parents for depriving me of the Jolly Old Saint ordeal. Because of their honesty/nonchalance/laziness, I survived my childhood unscathed, untormented, unlike these poor children:

Your instincts are correct, my son.

I feel the same way just looking at this guy from a safe distance.

(What the heck???)

Find more pictures of hilarious Christmas child abuse at the Sketchy Santas blog.

God Bless Us, Every One

The Petti hope you have a wonderfully merry Christmas, and that the love of our Lord Jesus Christ will shine upon you.

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!” Luke 2:14

A Snark-Tainted Account By The Pastry World's Fastest Half-Marathoner

This isn't proof that I ran the race, but proof that I at least registered and got a number. Anna and I scraped off some serious forehead salt before taking this glamour shot. Craig got some other great shots of the race, as you'll see.

In true Pettus Pie fashion, I have suspended for an entire month the results of the half-marathon I ran in November. To atone for my silence, I’ll give fathoms more details than you probably care to know.

For the illiterates, here’s the breakdown:

• I ran the race valiantly
• I did not puke
• I exceeded my own race expectations for the first time
• You can stop reading now

My training hadn’t been going nearly as well as I thought. A few weeks in, I succumbed to nettlesome distractions like sickness, fatigue and schedule conflicts. Daily runs were skipped. Long runs were made short. Chocolate milk was drunk. The Office was watched.

I decided around week six that my 8:30-minute-mile goal was a bit lofty, and I lowered it to 9-minute miles. Later, that was reduced to 9:30-minute miles, and then down to 10 minutes.

Race day dawned, and I made my wary way to half-marathon partner Anna’s house. Wade was MIA for the race, but Anna and her husband, Craig, let me ride to the race with them and Penny Pennster. It’s always nice to have support — people that, once in view, prompt you to waddle faster.

The race started, and Anna and I parted ways. Luckily, at Mile Three, I saw Craig and Pennster again. I threw my long-sleeve shirt at them, stripper style, and zoomed past.


By Mile Four, I was starting to rethink my pace. Then, Providence sent Sherry, who teaches BodyPump with me.

Just as she was passing by, she saw me and slowed to chat. Despite my huffing lungs, Sherry prompted our pace to quicken as she twittered like a squirrel about running and our classes at the gym.

Blaring in a sea of silent, focused athletes, our pleasant prattle attracted a couple of runners, one of whom decided to stick with us. He was an Aussie training for a real marathon with this race. I laughed at the situation — here I’d been dreading this day for 10 weeks while he just hopped up that morning and thought he’d do a little practice run.

After a while, we left Sherri behind — she’s the begin-too-fast, regret-it-later type.

So Aussie agreed to keep my pace steady, and he and I distracted each other for another seven miles with tales of world travel. We ran up the greenway — wistfully glancing at the forest flanking the pavement and wishing we’d worn our camo that day.

He ate the free, salty pretzel sticks that sidewalk-lining race supporters held in hands outstretched as we whizzed by. I thought that was weird.

Twice, I tried to drink water without slowing down, and I almost ralphed both times. I gave up on drinking and got to know the filmy paste in my mouth quite intimately.

As we ran up the greenway, everyone with better times than Aussie and me passed by, running the opposite direction. That was depressing. At the end of the greenway, we had to circle around a large cone that someone had stuck in the middle of the sidewalk, then run the entire stretch of greenway the other way.

Miffed by the sheer silliness of the cone, I forgot for a second — but only one second — that I was now passing all the people who were slower than me. I was greatly mollified by this reversal in superiority, and I strode on.

All of the sudden, every joint below the belt began to ache. I lifted my eyes toward mile marker yonder and noted that, indeed, I had reached the dreaded Mile 10. This is always where my body starts cursing at me in French. Though I don’t speak French, I understand the general idea, and no one’s happy — not thighs, not calves, and certainly not Aussie, whom I began to accuse of sluggishness.

I told Aussie that he’d better start motivating me to quicken up the pace. He told me to motivate him. So I sang some Journey (“don’t stop believing!”) and took off.

When I realized he was with me no longer, the smug satisfaction that I was going to smoke Mr. Marathoner gave me just a bit more fire in the heels.

The burning temptation to slow to a walk was my brain’s obsession in that last mile. Coupled with the sheer irritation at the race supporters who kept falsely claiming that I was “almost there! Only one more turn in the road!”, the urge to walk pulsed through my brain in a tangible beat that matched the plodding of my aching feet on the black pavement.

Instead, I sprinted. Well, it wasn’t really a sprint. It was probably a very slow jog. But it felt like I was flying.


And as I crossed that finish line, the clock overhead held the most beautiful sight.

I had beaten my 10-minute, 9:30-minute and even my 8:30-minute mile goal. I trounced that goal. I spat upon it. I jousted it and lanced it through the spleen.

I finished 162nd in the race with a time of 1 hour, 47 minutes and 51 seconds. I averaged 8:14-minute miles!

Totally elated, I waited around for Aussie, who is now a Facebook friend of mine, and Anna, who trashed her goal and even beat her sister’s best time, too.

Since then, I have made sure to bring up the race in as many situations as possible. “Speaking of lunch, did you know that I recently ran a half-marathon and totally kicked butt? Oh you didn’t? Well, let me tell you about it…”

What a great experience. I am torn between the desire to duplicate it and the dread of another round of that blasted training.

Anyone up for training with me in the future? I’m not sure I could do that much running again all alone, and sometimes I get the crazy idea in my head that I might like to try to run a full-length marathon.

Literates: You made it! Please rate your experience up top.
Poll PS: A portrait of Wade’s head on my belly it is. But which expression should we use?
… Hmmm… Looks like we’ll have to save that poll question for a more pertinent date.

Fun With Guns...

Aside from the wonderful shrimp boil, one of the best things about Thanksgiving on the Farm is pulling out all the guns that have been sitting in the closet all year and blowing up as many targets we can get our hands on. My favorite is shooting clay pigeons. This is a video from last year's get together...

Bulbous is Beautiful

C'mon, throw it already! ... This lady is SUCH a ball hog!

During the golden years of my journalistic career, I was the design editor for a health magazine at the fabulous Columbus Ledger-Enquirer.

Not only did I keep abreast of all the latest health fads, but I also managed to marr a local pastor's good name along the way. (He apparently is a big fan of rappelling, not "repeling." A lot of apologies went out on that one, and I was semi-permanently humbled. Just remind me of the incident next time I correct you.)

One time we had a feature story about midwives, and the editor-in-chief was a nervous wreck about our decision to place a bare pregnant belly on the cover.

He thought it was just incredibly scandalous that a woman would show her pregnant belly.

Personally, I didn't mind at all if it was for a photo. Granted, I didn't really think it should be built into your outfit... maybe you should keep it covered for church. But in the context of a health magazine, no big deal.

Well, that's before I discovered Pregnant Baby Paintings. Behold. You can even get seasonal with it:

Note to self: Find belly-baring maternity clothes to wear to church in about three years.

What should I have painted on my belly? Vote up top.

Poll PS: Only one person regarded "awesome" as an annoying, overused phrase (and when I find out who you are, I swear I'll....), so you should notice that I haven't used it in more than a month! That's like, five different blog posts, people! And one of them was about BodyPump! Geez, give me some credit.

Inside of My Dog... Is a Lot of Drippy Stuff

Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend.
Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.

— Groucho Marx

It's been a rough month with several that we know and love in the hospital or undergoing surgery. Our prayer list is long and heavy, and though the human side of that list is weightier, many of our prayers have been for our red son, Roostifer the Magnificent, who is recovering from surgery yesterday.

He's had a lot of health problems since this June, when his lower jaw, the charming half of his "banged-up grill," popped out of socket and he couldn't open his mouth. They were able to pop it back into place and it hasn't been a major problem since.

But that's when the swelling started. It's been off and on since then, and the vet prescribed antibiotics twice that seemed to quell the swelling temporarily but not completely eliminate it.

When we got home from church Sunday, this is what we found:

Before, the swelling had been confined to a dime-sized area near his left eye.

By that evening, it had grown even larger, and the next morning we woke to find a stoic dachshund grimly doing his best Quasimodo impression. The swelling had spread over his droopy eyelid so that he couldn't even see out of the left eye (Sorry, no photographic proof. But it was HUGE!).

We decided to take him immediately to another vet because obviously the antibiotics from the other place weren't effective.

They confirmed that my miserable Rooberry was running a high fever and needed to have the swelling lanced and drained. Thankfully the doctor didn't think it was any kind of tumor, and he was about 99% sure it was just an abscess. Because he noted that I was reveling in a wash of profound relief, the vet was even able to talk me into getting Rusty's teeth cleaned since he'd be conked out for the surgery anyway.

Roo had to stay there all day. When he came home, this is how he looked:

Not much of an improvement, I say. He went from the Hunchback of Notre Dame to Frankenroosty.

Yes, that's a STRAW threaded through my poor Roosty's face.

On the upside, his teeth are sparkly.

Now we have to worry about him wanting to scratch the itchy, stitched-up lacerations on his skull, as well as the bloody fluid dripping out everywhere. But does the latter keep him banned from the coziest spot on the couch? Of course not.

Hold the Zoloft

I've been catching up on my reading lately, which includes my favorite educational magazines:

Another Best Kind of Houseguest

A few nights ago, tired, sweaty and bested by an evening of attacking bodies, I limped into my kitchen to be greeted by Son, Red Roosty.

Though I could tell by the emphatic oscillation of the Red One's rear half that he was quite pleased to see me, I had neither a husband to kiss or a big, Black Furry One to ignore.

My ear caught a concoction of sounds that included the blasting of Regina Spektor's most strangest of songs, a man-child yelling, feet bounding and unidentifiable objects being hurled around the living room.

This is what I found:

Wade's dearest cousin, Bret, was staying with us while he was in town for the evening, and he had apparently remembered to pack his game face in his carpetbag.

Neither mustered a "How do you do," as I entered the room, but they continued to taunt, celebrate, analyze and chatter at each other.

Wade had fashioned a golf course with the cornhole set, and the object was to ricochet the ball off the coffee table and into the hole. When they got bored with that, they played something involving golf balls and a PVC pipe contraption that Wade had fabricated and is now vowing to get patented.

They did take a succinct and halfhearted break to eat the meal I had prepared for them, but then it was back to the task of dominating one another.

Wadey Pie couldn't possibly tell you how many different games they invented that night, in part because the rules to their diversions morph throughout the act of playing, ostensibly whenever Wade needs them to in order to win.

I sensed that my presence wasn't required, so I spent the evening by my lonesome on the other side of the house, Rooberry passed out in my lap. On into the one-digit hours of the morning, the sound of cornhole bags smacking the wooden board droned against the strains of Regina and the shouting of the boys, and every once in a while I'd hear Bret ask, "What kind of music is this?"

Bret says "Thumbs Up!" to Regina Spektor and cornhole golf.

Wade was so happy to have someone there to play with that he did his very best happy dance.

But alas, he's been spoiled. Now he begs me every night to play cornhole with him. He's even let me get close to winning a few times, in a conspicuous attempt to whet my competitive edge ("WOW, Amanda, you got SO CLOSE to beating me that time! Maybe you'll win this next time...").

Solicitation: Any ballers out there with the ability to talk smack are invited to stay at our house. I'll cook you dinner. Wade will mop the floor with you.

Dead, Lazy or Victorious?

Silence. From me. For a whole week. Post BodyPump training.

You might have interpreted my reticence in one of the following ways:

1) Wow. That training must have done her in. I wonder if she willed me anything.
2) Amanda is just being a bum like usual. Move along, people. Nothing to see; nothing to see!
3) She must have emerged triumphant from her training, only to become very depressed that she didn't take any photos of said triumph.

Well, you're all right! (Don't you hate those "games" where everyone wins? That's almost as bad as when your mother refuses to judge your living room beauty pageants. Lame!)

About those points:

1) Training, as predicted, kicked my tail. I felt ailment creeping in on Day 2, and I'm still suffering the consequences of my all-out, pansies-not-invited, physical travail. Phlegm is here and spit cup is out.

2) Yeah, you may have noticed a shortage of writings by me for the last, oh, year or so. Sorry about that.

3) Triumphant, indeed! I passed the training with soaring pigments, and my trainer even suggested I eventually pursue certification as an "advanced instructor," whatever that is. (Probably just a shiny sheet of paper verifying my greatness.) And, no, I didn't get any pictures, other than the one up top.

Here's a look-see into the training: When we weren't waving weights around in the air, we were sitting, sweaty and shivering, on the floor and listening to our trainer talk about technique, connection, coaching and stuff like that. Then we had to memorize a couple tracks, present each a few times and incorporate all the sit-down lesson stuff.

We also had a 45-minute "BodyPump Challenge" to quantify the exact hardness of our core. We had to squat, curl, dip, lift and clean & press as much weight as physically possible. Here's a mental image: three people had to help me hoist my bar onto my back for squats, and I'm pretty sure that I could have done more. But if you didn't grunt, moan and sweat enough during the challenge, our trainer would tell you to put on more weight.

So now that I've passed training, I do what I did last time for BodyAttack: take a few weeks/months to perfect my class, videotape myself until I hook a winner, send it in and hope they certify me.

Speaking of winners, here are a couple pictures of the BodyAttack girls from the launch party we had at the gym on Monday night:

What? You didn't know that back and stomach sweat are the new look?

Melissa went all out for one of her tracks, "Wild Wild West," which has a shootout at the end.

PS: One day left to vote up top. Get your curmudgeonly opinion in asap!

Master of My Heart Also Master of Prose

Work: It's like this, only behind a desk.

Reveling in the luxury of our sedentary work lives, Wade and I pester each other throughout the day with completely random, hilarious and usually non-repeatable e-mails. It's always a race to the top of Witty Mountain, and we like to throw an elbow or two along the way.

I've thought about posting some of these conversations. But the one I've pasted below was unique. Not only did it cause me to produce a hearty chortle, but it destroyed my long-established belief that Wade was uninterested, or incapable, in the art of the written narrative.

Here we go:

A: "Just so you know, we're going to the airport to welcome Em and Scott home tomorrow night."

W: "Doesn't Flemily know that The Office comes on Thursday nights? How inconsiderate of her."

A: "We will just have time to watch The Office at 8 and then meet her at the airport at 9:30. Otherwise, she'd be out of luck."

W: "Too bad this week is a 2-hour episode from 8-10."

A: "Too bad I'm going to be too sore and/or busy to give you backrubs this and next week."

(30 minutes later)

W: "Haha ... I got you! I can just see you now ... frantically checking the NBC Web site to see if The Office was indeed going to be two hours. You can't verify the time so you go to the forums and hurriedly type..."OMG, I heard The Office is going to be a special 2hr episode tomorrow night! Is this true?? This would so amazing!" Seconds later a fellow forum crawler replies, "sorry dude. don't know where you get your information, but you might want to cancel your subscription. only a 30 minute episode tomorrow night." With this news, your poor little Asian heart is crushed. You realize you've been duped by an intellectually superior mate. You become angry. Angry with your intellectually superior mate for leading on this rollercoaster of emotions and angry at yourself for falling for such a ruse. You try to remain calm, but the anger boiling inside you is too much to subdue. You begin screaming profanities in your cubicle. You take the box of cereal that you have stashed in your desk drawer for when you get the munchies and you throw it across the room. You pound your head on the desk while repeating to yourself, "stupid, stupid, stupid..." And then you write me a mean email in which you deny me the backrubs. Yep, I bet that's how it went down. :)"

Wade, be warned. You're a writer now. Your stories will be published.