Happy (almost) Veteran's Day, everyone! Please remember all those who have served and are currently serving. Also, keep those affected by the Fort Hood tragedy in your thoughts and prayers

After about three weeks of being out of commission (shin splints, runner's knee, and a lot of moolah spent on new shoes and orthotics), I'm back! And I'm loud and proud about it.

(Kaitlin really needs to work on her inside voice.)

(Kaitlin discusses herself in the third person when she's lecturing herself.)

(It's an only child thing.)

Special Guest appearance in this one! Enjoy:

We took a break from training due to my pretty nasty shin splints. But never fear, we'll be back in a couple of weeks.

If, however, you are waiting with bated breath for our next video, this will hopefully tide you over:

Last week, we completed our first week of "training."



Thanks to Ashley and Katie who stuck through my bad attitude, injury, and incessant whining.

Can we sign Charlie up in my place?

Enjoy the journey:



I'm uploading a couple more this week. Thanks for encouraging us.

(Is is April, yet?)

((Notice the shoes. They'll come into play in a few more segments. Just, take note.))

(((I have no idea what I'm doing.)))

When I attended HUE (Harding University in England), my original plans were to see the world, meet Prince William, become the Queen of Europe, and, eventually, rule the universe.

What transpired was something more like: see the world, meet Kenneth Branagh, become lost in Europe, and, eventually, experience jet lag like I had traveled through the universe.

So, all in all, pretty close.

I'm going to jump straight to the point on this post. Yep, that's right. You won't get any long-winded stories from me this time. No departure from the plot. No rambling aberration from my narrative.

I've found that when I have an embarrassing story to tell, I just need to come right out and say it. It's cathartic. Catharsis is very therapeutic, by the way. We're learning that in Evidence Based Interpersonal Practice with Adult Individuals. (See, Mom and Dad, I am going to class!)

The point is this post won't be like my others. I'm not going to take ten paragraphs to tell you something I could have told you in two. Not this time. I have things to do. I'm a very busy graduate student. I have to get my Halloween costume ready, cut my fingernails, take out the trash, read Harry Potter for the 30th time, stare off into space, daydream, watch Glee, and, in the midst of all that, I have homework to do, people! Really. I can't just spend my time on here all day writing posts for you. I can't waste my precious minutes thinking about how I'm going to entertain you with graceful stories of my childhood. I can't dawdle and tell you little inane facts about my life. This isn't going to be one of those posts.

On that note, speaking of "facts about my life", I learned something new about myself today. My supervisor told me I was externally motivated. After looking up the words "externally" and "motivated", I realized he meant that I am motivated by things externally. Like deadlines. I thought, "What does he know about me? He doesn't even read this blog." And then I hyperventilated because I realized that I needed to get 12 quizzes done, 4 discussion boards, and 2 final projects before the deadline in November.

As I sat grappling with this concept of me being "externally motivated", I tried to think about times in my life in which this were the case.

Several.

But for some reason, England popped into my head. It does that every once in awhile. I'll be sitting at McDonald's, trying to eat my grilled chicken snack wrap, minding my own business, and then England pops into my head. It's like its mocking me with its fish-and-chips cuisine, weird looking flag, right-side road driving, artsy-fartsy theartery districts, and awkward sounding names for things, dancing around in my head so that when I look down, I realize that my french fries have been soaked with the tears falling from my face, falling for London, for the mouse-infested flat I lived in, and the crowded Tottenham Court road Tube stop.

It can really be quite a nuisance.

And as I was thinking and pondering and tearing up in the middle of a crowded fast-food restaurant, this one instance kept replaying in my mind.

We were making our way to London on our huge yellow and red striped Westbus. Tony, our fearless driver, and Dr. Tullos, our fearless leader, had planned a stop at the famed Hadrian's Wall.

Poor Hadrian. All he has left to his name now is some old, crumbling wall at the England/Scotland border.

We were excited for the pointedly significant history lesson, but more excited to stretch our legs and get some "pretty" pictures. (We were, after all, a fairly girl-dominated group.)

What is particularly neat about Hadrian's Wall is that it is smack dab in the middle of the countryside. Farmland stretches as far as the eye can see. Sheep and cattle are free to roam to and fro, from one crumbly side to the other slightly less crumbly side of the old wall.

Our group decided to go exploring. We were reminded that the wall, though unprotected, had been around for about 1900 years, and that England wouldn't be so thrilled if a wall that had survived famine, war, and flood was knocked down by some picture-taking, obnoxious tourists.

Especially American tourists.

I trudged along the hilly, muddy countryside with my camera and friends. Ian (Dr. Tullos' 10 year-old son) and Chanel (who, at the time, was the ripe age of 21) were enjoying the finer points of nature, a phrase which here means, they were searching for cow pies to throw at one another, sheep to scare, and bulls to hassle.

Before I go on, just a quick note about nature and mine's relationship: it's rocky. We seem to have a lot of conflict, and I am not too keen on entering couple's therapy about it. Let's just say that nature has been sleeping on the couch for quite a long time. Moving on.

So, there I was, in the greenest, muddiest, nature-iest place I had ever seen, peacefully getting my picture taken by Megan. The picture (above) actually turned out pretty well considering what happened right as Megan snapped it.

I heard a loud "Mooooooo" behind me. Ian had been yelling at the cows, trying to get them to "yell" back. This particular "Moo", however, did not come from the mouth of a playful 10 year-old, but instead from the large, gray, angry bull behind me. At least, I think he was a bull. He could have been a cow or a cebu or a heifer, but at that point, what I called him didn't really seem to matter as much as the life that was quickly flashing before my eyes.

I remember turning to Megan in slow-motion, with wide-eyes, thinking, "I haven't met Tom Hanks, yet! I can't die." Megan was already heading to the wall. I heard the "Moo" again, this time accompanied by an angry snort, so I decided to get moving. I began running as fast as my new New Balances could take me (I hadn't actually anticipated using them for anything except walking to a mall, musical, or dinner), past Megan, up to the top of the 1900 year-old wall, huffing and puffing and praying that if the cow ate me, he would eat me fast and in one bite. That seemed like the best way go.

I turned to get help from my friends. It was either that, or I was going to say "good-bye" one last time. I just wanted them to know how much I cared for them. How much I was going to miss them. How much I cherished their friendship.

They were all on the ground cracking up. Laughing their heads off while the cow-bull sauntered off, stopping only to eat a stray dandelion.

Needless to say, Megan and I didn't talk to them for the rest of the day.

I learned a lot about myself on that trip. Am I someone who is externally motivated? By deadlines, maybe. By people's expectations of me, probably. By flesh-eating bulls, definitely.

I started thinking about this a couple of weeks ago, when I went out to dinner with my friends, Ashley and Kara. Kara was on her way to Michigan to run a half-marathon. She was, like most athletic, cute, thin, beautiful people, annoyingly pesky, and kept bringing up the Country Music Half-Marathon that would be taking place next April. Just like every time someone mentions exercise in a conversation, I wasn't listening, and I continued to eat my cheesy, meaty pizza. Ashley said something to Kara. Kara said something to Ashley. Then it was silent. When I looked up from my greasy heaven, I realized that they were waiting for me to answer.

"What? Oh. Yeah. Sure."

I went back to my meal.

"Oh, Kaitlin, I'm so excited you agreed. I can't wait to see you in April. This is going to be so much fun."

I gave Kara a confused look.

"The Country Music Half-Marathon? You said you'd do it with us. This is going to be so great!"

I sputtered cheese everywhere.

"Wha...? I didn't....I mean...I... Do you know how long a Half-Marathon is, Kara?"

13 miles. 13 long, ridiculous, disgusting miles. Running. I tried to back out of it.

"Guys, c'mon, you knoooow me. The last time I ran was from that bull in England. That was seriously 2 years ago. That's the most I've run in my life. I can't walk for a minute without getting out of breath. And I'm ok with that. I've excepted my fate. I'll die young and unexercised, but happy. Don't you want me to be happy?"

No. They didn't. They wanted me to be miserable.

I don't know what I was on, what I was drinking, or what I agreed to, but a couple days later, Ashley and I printed off a training schedule for a 10k.

I still can't believe it.

So here's what I'm asking. We've already determined that I am "externally motivated". And this training nonsense really isn't going to last if I have to depend on myself to provide the motivation. You're going to have to help me out. Ashley and I are chronicling our journey through video and blog posts, which I will be putting up here on Heavenly Hats. It's a new series that I wanted to call "Running on Empty" or "I'm not Running Anymore" or "Run, Fatboy, Run", but Ashley is determinedly positive, so we compromised. We're calling it "Cool Runnings" and will be posting our progress throughout these next four months. I have a feeling that in a couple of months, you won't have to worry at all about motivating me through this training, cause I won't be training, but Ashley says that's impossible and is determined to succeed. I have such annoying friends.

However, if my motivation became meeting this fine fellow at the finish line, I just might re-think my position (this clip is PG-13):

In 9th grade, my very good friend from church, Valerie, and I were utterly, frighteningly, and totally obsessed with The Newsboys. We were absolutely high school about it, too. You know what I mean:

We had the posters.

We had the stickers.

We had the air guitars and air drums.

In fact, whenever we sat down to breakfast, we'd sing out "Sweet and Low" and with spoons held high we'd bid our brother...(and if you can't complete this line then I disown you. Forever. Truly. Turn off your computer, sit on your bed, and think about what you've done. You disgust me.)*

The point is, we were kinda, a little bit, a whole lot in love with the Christian pop rock band from Australia (And, no, that is not a punchline.)

One night, my parents bought Valerie and I tickets to see the Newsboys in concert. We were psyched. We put on our ripped jeans (at the ankles, my jeans were always too long for me) and our Newsboys "Cpn' Crunch" shirt and our hair in super-cute pigtails (Oh, the boys would swoon when they saw us), and we piled into my Mom's mini-van positive that, in two hours, Peter Furler and Phil Joel would be proposing from the stage.

After the concert, Valerie and I ran out to the car, bright-eyed, ears popping, and pigtails askew. We had a blast. My dad, the rebel he pretends he is, asked why we weren't in there talking to them. We laughed hysterically.

"Da-ad. You can't just talk to them. They're FAMOUS. It's not like you can go backstage and say, 'Hey, I want to meet the Newsboys.' And they say, 'Ok. Come on back.' They aren't like those bands you used to listen to on those big black car wheels. These are the NEWSBOYS. Sheesh."

My dad gave me the look. I knew that look. It was the look he always gave me when he was about to do something really crazy.

The same look he gave that one time when I had been given a pink scooter for Christmas, and I told him he couldn't ride it because he was too big. He snatched the scooter away from me and rode it all the way down our steep driveway, down to the curb, hair blowing in the wind, with a crazed smile on his face...until said face made contact with the pavement and his triumphant look was colored by the gushing blood.

The same look he gave when, in Hawaii, we were snorkeling at Hanauma Bay and I told him that I didn't think we could swim any further and he said, "Sure we can." And we got swept out past the rocks, past the signs that said "Strong Current. Do not swim past this sign", and into the crashing waves that caused us to spend about twenty minutes swimming against the current to get back to the beach before I had an asthma attack.

That look.

Dad spun the car around and drove past the exiting fans, past the parking lot, whipping around to the back of the auditorium, past the security guard (who was bending down to grab a slice of pizza) and parked next to the tour bus. The Newsboys tour bus.

"Dad. Um, Dad? I don't think we're allowed to be here."

"Live a little, Kaitlin. Sheesh."

He then turned around and headed straight to the back of the stage. Valerie and I reluctantly followed and thoughts of my father ending up in some sort of Christian music jail flitted through my mind. Could he go to hell for sneaking backstage? I wasn't so sure.

He walked up to the security guard and started talking to him for a while. In the meantime, he kept pointing behind his back to have us walk past him. We did.

One of the executives from the local Christian radio station came out to us. We knew he was an executive because he said, "Hi. I'm an executive for your local Christian radio station. Do you guys want to meet the Newboys?"

Uh. Duh.

"Yes sir."

He told us to wait there, told the security guard that we were "with him", and went inside. He came out with two other ladies who gave us their...BACKSTAGE MEET AND GREET PASSES.

I wish I could remember in better detail what happened next. Valerie and I walked up to the room that said "VIP entrance" and knocked. All we saw was a mess of beautiful, blond dreadlocks shaking in our direction, asking us to enter. And enter we did. After we screamed. We were welcomed into the inner sanctum of a small press room filled with Newsboys. Phil Joel. Peter Furler. Duncan Phillips. Jody Davis. Jeff Frankenstein. I'm sorry to say that we screamed again.

After getting autographs, fawning in a way only 14 year-olds can, and actually hugging Phil Joel and Peter Furler, we went back to the car.

"Dad, your my hero."

I guess you're wondering what this has to do with AIN'T. Come on, Kaitlin, get to the point. This has nothing to do with Nashville and how wonderful it is. Au contraire, my inpatient blog readers. (Besides, you know you're skimming this anyway. You probably didn't even read what I wrote above. So chillax.)

Last Sunday, after church, a group of us decided to go grab something to eat before heading over to the Frist to see the free Georgia O'Keeffe exhibit. We were over at Green Hills so people had the option of going to a couple different amazing places (Pei Wei, 5 guys, Zoe's...all reasons why Nashville rocks). A few of us went to Zoe's. After I paid and got my limeade, I sat down at the booth a few people were saving. We were all talking until someone said, "Isn't that the guy from The Newsboys?"

My heart stopped. I slowly, and very sneakily, peeked. I let out a squeal after I saw a mess of beautiful, blond dreadlocks. (Old habits die hard.) Fortunately, Phil Joel didn't hear me and kept on eating his grilled chicken pita. But my face was burning. I kept trying to sneak peeks at him during the meal. He got up to get a refill. He took his son to the bathroom. He was normal. He was eating in the same place I was.

Of course, being the mature 22-almost 23-year-old that I am, I refrained from accosting him with a scream, hug, and a pen. I am above such nonsense (and Ashley was holding me back).

But this is the city I live in. A city where a Newsboy eats at a public, fresh Mediterranean kitchen. A city where, when walking to Books-A-Million, you can find the Kings of Leon practicing "Use Somebody" outside the cafe before the big concert that night. (I didn't realize it was actually them until I went home and saw their picture in the paper. Thank goodness I didn't say what I was thinking: "You sound just like the Kings of Leon. Keep it up. You could be famous.")

I love this city.



*You don't disgust me. I got a little carried away. Please forgive me. But, really, come on. It's "Cheerio". Get it? "Cheerio"? Cause it's the Breakfast Song and they are saying "Cheerio" like the cereal, but in context it means "good-bye" in British Speak. Oh, Newsboys, you slay me.

I have soapboxes.

My soapboxes are very soapy. In fact, my soapboxes are so soapy that if you were to get within a ten mile radius of said boxes you would be clean for a year. Yeah. That soapy.

Did you know that the term soapbox came from London, when in Speaker's Corner at Hyde Park, people would literally stand on literal soapboxes to yell their thoughts about politics, aliens, and literature to random passersby?

At least, that's where I think the term came from. What do I look like? Google? Look it up.

Soapbox #265: People who look up what I tell them to look up. It takes the fun out of thinking I know everything.

Anyway, my point is, I have opinions. And like any 20-something smart-mouth know-it-all, I think my opinions are right. That's a 20-something thing.

Or maybe just a girl thing.

I can usually rein in my opinions. If I'm in dissenting company, I try to be calm, collected, and *coughmaturecough*. We'll talk about it, we'll disagree, and then we'll eat. Because sharing a good meal (or milkshake, or McDonald's french fries, or PeiWei's edamame) can really bring harmony, unity, and peace to a relationship. I don't know why we just didn't send Iraq some edamame.

Soapbox #367: People who won't eat edamame because of Men's Health. (You know who you are.)

Seriously, edamame is durn good. Durn is a word I learned here in Nashville. I use it when I want to feel native.

So, you see, I have this soapbox thing. And it can get me into trouble sometimes. Like at McDonald's, yesterday, when I asked for two sweet-and-sour dipping sauces, and one hot mustard dipping sauce, and the person behind the clown counter told me I'd have to pay for that extra sauce even though I had payed an exorbitant amount for the Monopoly Scam Combo of Chicken Nuggets (Soapbox #23). I wasn't very happy.

Of course, I was in a bad mood already from the very nice, but extremely unhelpful government-run office dealing an application I had submitted three months ago. I had heard zilch from said office and when I asked when I could expect payment, the operator said, "Um, well, I don't really know. Maybe check back in week or two?" (Soapbox #51).

And all these soapboxes begin to pile up and make for a really crummy day. And it begins to take all my strength not to embrace the snark building up within me, and stand up on my soapbox and shout to the world the "right" way to act. And then I have to hold my tongue, because something as simple as a slow car in the turn lane or a Mariah Carey song on the radio really sets me off.

Ever have days like these?

I wonder why Jesus never preached from his soapbox.

Think about it.

He preached from a wooden boat. He preached from a man's dirty and smelly foot. He preached from a leper colony and a little boy's lunch. He preached from a donkey.

He preached from the cross.

But not once, ever, did Jesus preach from his soapbox.

I, who am so quick to argue, and debate, and complain, claim to follow the One who had every right to all of these, but, instead, spoke with words of truth, love, compassion, and conviction.

I am humbled by James who seems to focus a lot on the tongue and its connection to holiness.

"Every one should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires. Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you." James 1:19-21

"If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not keep a tight rein on his tongue, he deceives himself and his religion is worthless." James 1:26

"Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom." James 2:12

"When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go. Likewise the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell. All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and creatures of the sea are being tamed and have been tamed by man, but no man can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in God's likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water." James 3:3-12

This is certainly eye-opening...and mouth-closing.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I can, and often do, soapbox with the best of them. I can tell you a million reasons why I support this politician over this one, or why I think that Tom Hanks is a better actor than any actor ever, or why, even, I go to this church over this other one.

But I know me too. And I know that this tongue of mine has landed me into some...predicaments.

Like when I wrote a critical letter to Aramark calling them "penny pinching thieves of students' hard-earned money." Or when I wrote another letter to a certain leader of a certain Spring Break campaign that I regretted the moment I pressed "send."

It seems like I have to be constantly reminded of Jesus' example. A Jesus who did not take a soapbox and stand in the middle of the Temple, but a Jesus who threw the soapboxes (and tables) out of the Temple in order to make way for the true meaning of worship.

May I learn how to turn my soapboxes into boats, donkeys, and crosses.

I have a couple of posts making their way to this blog slowly but maybe not as slow as I was last Saturday when I ran *coughwalkedcough* 2 miles.

Anyway, in the meantime, lest you believed I forgot about you, oh invisible readers to my wonderfully insightful and meaningful blog, watch this:

People often come up to me throughout the day and hound me with questions about my life. Random people. People I don't even know. Seriously. I'm not making this up. Don't even think about checking it either. If I don't know them, then you certainly don't.

Anyway.

They ask questions:

"Kaitlin, where did you get your beautiful hair?"

"Kaitlin, where did your hip-ness come from?"

"Kaitlin, how come you are so witty?"

"Kaitlin, will you marry me?"

And whilst I have not the time (or room) on this blog to answer those questions in depth, I can sum up in a few words:

My Aunt Lori.

(I guess that wouldn't really work for the last question, would it? Oh well. If you want that answer, Tom Hanks, just give me a call on the cell. I'll get back with you shortly.)

At the risk of sounding sentimental, weepy, and a lot like a girl (or a Jonas Brother), I can not begin to express how much my aunt means to me.

*we interrupt this sentimental post for a breaking blog announcement*


10) Aunt Lori collects cats. Not like the crazy cat lady kind of cat collector. Seriously. She's like the cool, antique, hip waving cat and kitty cat teapot collector. With a few coconut monkeys thrown in.

9) She makes a mean onion chip dip. At all the parties, everyone is begging her for her dip. I think her neighbor, George Bush, came to her house one time and said, "Lori, if you do not make me some dip right now, so help me, I will sell America back to England." You have my aunt to thank for your freedom.

8) She would rather live in California than Texas. And that's one of the many reasons I love her so much.

7) She has a biting sense of humor. Very witty, very funny, very Jim Gaffigan-esque. She can make the most complex to the simplest of creatures laugh. Isn't that right, Dad?

6) She would kill for Mexican food. Seriously.

5) She went on a first date with a now very famous preacher. He took her shoe shopping. For his own shoes. It was their last date.

4) She loves tomatoes. It's true. She would forgo a cruise to Australia if it interfered with California tomato picking season. (Could be true...I've never offered her a trip to Australia. Will have to test it out. Any one want to send me two cruise tickets to Sydney?)

3) She would be Mormon if she could marry both Donny Osmond and Robert Redford.

2) She has a Masters and supervises a large staff, but still thinks Facebook is complicated.

1) She loves massages more than anything in this world, but hates it when people touch her pillow.

*end of announcement*

Aunt Lori and I go way back. Like, almost 23 years. And the relationship we've forged has been one based on mutual respect, mutual understanding, and a mutual desire to give my dad a really hard time.

My parents told me that when I was a baby, every time my aunt would walk into a room, my face would light up and I'd burst into fits of laughter. Not baby giggles, but full on, weird, freaky, adult-ish guffaws. She knew how to cheer me up even at 6 months.

As I grew, she became a constant part of my life. Every vacation, I'd see her. And she was a great babysitter too. We'd watch All That and laugh at Kenan acting like a Frenchman in the bathtub. We'd read books together and she'd play me music. Good music, that she had found and I would hear on the radio close to a month later.

We were (and still most definitely are) wonderful friends. At Christmas, I'd get the coolest presents from her (and still most definitely do). She's the one to thank for my TalkGirl, my Barbie dream-car, my skip-bo, my first CD (Hanson), my IPod, and a smattering of awesomely creative photo albums, picture frames, and pieces of furniture I'll have for the rest of my life.

In a phrase, my Aunt Lori has been responsible for my being culture-fied. Not to be confused with country-fied. Which, that's different post altogether. (Looking forward to March 2, 2010).

I'm not saying we didn't have our differences. When I was just 7, she rolled me out of the bed we were sharing for kicking her in the shins 100 too many times. Sheesh...get some tougher legs, woman. Also, when I was 9, I kept her up all night talking in my sleep. All I was saying was, "Come here little fishy, Come here." Nothing to be alarmed about. Hey, could I help it if we had watched The Little Mermaid the night before? I didn't deserve that pillow she threw at my head.

But besides the few and expected sleep wars we've had, we get along pretty well.

I used to think that my Aunt Lori was secretly a super-hero. That anytime she came to visit, she had come from saving the world, and her cape was stashed in her suitcase. I wanted to be around her every minute stayed with us, and I can even remember crying one year when they made me go to bed before her. I knew, unequivocably, that when Aunt Lori was around, so was Fun.

Now that I'm older, I realize that I was not too far off.

Aunt Lori is a beautiful woman who has dedicated her entire life to helping those who are broken, hurting, and poor. A woman who has often went without to provide for and help others around her. A woman with a spirit shining the love of God and a life that blesses all who know her. A woman that our family is incomplete without. A woman who's house, when robbed for the third time, yesterday, the day before her birthday, found the humor in the situation and joked with us. A women who has taught me that life is about living unselfishly for others and laughter is the therapy that keeps you going.

She is a super-hero. She is my hero.

Happy Birthday, Aunt Lori.

You deserve it.