<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067</id><updated>2012-02-15T23:34:32.508-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Illflyaway</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>12</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-4645259208125099091</id><published>2010-10-21T11:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-10-21T11:42:03.453-07:00</updated><title type='text'>New People Take Awhile To Turn Into New Friends...</title><content type='html'>I help out at youth group. Thought that would be a super way to give back. Um, yeah. I'm afraid of teenage girls. Was when I was a teenager...still am. In an attempt to lessen that anxiety (of being in a huge room with tons of 13 year old girls I don't yet know...or any other adult for that matter) I try and strike up a conversation with some other leaders-they know kids (or a least know how to act around them). So in walks this girl and I KNOW HER. That's the intern's wife. Mikayla!! I yell. And she looks at me strangely. Hmmm...maybe that's because we've NEVER ACTUALLY MET! OOOH..that's right. I have facebook stalked her before. Probably should have kept that one to myself. Um, yeah. &lt;br /&gt;So she walks over. &lt;br /&gt;"Hi" I say, and stick out my hand to shake hers."You don't know me but I know Seth, your Mikayla right" &lt;br /&gt;"Yeeeeah..."&lt;br /&gt;"My hand's not sweaty" I say. (WAIT&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;WHAT!?!?! I'm sorry, is this your first public appearance? WHO SAYS THAT!!!)&lt;br /&gt;She just stares awkwardly at me...I"m staring awkwardly at my hand and then I awkwardly close my eyes and take a deep breath. I shake my head (while constant streams of WHAT THE CRAP IS WRONG WITH YOU run through my head). "I mean, its not sweat, its condensation. I had a cup in my hand and it was condensating. So its not sweat its condensation from the cup. I do sweat a lot though"&lt;br /&gt;Silence.&lt;br /&gt;"My name's Becky by the way"&lt;br /&gt;Silence. Followed by the pity smile.&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, sorry I'm so awkward."&lt;br /&gt;WHO at the age of 26...can't figure out how to introduce themselves to someone. No I was not homeschooled, no I'm not some anti-social nerdy girl. SERIOUSLY&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-4645259208125099091?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/4645259208125099091/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=4645259208125099091' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/4645259208125099091'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/4645259208125099091'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2010/10/new-people-take-awhile-to-turn-into-new.html' title='New People Take Awhile To Turn Into New Friends...'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-8860606218295536077</id><published>2010-02-02T06:56:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-02T07:07:48.015-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Part 2. Since I apparently write once a year, we all know embarrassing things happen more than once a year.</title><content type='html'>Ok, so I had a date. Yes...its true, I did. &lt;br /&gt;Its always way more amazing when you both have issues with awkwardness. But it also makes me feel way better about myself that I am not the only one creating the pain in the room. Sometimes I wish Abby was there to help coach us out of the awkwardness. But since Dylan is obviously more important than my social life...I continue to be at a loss.  So we walk to dinner. I warn him several times that I have balance issues, feet picking up issues, ice/snow issues, pretty much issues with everything. I gave fair warning. Things went fine for the most part during dinner.... errr...:) yeah.&lt;br /&gt;Well we walk home, I carried my left overs because something in my mind told me that carrying an overly full go carton of red curry was a super good idea...in the snow and ice and slush puddles. But I made it. I made it all the way back home. I ran into him a couple times walking but I never dropped the carton, never fell...never even skidded, avoided all puddles that would consume my tiny little slip on (because I grew up in MT and STILL forget snow boots when I go into the mountains fully aware that it is and has been snowing FEET of fresh pow.) &lt;br /&gt;I made it, I was so proud, yes there was awkward conversation....jokes that fell flat, stories that didn't go anywhere, sentences that flew past each other, sometimes we weren't on the same page...or even in the same book for that matter. But I didn't embarrass myself. Chalk one up for the solo team Becky! I made it. Smmmmooth. &lt;br /&gt;Or not, we walk into his house, and a friend had stopped over to visit. I round the corner to introduce myself like the cool chick that I am...and he starts laughing hysterically.  I, of course, am instantly confused....then he points at my pants, and I look down. My curry...that I kept in the cup...was ALL DOWN MY LEG, ALL OVER BOTH SHOES...ALL OVER. AHHHHHHHH. The boy...yeah, he starts laughing too....like, falling over laughing. I just stood there in utter amazement of myself. SUPER BEC...Stellar first impression. So I spent the rest of the night smelling like sweaty curry.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-8860606218295536077?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/8860606218295536077/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=8860606218295536077' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/8860606218295536077'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/8860606218295536077'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2010/02/part-2-since-i-apparently-write-once.html' title='Part 2. Since I apparently write once a year, we all know embarrassing things happen more than once a year.'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-6345079173373648593</id><published>2010-02-02T06:40:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-02T06:52:20.085-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Ice is not my friend</title><content type='html'>And neither is snow.  Casey doesn't even laugh anymore when I fall down (actually, I don't know if he ever has). He just stares at me like, "pa--leese...try and control you body extremities!" But thankfully dear Casey is such a good friend that he just continues to put up with me despite how awkward, clumsy and embarrassing I am. So we go skiing. We are on a cat track (that's one of those flat groomed runs that kinda leads to downhill runs that are further across the mountain....let's be real...there is only a slight slope on these things, like if you didn't have speed before you started, getting across them pretty much ruins your day (or your mom's coat with the stench of sweat you produce trying to nortek track your way across a mountain)).  So we are on a cat track, Case is behind me (slow as usual) and so I stop to turn and see if he is coming. And he's flying! So I quickly turn around to start back up, I didn't even lift a ski or a pole. I WASN'T EVEN MOVING. I just tipped over, off the cat track and into the trees. Sweet. I LOVE digging myself out of powder while I"m upside down with 5 foot posts pulling in the opposite direction. Casey, as usual, doesn't offer to help he just stands there staring at me like it is impossible that this is happening. &lt;br /&gt;Later, we stop at the grocery store to buy some stuff for dinner. I'm in clogs, Casey is in ski boots. Ski boots are hard to walk in, not clogs. There is snow in the parking lot, but not on the side walks. They are clean and dry. Clean and dry all except for a small circle about the size of the saucer you use with a coffee cup...and I stepped on it. And Down she goes! Awesome, that's what Casey said....but not like AWESOME! It was dripping in sarcasm. The kid just walked across the parking lot in ski boots, he also walked all over a tiled grocery store sans problems....yeah...winter.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-6345079173373648593?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/6345079173373648593/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=6345079173373648593' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/6345079173373648593'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/6345079173373648593'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2010/02/ice-is-not-my-friend.html' title='Ice is not my friend'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-470832754210592858</id><published>2009-09-05T07:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-05T07:39:55.596-07:00</updated><title type='text'>2 toe nails down...</title><content type='html'>That's right, they are gone, frightfully so....&lt;br /&gt;2 weekends ago I went backpacking 28 miles with my brand new hiking boots. They are beautiful and wonderful, but had never been worn. I've been wearing flipyfloppies all summer long. My feet haven't been enclosed in a shoe in...months. Anyway, the first 12 miles went fine...it was the second set, the next ten, that killed me. I got huge blisters on both my heels (we are talking huge, like bigger than a 50 cent piece), one on each big toe and then one on each of the two toes after that. Oh, and one on the outside of my foot. So by day three, walking wasn't really working out well for me. I pretty much stumbled along for 6 miles and then fell over at the car. Anyway, I popped the blisters on each of the second toe only to realize they both went under my toe nail, lifting it up...and then last week, pulling them off. I realize that this is very disgusting...but your still reading right?! Ok, all that to say, I now only have 8 toe nails and I am afraid the other 2 won't grow back, or they won't grow back the same. :( Laurey tried to comfort me and tell me I could just paint the skin and no one would know. We will see.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ37GUPOmI/AAAAAAAAA-I/N5j0Bv6_9JQ/s1600-h/Picture+109.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ37GUPOmI/AAAAAAAAA-I/N5j0Bv6_9JQ/s200/Picture+109.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377992762225277538" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is the beginning&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ36bC4OxI/AAAAAAAAA-A/CUTntSyHCAY/s1600-h/Picture+061.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ36bC4OxI/AAAAAAAAA-A/CUTntSyHCAY/s200/Picture+061.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377992750609742610" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Having a good time&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ354-bcRI/AAAAAAAAA94/AQfJPv6HFFs/s1600-h/Picture+046.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ354-bcRI/AAAAAAAAA94/AQfJPv6HFFs/s200/Picture+046.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377992741464273170" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;boots of death&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ35TKyKSI/AAAAAAAAA9w/r--aO9kcA9Q/s1600-h/Picture+042.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ35TKyKSI/AAAAAAAAA9w/r--aO9kcA9Q/s200/Picture+042.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377992731315546402" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;wanting to die&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-470832754210592858?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/470832754210592858/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=470832754210592858' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/470832754210592858'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/470832754210592858'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/09/2-toe-nails-down.html' title='2 toe nails down...'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SqJ37GUPOmI/AAAAAAAAA-I/N5j0Bv6_9JQ/s72-c/Picture+109.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-7414578798756841535</id><published>2009-05-15T18:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-15T19:43:00.717-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Goob</title><content type='html'>Goob didn't learn to share cookies from Mom apparently :) I can't even stand how freaking cute this boy is!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;object width="320" height="266" class="BLOG_video_class" id="BLOG_video-3741d871c8458eb4" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" 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href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/7414578798756841535/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=7414578798756841535' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/7414578798756841535'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/7414578798756841535'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/05/goob.html' title='Goob'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-6207990619557380885</id><published>2009-05-15T18:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-15T18:56:03.312-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Will My Ankles Ever Be The Same Again? ... Probably Not :(</title><content type='html'>um, oops I did it again...fall that is. I know I'm not a graceful runner, but there are so many other things that would have been so much better than what happened on Monday night.  3 Words, Slow Pitch Softball.  No I did not strike out, I made it on base (serveral times actually but only because they had a girl at first that couldn't catch the ball to save her own life.) So when the dude behind me hit the ball to left field, I dedcided second base was not good enough....Noooooo....I'm going for 3rd.  (The ball's in left, I'm not wearing cleats, I'm out of shape, the ball's in LEFT, we are playing with boys, THE BALL'S IN LEFT) I run, full speed...which really isn't much faster than the average Joe's mild jog. I'm thinking that by wedging my foot into third base I'll just slow myself to a stop. Funny how when you are zooming SLAMMING your foot into a bag doesn't stop you.  Of course I twist my sweet little ankle and go flying past the third base coach, practically into the other teams dug out..  and  PAIN!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh my gosh, I had to crawl as fast as my little hands and knees could carry me back to the bag.  EVERYONE in sight is laughing hysterically.  Which is fine b/c I am too ( I can only imagine what that must have looked like) but now I can't stand up.  I just sit on the base staring up at my darling friend Casey (the 3rd base coach), wanting to scream my eyes out, and repeating...I can't get up Case, can't do it.  But, like usual everyone thinks I'm being dramatic...so I try and pull myself together. I stand, my sister is up to bat...all I can think is, "either strike out and get us out of this inning or you better frickin hit that ball over the fence so I can walk/hobble to home...cause I'm not running."  YEah, now my ankle is the size of the softball and my toes are black and blue again. 2 time in 6 months (which, btw, my ankle never returned down to normal size from that experience), so i'm due for another one about.....Oct or Nov. if anyone's interested in the show.... I'll keep you posted.&lt;br /&gt;Sincerely, &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;cankles.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-6207990619557380885?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/6207990619557380885/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=6207990619557380885' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/6207990619557380885'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/6207990619557380885'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/05/will-my-ankles-ever-be-same-again.html' title='Will My Ankles Ever Be The Same Again? ... Probably Not :('/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-1705075146199121761</id><published>2009-04-10T11:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-10T11:47:04.458-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Don't Worry, I Have WAY More Problems.</title><content type='html'>Um...in my normal awkward manner...I have once again embarrassed myself (like, open mouth, insert foot). Surprising, not really.  A couple nights ago I was 'studying' at the coffee shop.  My neighbor and I were sitting at a table together, and one of his friends,Grant, was standing at the end talking.  There were no other open tables (popular joint), so i envited him to sit down, and he did.  So this boy and my neighbor are mercilessly making fun of me and I reference something I had talked about before...to which their faces held the response of 'what the heck are you talking about, you are CRAZY'.  They just shake their heads.  So I yell, 'Look, just because you can't hear....' I couldn't even finish my sentence because I forgot Grant WEARS HEARING AIDS! My neighbor's mouth just drops wide open.  I sit there staring at Grant and I can feel my face burning. (Grant's a pretty funny, easy going guy, for as long as I've known him (since Jr high), he has worn hearing aids and he's not super sensitive about it..but still...really Becky?! really?!). "Why don't you just keep making fun of my disability, Becky, go ahead." I just stared...I apologized by saying, "Grant, the words just started coming out and I couldn't stop them before I realized what I was saying" (nice apology?!).  So we laugh it off and keep talking.  But as the converstation goes on, I further embarrass myself in an attempt to make up for what happened before. We are talking about school work, and I was trying to tell him that I'm pretty much ADD and dyslexic. But I prefice it by saying, 'don't worry Grant, I have way more problems than you'.  And then I realized that was not the right choice of words.  Jokingly Grant says, 'so you are insinuating that my hearing aids are a "problem"?' .....keeping digging Becky, keep digging.  Its a little thing we like to call tact, and yeah, I don't have it.&lt;br /&gt;No worries, unlike me, Grant can sail through awkwardness with flying colors...and just make fun of me in the process.&lt;br /&gt;I need a FILTER!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-1705075146199121761?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/1705075146199121761/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=1705075146199121761' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/1705075146199121761'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/1705075146199121761'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/04/dont-worry-i-have-way-more-problems.html' title='Don&apos;t Worry, I Have WAY More Problems.'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-5534291748212822060</id><published>2009-04-07T09:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-07T09:42:21.673-07:00</updated><title type='text'>My little babies!</title><content type='html'>&lt;A href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/Sdt-ruuiVsI/AAAAAAAAA9k/xDWwyAoPNI4/s1600-h/Picture+144.jpg"&gt;&lt;IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321986674411067074 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/Sdt-ruuiVsI/AAAAAAAAA9k/xDWwyAoPNI4/s200/Picture+144.jpg" border=0&gt;&lt;/A&gt; &lt;A href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/Sdt-rfIakUI/AAAAAAAAA9c/NDjpY_iFd14/s1600-h/Picture+132.jpg"&gt;&lt;IMG id=BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321986670224642370 style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/Sdt-rfIakUI/AAAAAAAAA9c/NDjpY_iFd14/s200/Picture+132.jpg" border=0&gt;&lt;/A&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-5534291748212822060?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/5534291748212822060/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=5534291748212822060' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/5534291748212822060'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/5534291748212822060'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-little-babies.html' title='My little babies!'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/Sdt-ruuiVsI/AAAAAAAAA9k/xDWwyAoPNI4/s72-c/Picture+144.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-1948915050952201742</id><published>2009-03-26T10:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-26T10:15:15.805-07:00</updated><title type='text'>From the wise Elisabeth Elliot</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;The Face of Jesus&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The face of Jesus: &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;marred more than any man--&lt;br /&gt;spit upon, &lt;br /&gt;slapped, &lt;br /&gt;thorn-pierced, &lt;br /&gt;bloodied, &lt;br /&gt;sweating, &lt;br /&gt;the beard plucked, &lt;br /&gt;twisted in pain-- &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For my salvation. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A glorious face, now. &lt;br /&gt;Let its light shine on me, O Light of Life. &lt;br /&gt;Let Your radiance fall on me, Sun and Savior, &lt;br /&gt;Lighten my darkness. &lt;br /&gt;Then grant me this by Your grace: &lt;br /&gt;That I, in turn, may give &lt;br /&gt;"The light of the knowledge of the glory of God" (2 Cor 4:6 AV) &lt;br /&gt;As I see it in the face of Jesus Christ.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-1948915050952201742?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/1948915050952201742/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=1948915050952201742' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/1948915050952201742'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/1948915050952201742'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/03/from-wise-elisabeth-elliot.html' title='From the wise Elisabeth Elliot'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-6715047140791323511</id><published>2009-03-01T17:44:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-01T20:37:57.479-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Adventures to the big Cities :)</title><content type='html'>Well....there was about 6 inches on the ground when I left the good old M T on Friday. Snow storm headed east, that's the direction I was going. Wahoo! I love driving in snow (but not really) but I did anyway. 3 Hours outside of Billings, I stop in Glendive for gas. As I pull of the off ramp, I notice my car sounds a little funny, my tires. I get out and the ice in my wheel wells has built up so much that it is rubbing on my tires. YIKES. So I start to kick, naturally :) After bruising both of my big toes I give up and decided the best solution would be to melt it in the car wash, I finish gassing, run inside to pee and pay (a little confused why the truckers were smiling at me, until i remembered my recent actions. I"m sure it was lovely). Anywhoooo away I drive down the road into a town i know NOTHING about. No car wash. Is it safe to drive with ice touching your tires? Probably not, so I get out with my ice scraper, get down on my hands and knees and just pound with all my might. I am on main street, on my knees, next to my car, in zero degree weather....Did i mention I still need to purchase a belt. Yep, I was that person that you always make fun of sitting there on the side of the street. I gave up, after getting about 80% off, and drive to Bismark.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bismark has car washes :) Five dollars is all you need to suds my little baby up and rinse her with warm water. But its the Dakotas, its so cold the soap is freezing to the car as it hits it. I get rinsed and exit the car wash....no such luck. Ice? Still there...touching my tire. :( bad, but...its getting late and I have a date with the Couch in Beth's apartment which is still 6 hours away. So I drive on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fargo....I get off at my usual exit, at my usual gas station. (oh, side note...my car door is broken so I have to roll down the window and open it up from the outside) I try to roll down my window. FROZEN SHUT! AHHHHHH I'm trapped inside my car. Wait, Wait, no no...I have a passenger's side door...which is also FROZEN SHUT but I manage to get out. I go to the gas tank...frozen shut, now what....I Can'T Get stuck in Fargo! I am far to close to the cities to quit now. :( ahhh. Mean while my neighbor calls. I am in freak out mode so I'm yelling at him with a loud high pitched voice as I tell him that I"m going back through the drive through to thaw out my car. "its just going to freeze again, Becky" he tells me but he stays on the line while I wash and then go to the pump. I get out....Gas tank....STILL STUCK SHUT. I'm yelling this into the phone: HOW COME IT WON"T OPEN?!?!? so I break it open, put the hose in the tank and pull up on the lever...its not pumping. I yell that at him too. Loud and High Pitched (I'm sure he loved it, apparently so did everyone else at the other 12 gas pumps) I hang up the phone, turn around and look at all the other gas pumpers staring at me in confusion and concern...probably thinking-should this girl be driving a car if she can't even figure out how to pump her own gas??--that's probably what I would be thinking. I smiled, waved, and got in my car and drove away. Don't worry, I remembered to remove the hose and return it to its latch on the pump. AND I made it to the cities safely....the ice is still on the car.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-6715047140791323511?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/6715047140791323511/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=6715047140791323511' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/6715047140791323511'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/6715047140791323511'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/03/adventures-to-big-cities.html' title='Adventures to the big Cities :)'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-683318462571185363</id><published>2009-02-02T21:19:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-02T21:34:03.147-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The times I fell down around Trevor and Josh are too numerous to count...</title><content type='html'>Okay Taps, sorry, this should have been the first one....&lt;br /&gt;Okay, so obviously I fall all the time....but probably never made more of a fool out of myself then when I was around Trevor and Josh.  Probably because they never stopped picking on me, so there were always obstacles in my way/near me/on me....&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, one particular night as we were leaving the U, we entered the parking garage on the second floor (how..i don't know) which is fine except that we parked on the first floor.  So sporty Trevor and Josh jump the 3 foot concrete divider which is topped by a half foot of chain linked fence and walk away.  Knowing my stability problems... I try and refuse.  But Trevor and Josh don't care and keep walking.  I didn't want to get left behind so I stand on the half wall and attempt to step over the chain link fence. By this point, my pants are slightly slipping off my hips and oh...did I mention I'm wearing clogs......I know in my head there is no way this is going to end happily.  And of course, it doesn't.   Jump down quickly, my head way out infront of the rest of my body, so I start running to try and catch my feet up to my head.  All that's left to say is BAMBI on ice.  That's probably what it looked like.  I fell...on the parking garage floor, splat.  Hands bleeding, covered head to toe in blackness and dirt.  Bleeding and dirty.  Trevor and Josh almost made it all the way home before they lost it in the car and started laughing. Thanks boys.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-683318462571185363?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/683318462571185363/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=683318462571185363' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/683318462571185363'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/683318462571185363'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/02/times-i-fell-down-around-trevor-and.html' title='The times I fell down around Trevor and Josh are too numerous to count...'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6259018988618423067.post-7756849139310436520</id><published>2009-02-02T10:45:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-02T10:46:28.124-08:00</updated><title type='text'>mhmmmmmmmm</title><content type='html'>Okay so Katie told me I could write a book about all my awkward moments in life, but since I've never been good at writing...&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;I'm&lt;/span&gt; blogging (ugh, that word makes me cringe) them instead. For all of you I don't talk to nearly enough ....here is my life in a few words to make you feel better about yours. Mind you ....all these events are sans alcohol...I'm really just this stupid and clumsy all on my own :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't really know where to start because I have been living in a hole for the last few weeks since school started again....I did however step on my own skirt the other day when I stood up...which of course pulled it off...not all the way mind you but really?! who does that? me apparently...I don't need anyone to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;de&lt;/span&gt;-pants me (or &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;de&lt;/span&gt;-skirt me) give me five minutes and I'll do it myself.&lt;br /&gt;Also, here is an all time &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;fav&lt;/span&gt;. Have you ever tripped walking UP the stairs? I'm pretty sure we all have....but it aways makes it worse when your backpack comes over your shoulders/over your head...pulling up your shirt, causing a traffic jam on the stairs. People around you are side stepping over you thinking "i thought the special ed classes were in the other building". There is just no recovering your cool after stuff like that happens. nope....and when you laugh at yourself by yourself...people really start to wonder. This is why I believe (&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;always&lt;/span&gt; have/always will) its better to fall down with friends. (especially when those friends just laugh and take pictures while you lay in the middle of the street with oncoming traffic...you know who you are...)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6259018988618423067-7756849139310436520?l=gazeupon.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/feeds/7756849139310436520/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6259018988618423067&amp;postID=7756849139310436520' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/7756849139310436520'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6259018988618423067/posts/default/7756849139310436520'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://gazeupon.blogspot.com/2009/02/mhmmmmmmmm.html' title='mhmmmmmmmm'/><author><name>Illflyaway</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/04632801201341925784</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_upeKWnxfaYA/SRTZWjs0JgI/AAAAAAAAA8g/r0Pw5Hzq-0k/S220/fall+284.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry></feed>
