The Blame Game and why I don't play

Alternate title: The one where Nat finally talks about Dating

For the most part, other than a few exceptions here and there (that I'll have to mentally catalog at some point in the not too distant future), I don't play the Blame Game. I can take ownership for how I'm feeling, how I'm behaving, and I can admit that I'm wrong. Or that I'm unreasonable. (Or that I don't stand too close to black lights because my front teeth are capped and it's mortifying to have them glow in the dark brighter than the others.)

I've noticed an alarming trend in both real and fake Facebook life. It seems that everyone is blaming everyone for everything. E v e r y t h i n g. I don't even have to give you outlandish examples because chances are good you've seen them on your own. Have you noticed it? Are you as bothered about it as I am? Or am I noticing all the red cars on the road after I too purchase a red car?

In the last few weeks, there's been an inordinate amount of dating and relationship blame game happening on Facebook; some of it no-doubt prompted by some of the talks given at a General Conference my church has twice a year. What a disaster. Rarely, if ever (and if by ever do I really mean never) do I discuss dating here. Well surprise! I'm 9 days from my 5-year blogavversary and I finally have something to say. Raise your hand if you agree with me. Or leaving me a scathing comment if you don't. But I can't handle it one second longer.

Love is a miracle. The hows, whys, and whens about two people loving each other the same unconditional amount to settle down and commit to each other for eternity--well boy howdy, I don't think that's something you can manufacture. (Ignore the nuances between can and should for the sake of my argument.) I'm over the hump of feeling sad I'm not married and so grateful that some of my closest friends, and sisters, and parents, and people I use to go to church with, and classmates, and swing bandmates (another story for another day), and host of ex-roommates, and sister-cousins, and Boston friends, and Arizona, Utah, and Oregon friends and my friends' parents... how grateful I am that they've all experienced a miracle! BECAUSE OH MY GOSH IT WILL BE A MIRACLE WHEN IT HAPPENS FOR ME TOO.

You see, I'm what I like to consider a niche person. If the population of people represent a bell curve, I'd most definitely lie closer to an outlier position. (+4 standard deviations! and there ends my statistics knowledge.) It doesn't mean there aren't other people like me in the world, it just means there are less of me. And here's a fun fact into a world I never crack open on this blog--when it comes to men, I either immediately connect and we hit the ground running and we never stop talking and ohmygosh the banter goes back and forth and we're basically living the version of what would happen if Aaron Sorkin ever decided to write a Romantic Comedy. Or we don't hit it off and Welcome to Friend Zone and I'm not too broken up over it.

These revelations shouldn't completely surprise you as I've nattered on for five years about next to nothing--and it's either your type of writing or it's not. (Congratulations readers, if any of you were dudes, we mighta almost had it all. And married dude readers, you missed this catch but CONGRATS ON YOUR MIRACLE.) So, in a very long-winded round-about multi-hyphenated way, I'm saying I don't blame anyone for me not being married yet. I don't blame the men of the Church, the men of the world, and I definitely don't blame myself. So I've had it with the Blame Game. Can't we all just accept that you/I/insertSingleAnyoneHere haven't met the right one yet?

I, like many of my readers, and friends, know the state of the single state. It's not much different here in Boston than in California, or Utah, or anywhere else as an active Mormon. There's no silver bullet destination for optimal miracle cultivation. You just wait, and live your life, and love who you are and do fun stuff. I mean, that doesn't sound so bad, right? You enjoy your job, and you watch some TV and read some books, and stamp your passport, and work on ironing out the kinks in you for awhile. You make, cultivate and curate meaningful relationships. You wait, hope for, and continue to believe in miracles.

Am I being naive about this? Married ladies, let's hear it. How much about your marriage had to do with what you were doing to lure him in? How much was it that you just ::cliche alert!:: clicked? Singles, I'm hosting a Royal Brunch for the Royal Wedding in two weeks. Consider joining me, because I do nichey things when left to my own devices. Believe in miracles!

Conversation of the Day*

While discussing this article: Why I can't stop reading Mormon housewife blogs

JHK: I missed the boat on being a Mormon hipster in so many ways.

Nat: yes you did

JHK: HA. There's still hope for you though. You're skinny and have that hair and the yellow plaid shirt.

Nat: Hahahahaha. Never gonna happen.

JHK: Yeah, you're already too rich to be a hipster. Plus you like sports.

Nat: You're on a roll.

JHK: When I want to hate on things that are different than me, I can go on and on.

-------------------------------
* A series my friend Stephanie posts to on a regular basis. I finally made the cut after 3 years of trying.

conditioning

If my 3rd grade study of human physiology remains correct, the body is said to be 70% water.

I, however, drink more Diet Coke than probably any one you know. Not hyperbole this time, just the facts. DC definitely makes up 70% of my body.

Elixir sanctioned by my own great-grandma: "Better a small glass of Diet Coke than a harsh word to a loved one."

If you haven't heard, a giant water line broke here in Boston on Saturday night, so thirty-three communities are under a "boil water for safety" issue as the emergency water running through the faucets is pulling from lakes and reservoirs and hasn't been fully treated. Showering in the water is fine, but keep your mouth closed or suffer the consequences.

PEOPLE. I'VE BEEN TRAINING MY WHOLE LIFE FOR THIS EVENT.

Drinking 8 parts Coke to 1 part water has come in exceptionally handy the last few days. Because Target, and the grocery store, and the pharmacies may be out of bottle water... but boy howdy is there enough Coke to go around. Consider this my own little slice of heaven.

Day 25

Ever wonder what I do with my time? Well then have I got a post for you.

Your day in great detail

830am - wake
920am - bus to work
10-3pm - kickoff/discovery meeting for new client, new website redesign project
445pm - early bus home as reward for early start yesterday
5pm - start new book from library (a jack reacher)
530-630pm - nap
7-730 - stationary bike
730-830 - ZUMBA
9pm - dinner + biggest loser + glee + phone with mal pal
1130pm - more reading + a break to eat mint oreo frozen yogurt out of the carton while standing in the kitchen
1230am - where visions of sugarplums danced in my head

AND YOU WONDER WHY I DON'T HAVE TIME TO BLOG!?

Day 20

I'll admit that today's post has given me writer's block. I'm the main character of this story and I feel that this blog is nothing but mostly dedicated to the things I love to do.

A hobby of yours

I'm not sure if my writings have broadcast this bit before, but I'm a bit of an organizer. One of the chief complaints people have historically had about the social scene in Boston is that no one ever does anything. Clearly, a broad, sweeping generalization--but there is definitely a difference here than other places I've lived as a young single adult. I guess I decided some time ago that if I wanted to do (or in turn, get invited to) social things, I'd have to be an organizer and get things rolling.

So, well, um. I organize social events. This is feeling kind of trite to write about (because don't we all do this?), but I've already written two paragraphs and I'm committed.

Here are the steps to setting up an event according to NatA!:

1. Feel the deep stirrings within yourself to either host or plan or gather people.
2. Decide upon an event that people a) inherently want to attend because it was on their list already or b) is quirky enough that piques attention.
3. Research the event and get all the logistical ducks in a row.
4. Send a well-crafted email with an interesting, funny, or to-the-point hook that's impossible to ignore inviting people to attend. Make sure the email isn't too long for the easily distracted. You want to make sure people don't abandon ship before your salutation. [Optional: Ask participants to weigh in on the when, where, etc. Warning: this creates more work for the organizer in back and forth communication and then those people usually don't attend.]
5. Make definitive statements. People are sheep looking to be led. Give them options and they'll probably get confused and stay home surfing the same interwebs they surf every day, all day at work.
   
6. Commit to yourself to have a great time no matter who does (or doesn't) attend. If you're concerned with attendance, commit a few people to the event before you send the email to make sure you don't end up with homemade salsa and guacamole watching the USA vs. Mexico World Cup qualifier alone.
   

Got that? It's really not so hard. With the six easy steps above you're well on your way to gathering folks to whatever you're organizing. Soon it too shall be a hobby of yours.

Putting practice into action, today was a prime example. Tickets for Iron Man 2 became available at the IMAX theater. Knowing I wanted to go (Mallory will be in town, bonus!) and would love to have other people attend as well, a general email was sent out. A "hey, isn't Iron Man awesome? It's already on your list of movies to see (2.a above) so why not see it opening weekend in giant, in your face action!" Include the theater, the time, the day, and the link to purchase tickets.

Eight of us girls also attended an amaaaaaaazing come-from-behind Red Sox victory game at Fenway tonight. That kind of event (the exchanging of money for reserved seats) is a bit more complicated to arrange, but with practice can be done by mere babies! Everyone was free to make their own dinner plans, but I simply told people where I'd be, at what time, and an invitation. Surprise, surprise -- most ladies showed and we had a delicious burger pre-game.

So dear readers, go forth and conquer. Be a friend to make a friend. Get back what you put out. Don't count the 'hood out.

The unspoken rule is also to have great snacks. Food goes a looooooong way. Remember what was done with simple rice krispy treats?

What are your go-to rules for planning? What did I miss from the list above?

Like a Kelly Clarkson song

Do you want to know what I've been doing the last week? Well, the answer is basically trying to breathe. I've had the Head Cold of Horror^TM that's threatened my very desire to stay alive and kicking. Now let me compare this cold to a Kelly Clarkson "I don't need you fool, I'm on my own now" anthem. The songs hit hard and fast from the opening measure, right? And the bridge endures two key changes and some slamming guitar solos and then pounds out to the closing notes? Yah, that's what's happening with my face. And the bridge happened to hit on my birthday. Holler!

As a lil birthday treat to myself, instead of working (sick) from home, I just didn't work at all. A legitimate sick day. I've only taken one day in the last 20 months, and that was for cosmetic surgery. That's right, only one day, and I've been pretty sick this year; I'm just reluctant to spend my PTO time not in a foreign country. I'm nothing if not resiliant.

So I was home in bed, profusely weeping from both my left eye and nose for the majority of the day I was awake. In the brief interludes between naps, I was gifted with the kindest emails, facebook posts, texts, and singing phone calls. If there's ever a day to be home, it's a day when all you hear is nice things about yourself. In between the Dayquil, Nyquil, and *menthol nasal spray.

Not wanting the day to be a complete waste, hauled myself out of bed and into the shower to go out to eat with my girls still in Boston. What a lovely evening we had--marred only by the fact our waiter could not keep a comment to himself. Not a photo exists of me with a whole face, but that's fine, that left side has given me nothing but trouble this last week. I'd cut it off if I had the 3D chance. Gives a whole new meaning to the line, "Since you been gone, I can breathe for the first time," eh?
* Menthol nasal spray represents both the absolute best and worst of times. On the "best" side of the coin, 3 sprays in each nostril and you go from plugged up to breathingly clear in 30 seconds and lasts for 10 hours. (True story.) On the flip "worst" side, any kind of nasal spray (if used properly) is like jumping into a pool without your nose plugged--and the menthol makes it cold and tingly. I read the directions on the bottle last night and it said not to use longer than 3 days, or the spray could be exasperbating the problem. I'm pretty torn here. Frankly nasal spray, my December and life would suck without you, but perhaps it's time for me to breakaway.

more BANG for your buck!

Tonight, Katie and I sat at IKEA (with $25-50 worth of random home goods we couldn't live without, naturally) devouring warm cinnamon rolls.

Side note: Whenever conversation dulls, I always always ask people "if you could be eating anything in the world at this exact moment, what would it be?" 95 percent of the time, I respond with "a warm cinnamon roll." Very rarely do I depart from that answer.

As the cinnamon rolls were one-half of the reason we went to IKEA (guess on whose half vote that was?), a thought hit me. The dollar cinnamon roll might actually be the best deal you can get for a dollar. I vocalized my claim and then asked Katie what she thought.

She agreed that the cinnamon roll was a brilliant purchase for a dollar, but her best dollar is spent on vacuuming her car. Brilliant.

IKEA cinnamon roll: 1
Vacuuming your car: 1

Hit the comments with your best way to spend a single dollar. In this economy, I need to know where else I can stretch my dollar on the best deals!

Exercising My Right

Today, a historic day. I exercised a right granted to me based on the freedom of the land in which I live. Granted to me as a citizen of the United States, I did what many fought for years without success to be able to do.

I canceled my gym membership.

Oh yeah, and I voted too.

Textual Orientation

Me: Your boyfriend is sending me pervy pictures of Zac Efron*. Head's up.
K: If I had a dollar for everytime I heard that...

Character Acting - The Break Up

There are certain actors and actresses that are cast in similar roles from movie to movie. This is called "type casting." (Are you asleep yet? It's about to get more entertaining, wake up!) But what about when a character plays the same character in exactly the same situation? I've found an actor and an actress who personify the perfect finacee but who are left jilted by their other half to love another.

Bridget Moynahan and James Marsden. The names probably aren't terribly familiar because, let's face it: they're the ones always replaced. Replaced by true love.

Bridget Moynahan: The Un-Blushing Bride

Haley loses her fiancee Jonathan to Sarah in "Serendipity."


Natasha loses her husband Big to Carrie Bradshaw on "Sex and the City."


Sadly, true life sometimes mimics art:
Moynahan loses her fiance Tom Brady to supermodel Gisele.


James Marsden: The Doomed Groom

Harry White loses his fiance Lois Lane to Superman in "Superman Returns."


Lon loses his fiancee Ally to Noah in "The Notebook."


Cyclops loses his love Jean Grey to Wolverine in "X-Men."


So what is it about these two beautiful people that keeps them always reaching for the altar? Is it their winsome personalities? Flawless, glow-in-the-dark smiles? The brown hair? My own personal conclusion is this: viewers don't feel too terrible for Moynahan or Marsden because we know they'll spring back in real life. Playing at the top 1% of world attractivity levels, we're not worried. They'll find love again. They're just too beautiful not to.

So, hypothetical situation: if Moynahan and Marsden were to date, who would leave whom first?

Emoti-con

Happy Birthday Emoticon! MSN taught me that twenty-five years ago today, you were born. The world hasn't been quite the same since.

Technically, you're two months and twenty days older than I am.

Without doubt, you're more popular than I am--there's no contest there. Please don't think I feel badly about myself, I mean, I do have some clout on the World Wide Web. Not much, but enough to make me somewhat of an international blogging sensation. Or at least read in some places international.

You may not know me emoticon, but I know you. And frankly, I'm not your biggest fan. In fact, I've blogged about you before. Even my friends have blogged about my vocal disdain for your electronic antics. Now emoticon, I know you serve your purpose. I won't lie; I still use you sometimes for clarificative purposes. But I'm trying to cut back. Sometimes, the urge to pop a combination of punctuation at the end of a statement on gChat or email is strong--I clench my fists and talk myself off the ledge. Use your words Nat, use your words, I mentally tell myself.

Emoticon. Happy 25th fake birthday. Those of us in the know are in on your little secret. So quit lying about your age: I'm pretty sure Romans, Numbers, Psalms, Job, and many other Biblical books have been around a lot longer than 25 years.

So you may be more popular than I am, but at least I'm not a liar. Wink.

Blue Skies

I noticed a trend today at lunch:

I always knew blue was a popular favorite color; I found this wordy stat: "Blue is a favorite color of both men and women of all ages. However, men have a much stronger preference for blue than women."

My sluething today verified what I always thought. Proof is in the pudding.

Please note: I was going into the Marshall's to actually shop; I didn't have intention of stalking, I just couldn't help it.

Interactive Quiz: How many men in blue shirts did you see in the photos above?

Revolving Death

We live in a society fueled by trust. Trust that people will abide by the social norms--not cut in line at the supermarket, talk in noise appropriate voices in certain places, or not blow up the arena of the sporting event we're attending. You know, trust.

True, there are those who violate the standard norms of trust; those who sit right in front of you in an otherwise empty movie theater, those who leave their unsightly recycling bin on the street for an entire week if it's hauled to the curb on an "off" week, or those who criticize a hosted event when they in turn are always attenders, never organizers. (Bitter? Slightly.)

Other than the getting blown-up by terrorists at a concert or sporting event, getting blown-up at church, getting blown-up on the T, or getting blown-up um, basically anywhere, violating social trust doesn't often cross my mind until an infraction occurs.

Until now.

Let's talk for a moment about the greatest social trust issue aside from (not) getting blown up. I am, of course, talking about revolving doors. I never stopped to think about how truly frightening revolving doors are until a few weeks ago--probably about the time I started my new job and had to enter, and exit, the revolving door o' death several times a day.

Think about it. You precariously dart into space in constant motion. You can't gauge exactly at what velocity the gap will close--you are at the sole mercy of an absolute stranger on the other side of the glass--whose hands your very life are in. Okay, maybe "your life" is a little dramatic. But at least whose hands your right arm are in.

Think about it. You plot your course to the revolving door; you negotiate the open-close time of the gap, dart into the rapidly diminishing space--and SNAP. The stranger (who you trust implicitly) is pushing his half of the revolving door too fast--you can't get your entire body through the gap, and your right arm is now mangled and ripped out of its socket. Trapped in another quadrant of the revolving door. The socially broken-trust stranger across the way isn't paying any attention and is pushing harder on the door, wondering why it's stuck--the pressure is so great now, that your already limp, ragged right arm pops off like a Barbie arm, completely severed from your body. Blood spews from the gaping, open wound. Not only are you armless, but you're trapped in a section of the revolving door without the strength to apply the needed pressure to move the door; and even if you did have the strength, the floor is bloody, and your traction is crap. The stranger whose social trust is forever broken (he did take your arm) has given up and continues to chit-chat on his Bluetooth headset; setting up a tee time with clients. You're losing blood. Too fast. Your white, limp form now crumples to the tiny area allotted in your section of the revolving door. The glass steams. You die.

So, let this be a lesson. Social trust, it's important.

The Burning Question

I'm a sucker; I clicked on this link. Because inquiring minds want to know the answers to these burning questions... I was disappointed to find this link to MSN's Live Earth page and how Evangelical Christians weigh in on Greenery. Blah blah blah. I didn't even read the article. Instead, I compiled my own list. Feel free to add:


Cars Jesus Might Have Driven

• Chevy Capurnum
• Hummer day3
• Porsche Parable
• Dodge Nazareth
• Jeep Samaritan
• Honda Reward
• Kolobvan
• Mercedes Miracle
• Resurrection Rover
• Honda Spiritual
• Jeep Jericho
• Dodge Disciple*
• Ford Fasting

Cars Jesus Wouldn't Have Driven

• Volvo Vice
• Pontiac Pilot
• Honda Civic
• Range Roman
• Mercedes Sinz
• Dodge Goat*
• Mazda 666*
• IsuJew*
  

And surely, he drove a Hyundai on Sunday.

*updates!

The Squirrel Whisperer

She shook her clear Tupperware box, a cacophony of rattled motion within.

"Ruby!," she called, "Ruby, I'm here!"

The shaking and rattling continued.

Across the Common, time stood still as in unison, the Squirrels froze--heads whipping around to find the source of the sound.

It was apparent this wasn't their first time.

Like the Pied Piper calling his rats, the Squirrel Whisperer beckoned the Squirrels to her with the rattle of her box and they emerged from the woodwork. They frolicked across the lawn, they ran down trees, and they gathered around her in a circle. The grass was a literal wave of Squirrels. They gathered around her like long lost friends. She, overjoyed, knelt down and hand fed them nuts.

Happy though she was, the Whisperer never stayed in one place very long--just long enough to shake hands and kiss babies.

Inevitably however, she'd stand, shake her box, and start meandering in a new direction.

"Ruby!," she called, "Ruby I'm here!"

Ruby must be the Squirrel Queen.

Queen or not, this woman was clearly nuts.

Walk it Out

I sat facing the street, my lunch laid before me growing cold. I'd chosen my seat to avoid the eyes of the other diners. I had my audiobook to listen to, and I didn't want to be distracted my other diners thinking I was staring at them.

A non-distracting lunch was not in the cards however.

Unknowingly, I had positioned myself on one of the busiest streets in the Back Bay. The parade of people and vehicles was astonishing--I literally felt like I'd stepped into a Sesame Street sketch. The pace was so dizzying that I had to close my eyes every once in awhile to combat the motion sickness.

In the brief 20 minutes I sat dining (people-watching, putting food into my mouth without tasting), I saw every kind, type, color, occupation, vocation, gender, disability, and transportation method imaginable.

Now, in no particular order (either organized or layout-wise as Blogger is a PAIN to upload photos in rational, clean way) I share with you some of my viewings--comments or soundtrack may be included. See if you can match the description to the photo... call it a game! (It's okay if you don't get some of the lyrical allusions.)

"Now Walk it Out, walk it out, now walk it out, walk it out..."

This guy was seen struttin' his blue collar stuff to the tunes of Macho Man...

The T conductor is tired of working on the railroad--all the live long day.

Even Colonel Sanders crossed my window! He walked right up to my window, did a quick round of the chicken dance and then walked with purpose the other way.

This one goes out to all the baby's mamas, and mamas' mamas. I am for real.

Stroller patrol, stroller patrol.

The Back Bay would NOT be complete without a photo of some Euro boys in sport jerseys and too-short shorts. Handsome man with athletic thighs...

This guy isn't really special, but he stood in front of me for a few minutes all by himself. I was kind of nervous he was spying on me... but who am I to talk?

Boston is famous for their "Duck Tours." These vehicles can traverse both land and water. I'm very interested to go one one. Any takers?

Photos I didn't take (but I did see!) because I was too slow on the uptake...

+Homeless guy in a wheelchair +policeman +13-year-old gaggle of girls +the skateboard gang +the trashman +woman with a cane +firetruck +family in tribal African clothing +more and more and more!

The BEST part of the whole lunch was when they all formed a giant conga line in front of my window and did the bunny hop. Sadly, my phone's battery had died by then.

Avril's Will Power

Today, Avril Lavigne was my guardian angel.

If you haven't been to New England, you don't know that Dunkin Donuts are to New England as Starbucks is to Seattle... and the entire world. There are MORE Dunkin Donuts in the state of Mass than you can possibly imagine. Drive-through stops. Easy in, easy out. Not exactly the greatest place for a person with a self-proclaimed donut/doughnut (or donit as I say it) problem.

However, anyone who listens to Top 40 radio (my iPod's battery was dead) knows where this post is going.

As I was losing my will power of passing Dunkin Donuts after Dunkin Donuts (the orange and pink signs are cute enough on their own to warrent pulling over) and my eyes were glazing over with the anticipation of actually entertaining the thought of partaking of the forbidden fruit, the strains of once-punk Avril filter through the crap Hyundai Accent's speakers.

"Keep holding on/You'll make it through, you'll make it through
Just hold strong/You know I'm here for you, I'm here for you."

It was as though Avril were expressly reaching out to me in my time of need. By very words alone she convinced me not to throw away the now 26-day doughnut fast. The last time she did this, she convinced me wearing a tie with my sk8er shoes is totally like-okay. Avril and I have aged well together.

Needless to say, the donut fast continues. I'm wrapping up this post so I can try to figure out a way to get Avril a Thank You card.

Rat Attack

Four years ago, Krista and I started a list of "People We Vote Off the Universe." The list was buried in my piles 'o junk until last week when I unearthed the list in my attempts to de-junk my life. I'll have to post the list in its entirety another time, but I don't have it with me at work so I'll just have to rant about one name on the list for a second.

Chuck E. Cheese.

The name brings to mind childhood birthday parties with pizza and ball pits. Fun, right? Sure, you're a kid and you don't realize the establishment you're at is named after a rat.

A rat named Chuck! (Which brings to mind the ditty, How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood, right? Ironically, Joey Gladstone's woodchuck was also voted off the universe on the list. End tangent.)

A rat named Chuck is the mascot for an eating establishment 'o fun. Some marketer of yesteryear is a freakin' genius! (Can't you just imagine him running around the office jumping for joy and shouting, "The rat named Chuck worked! It worked!")

Chuck E. Cheese may be one of the better pizza brand establishments, but at heart, it's still a pizza parlor named after a big, cheesy, rat.

Averting/Creating Danger 101

So Krista and I just got home from seeing "The Da Vinci Code" at the dollar movie. Contrary to popular opinion, Krissy and I actually enjoyed it. Would we see it again? Probably not, but it was fun sitting in the dark, trying to remember what we read three summers ago. I kept mixing up Angels and Demons and TDVC, but what're you gonna do. Props to Paul Bettany who was truly creepy.

On a side note: Props to Krista and I for saving a $1.50 by buying a third ticket and throwing it in the garbage. That's right. On Monday nights movies are $.50 if you have three people in your party; $1.50 if less than three. A Family Night type deal. So we pretended to have three people, paid $1.50 in tickets and then threw a ticket away.

Anyway, back to the real story. Kris and I found a pure giggle worthy moment when halfway through the movie (Professor) Robert (Langdon) and Sophie are trying to escape from the bank manager who has helped them escape into the woods and then tries to pilfer the password protector for himself. Langdon creates a diversion and knocks the said hijacking bank manager to the ground and he and Sophie race to get into the armored truck and speed away. As the truck drives into the distance, the hijacking bank manager fires many a round toward the tail lights of his very own said bank truck. A few bullets hit, but no damage is done, the truck drives away.

This is the conversation that occurred during this critical scene in the movie:

After the bank manager is knocked to the ground and the heroes are running toward the truck:

Nat: Duh. Escaping Your Assailants 101. Always grab the injured person's weapon.

When the bank manager is using his own gun (erroneously left behind) to shoot at the truck:

Kris: Duh. Trying to Stop Retreating Vehicles 101. Shoot out the tires.

There's no surprise that I enjoy seeing movies, watching TV, people observing, telling stories, or talking in general with Krissy.