The one with the Campo pilgrims and Campo Indians

Just a few of the pilgs and Inds. The rest weren't dressed yet.

Every year around Thanksgiving time, I like to ask people (friends, fam, cashiers, etc.) what they think they are: A pilgrim or an Indian. Mom used to always ask people the same thing, and I would get mad and embarrassed, but like with everything else, I’m turning into Tammy, so I might as well embrace it.

Oh, and we picked fruit. You know, like real pilgrims.

Anyway, the responses I get are awesome. Sometimes people will just look at me. Some people will analyze themselves physically, and in terms of their personality and then ask a million questions. And some people just answer. Those are my favorite. Another observation I’ve made is that people subconsciously think Indians are way cooler than pilgrims, so everyone kind of wants to be an Indian a little. Some people really are Indians, and lots of pilgrims are incognito as Indians (which is what they THINK they are.)

So I ask: What are YOU? A pilgrim or an Indian?

One pilgrim brother and one Indian brother. 

In accordance, and as a pilgrim and hostess of Thanksgiving, I thought it would be a great idea if all the Campos dressed up as their Indian or pilgrim self for Campo Thanksgiving. The Indians even got Indian names. For example: Josh is, "Yellow Tail." (The wine. LSU boy. Go fig.) Dad is, "Fire Chief". And Grandma is, "Dawn." They’re all very well versed in the annual, “Are you a pilgrim or an Indian” question. Plus, they’re the easiest going crowd you’ll ever come across, even though I received some mild heartache from some Indians who didn’t want to dress up.  So we went through with it. Just wanted to share a few pics with y’all. I know we’re cute—don’t be jeal. And for the record, we’re going all-out next year. Stay tuned.

Gobble gobble.

The one as promised

Thank you, Adam, for reminding me to post again. Don’t worry, I’m not neglecting the blahg, I was once again just waiting for the right timing.

After my run on day #1. Sick. 

As promised, I’m going to give you an update on my running progress. By the way, I use the term “running” loosely. It’s a walk 50% of the time. Last blahg entry I mentioned I’ll be partaking in a half marathon. I also mentioned that I need to have my head examined for craziness—I still agree with that statement. I just finished week two of my training and I’m not going to sit here and say I’m having “fun” doing it.

Observations I’ve made about myself these past 2 weeks:

1. LIE: I’m so beautiful with my hair blowing in the wind, excellent posture and form and tight pants. TRUTH: After 2 minutes of running, I look like I could drop dead on the ground at any given moment. My hair is plastered to my head. My earphones are falling out. And the cold air I’ve been inhaling is making my lungs cold and lips chapped.

After today's run. Spicy.

2. My trainer (in the form of an app on my iPhone) tells me when to walk and when to run. Never fails: Everytime he says “Start running”, there is a hill RIGHT THERE. That’s when I start cursing in my head. And aloud.

3. When he says, “walk,” I want to marry him.

4. Sometimes I growl like a bear when I’m annoyed with myself. Mid-running.

5. My arms flail around like a child chasing an ice-cream truck the whole time.

6. Spice girls are my favorite pump-up jamz.

7. As disgusting as this is (and I never thought I’d do this, MUCH LESS admit to it), once I’ve been running for a little while, I feel a strong need to spit. Runners out there, is that normal? It just tastes bad. Sorry, that’s gross.

Well, #7 brings me to my final point of this blahg entry. During today’s run, (my last run of this week… I hear week 3 is a real pain. Merh.) just that happened. I had to spit. I normally make sure no one is watching when I do this, by the way, but being that I was literally the only person at Lamar park at noon on a Friday, I didn’t even bother. So, I went for it. Well, being that I’m so extremely fast and graceful, and the wind was blowing against me, when I did so, the spit landed on my cheek, then onto my ear, and finally in my hair. It was disgusting. That is all.

Don’t judge me for this. At least I ran. 

The one I may regret posting

I’m kind of excited about this blahg post. It’s killing two birds with one stone. It’s 1. Acting as a normal blahg entry in which I tell you about the non-happenings of my life and 2. Acting as a test to see if the people who I would normally mention this to in person are actually keeping up and reading like they say they are. Muahaha.

I feel like I’m getting ready to say I’m having a baby or moving to Canada or something. Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not that juicy.

I think I’ve said it before, but if I haven’t, I should have. This is a big note about myself. I am the LEAST athletic person you will ever meet. I despise anything that involves me sweating, moving swiftly, and/or people looking at me while doing it. Running, in particular, is exactly what I don’t do. As a matter of fact, I’m often asked to run… “to that mailbox”, or “across the living room”, just so my friends can get a good laugh at the awkwardness that is my body. Get it, Karodge. Kenzie reminded me today about the last time she asked me to go running with her—which was a couple years ago. I refused to go and locked myself in a closet so she’d stop asking. Then she took my car and I was left stranded in the closet.

This is where this blahg post is going. Blahg readers, you’re on the cutting edge. I’m announcing to the world here and now that I will be... dun dun dun dun dun…

RUNNING A HALF MARATHON.

It may end up being me walking 7 miles and running 6. Or running 1 mile, and walking 12. My goal is to run the most I can. But either way I’m doing it, and I’m starting today. If you’re wondering what my goal for the day is: Run 30 seconds, walk. Run 30 more seconds, walk. Strenuous, yeah? If you see me running/dying on the side of the road, don’t honk. Just laugh inside your head. Feel free to doubt me. I’d be doubting me too, if I were you. But just watch!

Also, I need to thank the brains behind the operation for nudging me to do this. I shot down the thought numerous times, until something suddenly came over me last night.

The thought of this makes me want to throw up. But, there are a few things in it for you:

A. It’ll be a confidence booster for you when you come to learn how incredibly pitiful I am at being sporty. You’ll feel like an Olympic runner.

B. I’ll post highly unattractive pictures of myself (and people who I drag with me) while/after we’re running. (That’s another confidence booster for you!)

C. You get to hang this over my head and make sure I stick with it. Because if I don’t, then I’ve wasted $xxx, and I’ll look like a failure. And that’s embarrassing.

D. When I run the marathon, which is in New Orleans in March, you get to come and celebrate with me. I’ll be 21. That’s all.

I think I need my head examined. Merh.

The one with the centipede infestation

So allegedly, I’ve been a blog slacker lately. Truth is, I feel like I haven’t had anything to blahg about, so instead of boring you with nothing that has been going on in my life, I decided to bore you with not telling you anything at all. Sorry. Kind of. Wil informed me today at lunch (we went to this place called Mink’s. Y’all. It was SO good. It’s kind of hidden on College Hill—but my wrap was on point, and the girl gave us free peanut-butter-chocolate-cheesecake (one of my readers would have been in heaven). Plus, if you go with Wil, he’ll treat you.) that it has been 9 days since my last post. Ridiculous that he knew the exact number.

Anyway, I’m forcing an entry out of this. But we have an issue at our house right now. We always have issues at our house, for the record. Currently, it’s a centipede infestation. It’s disgusting. Things I’ve learned about centipedes within the last week:

Clumpy.

Curly.

1. They don’t die.

2. When you force them to die (aka crush them with roommate’s shoes lying around), they CRUNCH.

3. They look like worms.

4. The root “centi” means 100, but Chase claims they have 1,000 legs. 500 on each side? They’re an inch long, Chase. No.

5. One roommate gags when she sees them. The other roommate sprays 5 lbs of spider spray on them. I just go upstairs.

6. Adam says they’re asexual. We tried to get them to mate on a notecard. Sickos, I know.

We’ve probably seen about 600 in the past 10 days, and I’m not exaggerating. We’re experts on them thanks to Google and me studying their anatomy. If you have any questions, or want a new pet, let us know. We can help with either. As for the rest of you, are you having the same problem we are? Is it centipede season? We’d like to know. Thanks and centiPEACE OUT until next time.