Dustin is at home right now and not exactly honing his social skills in a binge of 'Call of Duty'. He has learned, however, countless ways to kill animated things. But, then again, I call him when I'm stuck in traffic - he's absorbed, I'm absorbed. I sorta talk about things that are only sorta interesting and partly because I'm calling caffeinated and he's an enabler. It's like drunk dialing and sometimes just as coherent. Caller ID, Dustin, seriously.
He's actually cannon fodder for the babbling aunt problem. He's taking the heavy fire and covering my sister, Stacey, so that she can get ready for the opening of her Yoga Center in Wolfeboro, NH on July 1st (please feel free to swing by if you're in the neighborhood).
I promised I'd mention that she squatted 230 pounds in her crusade for the ever-elusive Yoga booty (which can be found at the bottom of a squat). I believe this was on equipment of some sort, but she gets a pass for now since the hyperflexibility of a yoga instructor could make finding the bottom of a squat and then digging your way out of it a challenging task. She'll get there - we have the same determined gene.
Most of you know that the silence and seriousness of a yoga class makes me want to giggle uncontrollably, end each pose with Jazz hands and yell 'TaDa!" (it's a nervous response - my mother would have done the same thing). Even though Stacey and I don't directly share a passion for Ashtanga, I admire the heck out of her. Mostly because a lot of what she's doing right now scares the bajeebers out of her and she's doing it anyway.
Be courageous, Stace, forge ahead and leave me a trail of breadcrumbs. Oh, and when you make this a huge success - Jazz hands and a big 'TaDa!'