Details

In the golden light of the morning

she was astonished by the details:

The saw-toothed ridges

on the leaves of the ash tree

as they waved in the breeze.

The sequined glint of sunlight 

on the drops of dew, 

yet to be absorbed back into the atmosphere.

The motes of dandered dust,

dancing in the shaft of sunlight

that warmed the sleeping dog.
And his thousands of little acts,

that when added together

over the years, equaled love.

For my husband, on our 23rd anniversary. I am one lucky woman.

Ugh: A Post-Migraine Poem

It's a new morning,
my migraine has fled,
I look around the house
and am filled with dread.

The cat was down
 for just one day
and in that time
the mice did play.

The dishes are dirty
 and stacked in a heap,
the laundry is a mountain
stinky and steep.

There are millions of socks
strewn about the floor,
and smudgy dog nose prints
all over the door.

The island is stacked
with papers and stuff,
the dog hair blows about
like so much brown fluff.

The tables and couch
of the family room
are littered with crap
adding to the gloom.

The people that live here
are rabid feral goats
that haven't even a clue
about how to hang up a coat.

Toothpaste globs dot
every mirror and sink,
the garbage is overflowing
and starting to stink.

The fridge is empty
and the goats all whine
that there's nothing to eat,
on what will they dine?

I survey the sorry
state of this place,
and I scratch my head
and I grimace my face.

Where to start? What to do?
With which task to begin?
This is a losing battle.
There's no way to win.

But I know that the answer
lies in my brainy little head:
"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"
So I'm going back to bed.

In Which I Make Light(s)

YOU GUYS! I am amazing. I created light! Like, first, there was no light, and then BAM! Light!

Okay. Before y'all think I've seriously lost my mind (right, I know, debatable. Shut up.) and have some sort of delusional God complex, let me explain.

Remember my last post about my problem with pillows in which I included this picture?

Dude. I MADE those lamps.

Can you tell I'm just a wee bit proud of myself? I think it mostly stems from the fact that the finished product came out just like I envisioned it in my head. This does not often happen. Mostly what happens is, I have an idea in my head, I try it. It doesn't work out right so then I have to try 432 different ways to fix it before it's either fixed enough to sorta kinda come close to the picture I had in my head, or I declare the project dead to me and walk away vowing never to ______ ever again. (Hey sewing machine, I'm blaming so much of this on you.)

Anyway, I had seen in various places in blogland where people had made their own lamps out of vases or bottles. They swore it was simple and cheap and they swore they weren't electricians. (What exactly is up with the prices of lamps? Why are they so darn expensive? I know for a fact it's not because they're made of gold. I walk through lamp sections with a furrowed brow and think, "Really?! Um. NO.") This made me happy because I, too, am simple and I, too, am cheap, and I, too, am not an electrician. The equation in my head went something like this:

SIMPLE + CHEAP + NOT ELECTRICIAN = LAMP.

True to form for me, there was a little more to the equation than I first thought, but not much more. The true equation looks like this:

SIMPLE + CHEAP + NOT ELECTRICIAN + VASE + BOTTLE LAMP KIT + A LITTLE MCGYVERING = LAMP.

I ran across these gold speckled vases at Home Goods. (Hello, Home Goods! I shall have to start referring to you as my Dealer.) I spied one and thought it would be perfect for a lamp for my living room. I started looking for another, and spied its mate, shoved behind a bunch of other merchandise, almost like someone was hoping to hide it and come back for it later. Sorry, sucka! (For those of you into hashtagging, I'll just say #sorrynotsorry) I quickly scooped them both up (for $12 each!) and ran for the checkout.

Then I stopped at the Lowe's next door and picked up two bottle lamp kits (around $10 each) and Target for a lampshade (around $20). I only needed one lampshade because I already had one at home. Then I went home and started to put this thing together.

And then my head exploded and I pictured the picture in my head crackling into a bazillion little pieces because the rubber nipple thingy (oh dear Lord, save me from the weird google hits that will come from that phrase!) was too small for the opening in my vase and the lamp part wasn't going to fit right into the vase part and I was going to wind up in that special circle of hell reserved for my projects that don't turn out and I was going to have to forsake my gold sparkly vases. This made me want to cry.

So I thunk and I thunk, and I figured I could make a circle out of cork to thread the lamp thingy through and make it fit the size of the vase. I know this sounds confusing, but trust me, I have photos and all shall be revealed, Young Grasshopper.

This McGyvering turned out to work (I needed a little hot glue to keep it stable, but you can't really see it.

I had my beloved help me with the wiring of the first one just so that I would be certain that I was connecting things correctly and wouldn't cause the house to burn down just because I needed gold sparkly lamps. It was extremely simple. I mean, like, I'm pretty sure I could've done it while consuming a glass of wine, simple. It involved a couple of screws and a couple of wires. Easy peasy. And YOU GUYS. When I turned on the switch and actually had light? I danced around like Tom Hanks in Castaway when he finally made fire. Seriously. My husband just shook his head at me and walked out of the room. I am woman. I can wire a lamp with a lamp kit. HEAR. ME. ROAR!

Now, before I show the photographic evidence, let me apologize for the quality of the photos. I took them with my phone. Apparently I am not so lazy that I can't run all over God's green earth to find all the things I need to make a lamp and actually make the lamp but I am too lazy to walk into the other room to grab my good camera so that the pictures will actually be decent. Priorities. I has 'em. Um...or something?

Anyway! Pictures!

See? Gold and sparkly! Hello my love! Also: the walls are not actually that weird purple/blue color. Thanks, iPhone.

*Sigh* Luuuurrrve. Also: Dear Laziness, You have made so many things about this picture bad. It's a good thing the lovely lamp makes up for it.  Also, also: The walls are not actually that color.

See how I McGyvered the cork below the ribbed nipple (ugh. google.) to make the lamp part fit? See the hot glue holding it stable? You cannot see this in real life. I was a champ and got super close to take this photo just for you. You're welcome. Also, also, also: The walls are not that weird brown.

Yes, the cord hangs from a weird spot. You cannot see it from most angles. If this bothers you, you could take some sticky tack and stick it to the vase to make it less obvious. Or, you could just have a glass or 3 of wine and then you'll be all "Cord, schmord! Another tankard, please!" Also, also, also, also: The walls are not tan and the word "also" is starting to look and sound weird to me.

So, dear children, what have we learned from this post? Let's see:
Home Goods is my Dealer.
Sparkly gold lamps are the bomb dot com.
Making your own lamp is fairly easy and inexpensive.
The new feminism involves wiring a lamp from a lamp kit and being an independent woman who don't need no electrician.
I am lazy.

Now, I urge thee: Go forth and make some light! (And if you do, can I see it?)

I Think I May Have A Problem

Hello. My name is Sara and I am an addict.

I didn't know my problem was this bad. I thought I could handle it on my own. But I've come to believe that I cannot control this myself. I need help.

I am addicted to throw pillows.

It was harmless fun at first. I would buy a fluffy pillow thinking it would solve my decorating problems. But I'd get the pillow home and after a brief high, I'd realize that I was still unhappy. And so I'd go to Home Goods or Target thinking that I could handle myself. I could get out of there without a pillow. I'd just avoid the pillow section.

But we all know how that works out. You think you are strong enough and that you can just stroll through the pillow section and take a peek. You won't buy anything. Because you definitely don't need a throw pillow. You can get by without a throw pillow.  Throw pillows don't rule you, you rule throw pillows.

And then you see it. The color is perfect! The texture is divine! You have the perfect spot for it! And you say to yourself: Oh what's one throw pillow? I'll just get this one pillow this one time and then I'll quit. So you buy it and take it home and put it in the spot that would be perfect for it and you look at it and it just... isn't. Oh well, you think. It's just a pillow. I'll put it in the closet and when I re-do the  next room, I bet it will work in there.

Except it doesn't.

And you promise yourself you will just. stop. And you do.

Until the next time.

And you keep going this way on this crazy throw pillow train, collecting pillows and tossing them in closets and collecting pillows and tossing them in closets.

Then you discover that you can make a pillow using place mats.

And you think to yourself, this is it! This is the solution I've been waiting for! Place mats are cheap! Fiberfill is cheap! I can totally make a pillow that will be the perfect pillow and all of my problems will be solved!

Place mats are like the methadone for throw pillow addiction. Soon you find yourself addicted to them as well.

So now you find yourself trolling all your old haunts and instead of just being drawn to the pillow section, now you are also drawn to the tableware section.

You find your children pulling you by the arm and hustling you away saying "NO! Mom. Come. On. You do not need another pillow or place mat. This is not okay. It's time to stop."

And you are embarrassed because you have been found out. You thought you had hidden your little addiction so well. But now your kids are on to you and things are just going to have to change.

So. You force yourself into your closet and you pull out your stash of pillows. And it looks like this:

And your face flames in shame as you realize that none of these pillows have solved one decorating problem for you. So you go through them one by one, pat them lovingly, and relive the memories of their purchase or creation. And then you force yourself to choose. Some of them must go. You will allow yourself to keep a few which come into play around the holidays, but after that, you will make yourself be brutal and get rid of the rest. Even--horror of horrors!--the matching ones that came with the couch that is now covered with a slip cover and don't even match any part of your house anymore. Yes. Those, too, must go. You were holding on to them "just in case." But you have realized that just in case never happened. And even if it did, you would be okay without those pillows.

So here are the last throw pillows I've made: (the floral ones)

Yes, they are lovely. Yes, they bring in a burst of color for spring. But you have seen the light. Pillows will not get you out of any sort of decorating dilemma. They will only steal space in your closet.

So now my living room looks like this:

And I'm going to live with it. And it's going to be okay. Because I've done the hardest part; I've admitted that I have a problem.

But see those lamps? Did you know you could make a lamp out of a vase? Want to meet me at Home Goods? I'll see you in the glassware section. I mean, I know I was just there, but I could go again. I don't have to buy anything. I totally have this vase/lamp thing under control...

Bear With Me

I've been sitting here, glass of wine in hand, staring at this blank screen with its accusatory flashing cursor for the last 20 minutes. I am forcing myself to write even though it's the last thing I want to do. Yep, even less than laundry, and that, my friends should be extremely telling. It's not that I don't have anything to write about, because I do. Plenty has happened in these last six weeks that is totally blog-worthy. I just can't seem to find the energy or the will to care enough to write it.

Perhaps this winter, in all of its frigid bitterness has sapped me. But I think the more likely reason is that I am simply out of the habit. It used to be that I found something to write about at least three times a week and went at it hammer and tong. Now, even though I have some things to write about, there are other things that feel more off limits. As my kids get older, I feel like I have to be more judicious in what I post about them. And the dog has somehow found her middle age mellow. I'm not that all interesting by myself. (Although I did recently have a procedure done that you may get to hear about. Because medical stuff just screams funny, right?) The neighbors have been, if not friendly, at least not openly hostile. House things are coming together, but I don't know if anyone even wants to hear about projects I've taken on.

At first I didn't write because I didn't have much to write about. Then when I did have some things to write about, sitting down and staring at a blank screen and a hostile, blinking cursor made me uncomfortable. And being uncomfortable in a place that I had never been uncomfortable before made me resent the whole idea of writing. And instead of writing my way through it, I simply shrugged my shoulders, and said "meh" to the whole thing.

I don't want to be that way. I don't want to not do something that has meant so much to me just because I'm uncomfortable. I want to be the kind of person that sits in that uncomfortable spot and says, "how are you going to change it?" And so, you kind, sweet people, please bear with me as I find my way back to the sweet spot. It's likely to be a little awkward and lurchy around here, as I find my footing again.  But I'll get there, because I've decided that there is a better place to be than here.

The Haps

Hey y'all. As my kids say: 'What's the haps?'

Okay. I'm lying. My kids don't actually now say, nor have they ever said that. This is what happens when you are out of practice with writing. You just make stuff up just so you can get going. But now, having lied and having started, I'm pretty sure I can keep going without resorting to lying. I shall, forthwith, update you on "the haps" at Chez Sara and I shall tell it like it is. Or was, depending on when things happened. Time, it's a tricky business, dontchaknow.

First off, let me start by telling you that I was slain by that dastardly little drummer boy. It was an unholy pairing of an army of fake Kardashians and that evil song that pah-rum-pum-pummed me right out of the game. Thanks SNL for your Kimye skit. You really should have a warning. Anyway, it was only 24 hours before the game ended that I was done in. I was sitting in my room, watching a dvr'd episode of SNL with my daughter when it happened. I screamed. In agony. In such a way that my beloved, who had just finished showering, ran out of the bathroom to make sure that someone hadn't actually lost a body part. (Well, he couldn't see it, but I'm pretty sure The Boy took part of my soul.) Then, after hearing my explanation for the ruckus, he just shook his head in disgust and headed back into the bathroom to finish grooming himself and his manly, manly beard.

We had a joyful Christmas with most of my family. My folks and Uncle Grumpy and his kids headed down and we celebrated. And they left this for me:

Yep. I was given the dreaded owls, dressed as a drummer boy, ox, and lamb. The HORROR!

After they left, we had a day to recover and then we had a houseful of friends over on Christmas eve. And then Christmas morning dawned bright and early and this happened:

Select. Fill. Relax. Lying liars!!

Guess who's still finding random styrofoam beans?

It'll be easy, they said! Just select a cover, they said! Just pour in the foam beans, they said! Then relax, they said! Lies! ALL LIES!

Mary was trying to help me and when my father finally came upstairs to see what all the laughing/cursing/crying/screaming/shrieking was about, he shook his head in disbelief. It wasn't long before he, too, was covered in the liesbeans.

After Christmas, Mother Nature decided it was time to bring me to my knees by sending us 12" of snow and a polar vortex that kept my children out of school for the whole first week that they were supposed to be back. Instead of having a two week winter break, they had three. And I almost and a nervous breakdown. The laundry! The food! The different waking/sleeping/eating schedules!

3/4 of my children working on a tunnel. The 4th was off being cool with his friends.

Taken about two seconds before having snow thrown at me.

Then they were back in school for 4 and a half days when they had an early dismissal and a day off for MLK day. As I told my daughter, I'm fairly certain that the Reverend King wouldn't have minded them celebrating his day IN SCHOOL. You know, where they could LEARN and EXPAND their tiny, little MINDS. The bonus this weekend, was seeing my folks again. They came over because my other brother--my TX brother--Uncle SupahJeenius and my niece were here visiting a University and having an audition. It was a fun visit because snow! While my brother grew up here in the midwest, it's been many years since he's been here on purpose in January. He said it was a matter of pride not to wear his hat, but when it got down to about 14 degrees F, he decided he'd rather be warm than proud. He also had a hard time remembering to button his coat and THEN put his gloves on. Winter FAIL. My niece, who has experienced snow a handful of times and wasn't quite mesmerized, was fascinated with the fact that the snow squeaks when you walk on it. Yep. Winter--it's entertaining on so many levels.

I'm hearing now that next week may rival the first appearance of the polar vortex. Yippee. Even my children, who were delighted at having an extended break, are starting to grow bored. They are not hoping for anymore snow days, since their school year has now been extended into June. Now they are just looking for 2 hour delays. I, however, am no longer on speaking terms with the school district's Director of Transportation. Um, not that I ever spoke to the man before. But boy! If he tried to speak to me now, I would give him one heck of a cold shoulder!

Let's see…

Oh!

There was also this:

I got a disco ball for Christmas! So. Much. WIN!

It's just part of my decor--I'm not actually hanging it and doing the hustle or anything. And the best part is--well, besides the faces of people who come over and then exclaim "You have a disco ball? WHY do you have a disco ball? Now I kinda want a disco ball!"--if the sun decides to show up in the morning and do its job instead of hiding behind the gray, gray clouds that are trying to make me curl up in a ball and die, it looks like this in my family room!

And do you know what happens next?

The Dumb Dog loses her mind.

Winning on two levels. Feels good!

On My Nightstand: 2013

Remember last year's post about the books I read? Well I've kept track, and in the interest of giving (You know the line. Repeat after me: I'm a giver!) and making sure that you have some good pages to turn, I'm sharing the books that kept me from doing laundry occupied my time and shared space on my nightstand this year.

I'll list them by month, then title and author. I'll give you a little blurb on those that are my particular favorites.

January

Help, Thanks, Wow--Anne Lamott

One Thousand Gifts--Ann Voskamp
      Dreamy writing, wonderful message.

The Sense of an Ending--Julian Barnes


February

The Silver Linings Playbook--Matthew Quick
     The movie was good, the book was better.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette?--Maria Semple
      Any main character that hates all Canadians piques my interest. (Not that I have anything against Canadians. I just found that very funny.)

Argo--Antonio Mendez

The Girls from Ames--Jeffrey Zaslow
     If you've maintained friendships with girls who "knew you when" you'll enjoy this book.

March

Fall of Giants: The Century Trilogy--Ken Follett

Winter of the World--Ken Follett

Pride and Prejudice--Jane Austen
     A particular favorite that I revisit every few years.

April

80 Days--Matthew Goodman
     The true story of the widely known Nellie Bly, the unknown Elizbeth Bisland and their quest to see who could travel around the world in 80 days first. Exciting, interesting, and true!

Calling Invisible Women--Jeanne Ray

Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed--Glennon Doyle Melton
     Melton's book is at turns thoughtful and humorous. Her ideas that we are more alike than different and that Love Wins are ideas I can get behind.

A Red Herring without Mustard--Alan Bradley
     If you haven't read any of Bradley's books starring precocious 11 year old Flavia de Luce, you are missing out. Flavia is fascinated with chemistry, bicycles and death and is hell bent to solve the mysteries that seem to find their way into her life. Entertaining and then some.

May

Flight Behavior--Barbara Kingsolver
    I have yet to read one of Kingsolver's books that leaves me flat. She is a wonderful writer with well developed characters and interesting plots.

The Interestings--Meg Wolitzer

I Am Half Sick of Shadows--Alan Bradley
     More Flavia!!

Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk--Ben Fountain

June

Wave--Sonali Deraniyagala
     The harrowing story of how the author survived the 2004 tsunami while her family (parents, husband, and two sons) perished. Horrifying, beautiful, and compelling.

A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again--David Foster Wallace

The Happiness Project--Gretchen Rubin

The Lion is In--Delia Ephron

How to be Good--Nick Hornby

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime--Mark Haddon (another re-read)

The Handmaid's Tale--Margaret Atwood

The Chaperone--Laura Moriarty
     A fictionalized account of actress Louise Brooks and her chaperone on a trip to New York City in the summer of 1922. A page-turner that left me wanting to read more by the author.

July

Me Before You--Jojo Mayes

Tell the Wolves I'm Home--Carol Rifka Brunt
    Set in the 80's when AIDS was a terrifying and stigmatizing scourge about which little was known. A wonderfully wrought story of sisters, family, and love.

What Alice Forgot--Liane Moriarty (not to be confused with Laura Moriarty, above)
    A story of love, indifference, anger, forgiveness, and amnesia.

The Art of Fielding--Chad Harbach
   Love and baseball. Lots and lots of baseball.

The Cukoo's Calling--Robert Gilbraith (who is really J.K. Rowling)

August

The Hypnotist's Love Story--Liane Moriarty

The Silent Wife--A.S.A. Harrison

The Moonflower Vine--
   An old-time novel--the author's only book. Well developed characters with good story lines. This is a re-read for me.

September

Black Water Rising--Attica Locke

Red Sparrow--Jason Matthews

Eleanor and Park--Rainbow Rowell
     Don't let the author's name put you off. This was one of my favorite books of the year. Set in the 80's, I related to so much of this book. I loved the characters, the plot, the writing, the flow of this book. It left me wrecked to read anything else for quite a while afterwards.

The Great Gatsby--F. Scott Fitzgerald
     A re-read. Yep. It still holds up even all these years after reading it my Junior year in English class.

Attachments--Rainbow Rowell

The Husband's Secret--Liane Moriarty

October

The Art of Hearing Heartbeats--Jan-Philipp Sendker

November

I somehow did not manage to read a single thing during the whole month of November. I dunno. Maybe I read cereal boxes.

December

Double Down: Game Change 2012--Mark Halperin and John Heilemann

Hyperbole and a Half--Allie Brosh
     Blogger Allie Brosh has put much of her blog in book form. Her blog, which is half writing, half cartoon, and all fabulous is made up of the stories that make up her life. In the book she talks of her dogs (her dog Simple Dog and my Dumb Dog simply HAVE to be related), a psychotic goose, being the god of cake, and her personality (trust me, funnier than it sounds.) She also describes her descent into, slog through, and slow climb out of debilitating depression in a way that should be required reading. (trust me, this is, somehow, in some ways, also funnier than it sounds) I read this book in about a day. Fast, funny, and terrifyingly relatable.

One Summer: America 1927--Bill Bryson
     I love Bill Bryson. If he wrote a story about phone books, I would read it. I am only half-way through this book, and I'm amazed at the many important things that happened in the very busy summer of 1927.



2013 wins over 2012 by almost 10 books read. (42 1/2 to 33) Yowza! It's a wonder I got any laundry done at all this year.  (Said the woman writing this in her pajamas. ;)  ) In 2014, I'm just planning on foregoing laundry and having my family wear togas and go commando so that I can READ ALL THE BOOKS!

If you read something wonderful and feel you have to tell someone or you may burst want to share it, please share in the comments section. I'm always looking for the next book for my nightstand.

Thanks for stopping by to read my ramblings this year. May you have a blessed 2014!

I Think I Have Developed TLDBCSD

That would be The Little Drummer Boy Challenge Stress Disorder. What is The Little Drummer Boy Challenge? Essentially it is a game where in the player does his best to avoid hearing the (dreaded) Christmas song between Black Friday and Christmas Eve. If you hear it, you are dead. Out. Done for. Now, you can't be tricked into hearing it (as my beloved keeps wanting to do to me) and it doesn't count if someone who knows you are playing sings it to you or otherwise sets you up, but all other instances count. This has led to some rather ridiculous behavior on my part.

Er, more ridiculous than usual, anyway.

On Saturday, my beloved and I were returning cable boxes belonging to a certain company that I shall not name, but will tell you rhymes with Hay Schmee & Schmee. (Huzzah for faster internet and the ability for all of us to operate devices in the house without feeling like we want to murder someone!) As we were waiting in the UPS store, I could hear the dulcet crooning of Nat King Cole singing The Christmas Song and I began to get antsy. I could feel my heart begin to race and I looked at my beloved and told him that if Nat started wrapping up the tune before we were done, he was on his own, because I would be exiting the store. (I also made him go in before me to make sure it was safe to enter.) As we finished, Nat was finishing too and I pretty much ran out of the store in an "every man for himself" manner. Yeah, I love my husband, but I am not responsible for his meandering ways and if he gets himself knocked off, that's his problem. (TRUE LOVE!)

Last week, I was in a large discount store. I had been in there for nearly an hour and just KNEW that I was pushing fate. The Drummer could come for me at any moment. I was standing in line at the checkout behind an older couple. They were a little slow moving, which usually is no problem, but this time was causing my palms to sweat. I was polite, but was ever so slowly inching my cart forward as they took their time putting on coats and gloves and carefully rearranged the bags in their cart. (Even now I'm breaking into a bit of a cold sweat thinking about it.) As I pulled forward, ready and eager to pay and beat a hasty retreat, the cashier smiled at me and said with a big grin that showed she was blissfully unaware of The Boy and his bent on destruction, 'Just a sec, gotta change the receipt tape!" I shifted back and forth on my feet, I cleared my throat. 'Sure! No problem!' I lied. I was listening to the current carol wind down and was certain that the sound of pah-rum-pum-pum-pumming would be coming for me. As the cashier got the tape in and proceeded to ring up my purchases, the audio loop changed to an in-store ad for something and I started to breathe faster. When the commercial was done, the cashier was still ringing things up and happily chatting to me. I had no idea what she was saying, for I was nodding and uh-huh-ing absently while listening for the dreaded drums. And suddenly, my friends--IT WAS A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!! The next song was no carol. Instead, my ears were treated to the sweet, sweet sound of Blondie singing "Call Me." I very nearly broke down and wept. I kept willing the cashier to move quickly on my purchases, because I still had to exit the store. Blondie was well into the second verse by the time my packages were bagged. I lobbed a hasty "thank you!" over my shoulder and veritably SPRINTED for the exit. I made it to my van, sweating, breathing heavily, and only able to whisper a hoarse "thanks!" to the Muzak Gods who intervened on my behalf.

That evening, it was a simple yawn that kept me from being slain along with my son. We had been watching the SNL holiday show, giggling as Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg gave inappropriate gifts in a box, when suddenly I yawned. Not a dainty yawn, but a great big, gaping, canyon of a yawn. It was then that I decided that I should hit the hay. I bid my boy goodnight, went upstairs, performed my evening ablutions, and crawled into bed, exhausted from the trauma of earlier in the day. I wasn't in bed long when I heard an unearthly wail from downstairs. My son came up and told me that The Boy had just slain him via Will Ferrell as Robert Goulet. (Every year, this skit kills thousands who don't mute or leave in time. The humanity!) You know how experts are always saying that we should listen to our bodies? I BELIEVE. That yawn saved me.

It's just a minefield out there, friends! I've taken to going to the grocery with headphones on. Yes, I've become one of those people! I make my non-playing/slain family members enter buildings before me. I've always liked shopping online because I can shop in my pajamas. Now, I know we've all seen those girls who are out in public with their hair piled on top of their heads, no make up on, and in pajamas. I'm pretty sure my own daughter has done this. And they can get away with it. They look cute, even. But y'all. I'm 45 years old. NO ONE wants to see me sans makeup, in my pajamas with a messy bun. (My beloved sees my this way last thing at night, first thing in the morning. LUCKY.) So really, shopping online is serving both myself AND mankind. (You are welcome. I am a giver. Again. So. Generous.) I've done most of my shopping online this season to avoid The Boy. I changed the presets on my radio. I have a Drummer Boy Free playlist of Christmas songs on Spotify. I gave my 9 year old daughter the third degree regarding her choir concert, making sure that no drumming of any kind would be taking place. I may or may not have told her that if The Boy was making an appearance, I would be in the bathroom for that performance. Fortunately for all of us, her concert was percussion free.

I'm jittery every time I go out. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Part of me wants to just jump in front of the Drummer Boy train to get it over with already. But the competitor in me just will not give up. Last year, I went down early thanks (NO THANKS AT ALL) to the unholy pairing of The Boy and Bob Seeger. I refuse to be slain in such an inhumane way this year.

So if you need me, I'll be here. In front of my computer, trolling Amazon, wearing my pajamas and blissfully Drummer Boy Free.

Be safe out there, y'all. He's just waiting to do you in.

Last Week

I was busy last week. That explains my lack of posting. I was busy. BOOM! Best excuse ever! It explains everything without getting overly involved.

"We missed you at the PTO meeting."
"Sorry. I was busy."

"Why are you late for this appointment?"
"I was busy."

"Mom! You were supposed to pick me up 15 minutes ago!"
"I was busy."

"Why are we just now eating dinner at 7:15?"
"I was busy."

Then, when people try to ask you what you were busy with, you change the subject back to them, in either a positive or negative way.

"I am so impressed with the way you are running the PTO this year! Never in a million years would I be able to take on such a responsibility!" (HAHAHA!! Why??? Because I'M BUSY!!)

"You know, the staff here in this office is always so kind and efficient. I really hope these doctors know how lucky they are to have such a great staff!"

"Hey, I was looking on Skyward and I noticed that your English grade isn't looking so good, what's going on?"

"Wow, honey, you are looking especially good in your unshowered, unshaven, state! And the bicycle shorts only add to the glamour. Sexy! Here, have some potatoes!"

Or, if that takes too much effort, you could just type a few things on your blog and add pictures. Because the pictures will surely explain what you have been busy with.

I was busy trying to escape enormous spiders with 6 foot webs that MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEAR within 10 minutes of viewing it.

I was busy trying to figure out just what is in her mouth and why she felt the need to photograph it on my phone. #photobomb

I was busy trying to figure out if this is the new duckface selfie.  #photobombedagain

I was busy...um...still scratching my head over this one.... #seriouslytherewereabout15oftheseonmyphone

I was busy sending snarky texts to my daughter when she informed me that she would be late coming home from school. #motheroftheyearproof1

I was busy helping my son get ready for the big rivalry football game. #motheroftheyearproof2

I was busy sending pictures of duct tape to my other son in order to find out his preference on which one he would prefer I use to put on his cleats. #motheroftheyearproof3

I was busy taking very hip and chic selfies with my youngest. 

I was busy rescuing a leopard frog from our window well.

I was busy eating frozen custard with my family.

I was busy marveling at the light.

I was busy watching my daughter spin circles in her "twirly skirt."

I was busy taking pictures of my daughter's pillow perm. This picture doesn't even do it justice--you should've seen the back! #motheroftheyearproof4

I was busy helping my Beloved pick out new glasses. And by that I mean absently nodding in his direction and grunting "uh huh" at every pair of specs while really prowling the store for the frames I want when I go in to get new glasses soon. 

I was busy trying not to melt at my son's first game of the season. 

I'm busy trying to distract you from the ridiculousness of this post with a picture of an adorable Great Dane who was at my son's game. The game didn't end so well, but she was fabulous entertainment.

So. There you have it. I've have been busy, wouldn't you agree?

Um...look! Cute doggy!!

This Is What Procrastination Looks Like

*Decide that today is finally the day to work on lining the wire shelving with adhesive tiles in the pantry. It's been put off long enough.

*Set your mouth in a grim line of determination and set your mind to the task.

*Gather tools.

*Realize that utility knife blade is dull. Understand that dull blades lead to accidents and go on hunt for replacement blades.

*While hunting for replacement blades, trip over vacuum cord and decide that putting away the vacuum would be a good idea. Someone could get hurt.

*Notice while winding up vacuum cord that the Dumb Dog has distributed her hair everywhere yet again and decide that the downstairs could use a quick once over with the Dyson before putting it away.

*Start to vacuum.

*Stop vacuuming every 6 seconds to pick up a stray sock or shoe.

*Realize the futility of vacuuming without first having picked up the eleventy billion stray shoes and socks.

*Smack self in forehead.

*Mutter things about living with feral goats disguised as children.

*Pick up eleventy billion stray shoes, socks, hoodies, pens, pencils, coins, remotes, games controllers.

*Resume vacuuming.

*Finish vacuuming and put vacuum in closet.

*Notice that the Dumb Dog looks awfully warm and snuggly lying there in the sunshaft on the floor.

*Go over and lie down next to the dog.

*Talk to the dog in some weird form of baby talk that only dogs understand and rub her face.

*Notice that with every stroke of your hand, enough fur flies off of dog to completely undo all the vacuuming you just did.

* Shake fist in the air.

*Pet dog again and tell her you wish she was hairless.

* Get up and notice that the kitchen table has not been wiped down after breakfast.

*Head to the sink and grab the dishrag.

*Notice a funky smell emanating from said rag.

*Bring rag closer to nose and inhale deeply.

*Reconfirm that rag is definitely funky.

*Shudder while trying not to gag.

*Get new rag from drawer and place on counter.

*Gather up dishrag, towels, and hand towel from downstairs bathroom and run them upstairs to the laundry.

*Switch out clothes from the washer to the dryer.

*Fold a load of clothes.

*Start a new load in the washer.

*Go around to every upstairs bedroom shutting off every overhead light, table lamp, and closet light.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Mutter things about living with children who have no sympathy for drowning polar bears.

*Head back downstairs.

*Notice that the spider who has taken up residence in the foyer has built, yet again overnight, a stunning tangle of webs from the chandelier to the stairs to the doorway to the entry table.

*Get vacuum back out of closet.

*Attempt to vacuum the spider's transport routes.

*Put vacuum away.

*Notice the mess in the living room that the two eldest children left when they were putting together their school supplies.

*Remember that these children swore they picked up after themselves.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Make mental note to go over what "picking up" means with two eldest children.

*Pet Dumb Dog who is now making circles around your legs and whining.

*Realize that Dumb Dog needs to go outside.

*Take Dumb Dog outside.

*While strolling with dog, notice that your Garden of Neglect has more tomatoes that need picking.

*Go inside and take dog off leash.

*Grab basket and head back outside to Garden of Neglect.

*Pick eleventy billion tomatoes.

*Smack self in forehead and ask yourself again the need for three tomato plants when only one person in the house eats tomatoes.

*Curse self for being greedy about tomatoes.

*Take tomatoes inside and wash them.

*Notice overabundance of tomatoes on counter.

*Decide to make salsa.

*Check fridge for jalapeño peppers and cilantro.

*Realize that not only are there no jalapeños or cilantro, there is no sour cream for dinner.

*Decide to start a grocery list.

*Grab a pen.

*Scribble with it in mad circles on the paper and realize that it doesn't work.

*Throw it away and try another.

*Repeat this process at least 8 more times.

*After writing grocery list, notice Post-It note on cupboard about thank you notes.

*Move thank you notes to a prominent spot in the kitchen so that they can get written in a timely manner.

*Laugh at yourself, because it's way past timely.

*Remind yourself that even a late thank you note is better than none at all.

*Say a little prayer that the receivers of the notes feel the same way.

*Notice your cell phone.

*Wonder if you have any lives in Candy Crush.

*Decide that it won't hurt anything to just check.

*Play 5 rounds of Candy Crush, check email, nose around on Facebook, admire photos on Instagram, check the weather forecast, see if you have any moves on Words with Friends, look at the kids' school websites for information on upcoming meetings.

*Notice that 45 minutes has passed since picking up the phone.

*Shake fist in the air.

*Curse self for falling into a black hole of time-suck.

*Realize you heard the dryer buzzer 15 minutes ago.

*Run upstairs and switch out laundry and fold a load.

*Come back downstairs and notice that the reusable grocery bags are still sitting next to the fridge where you put them a week ago.

*Gather up bags and take out to van.

*Open up van door and get knocked backwards by the funk.

*Go on a search and destroy mission for the source of the funk, even though you've done this for three days running with no success.

*Grab a few stray pieces of trash, an asthma inhaler, two pairs of sunglasses, a hoodie and an umbrella while you are on the search mission.

*Decide mission is futile and spray Febreeze around the car like a teenage boy applying Axe.

*Dispose of garbage.

*Put other random items where they belong.

*Walk by computer and decide to check a few blogs for inspiration for a project idea you have in mind.

*Get sucked into other people's creativity.

*Realize that 20 minutes has passed.

*Shake fist in air.

*Curse self for not only not being as creative as the people whose blogs you just read, but also for being weak-willed for stopping at the computer when you have a job to do.

*Wrinkle brow and wonder, what was that job I was supposed to do again?

The Longest Shortest Summer Ever

Well howdy there, stranger! How have you been? Me? I've been busy crazy holed up in my room with the door closed for the last two weeks trying to avoid my offspring fine, thanks for asking!

Our summer was a combination of long days laced with cries of "I'm hungry!" and whines of "I'm bored" intertwined with frenzied days of travel and go-here-do-this-have-fun-dammit! (Hence the title of this post.) It seems we just finished the manic final days of school and now here we are starting them all up again. But in between, we crammed stuff in there, man. We crammed like a BOSS. To wit:

*My children were out of school for two days before heading over to my folks' house for a week of VBS, visiting, eating ice cream, swimming, fishing, and, according to my ever-hungry-never-full offspring, absolutely starved by my mother who would not let them raid the pantry willy-nilly as they are wont to do here. (My mom fears she is a mean grandma. I tell her no, I'm just a lazy mother too tired to fight with my children. They have me way outnumbered. Never mind that they have her outnumbered, too. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

*At the same time 3 of my children were at my folks' home, my eldest son and my beloved were in Canada, fishing, hiking, avoiding stumps that look like bears (no lie--three different times they mistook the same stump for a bear such was their wish/fear of seeing a bear. That stump/bear came to be known as Stumpy the "bear.") and checking out the ER of a Canadian hospital just for grins. Oh, and maybe to get stitches in a thumb because, as my son learned, knives are sharp.

*While my children and my beloved were gone, I painted my kitchen. Why yes, it seems I did just paint the kitchen a couple of years ago. But, now that the family room is painted (the color has grown on me. It's grown on me so much that I painted the kitchen the same color. Who knew that "Tattered Sail/Not Tattered Sail/Lavender Swine/Who Knows What Color This Is" would look so good? Now, I must share that the kitchen is not actually completely painted. My beloved told me he would paint the wee crevices above the upper cabinets with his special painting device he used last time we painted. I also left the area behind the fridge for him for two reasons: 1) I am a delicate flower and moving the fridge by myself seemed too overwhelming, and 2) I was afraid I would scratch the hardwood floors and then be given the stinkeye by my beloved. So now, my kitchen is totally painted. Um, if you don't you know, actually look above the cabinets or behind the fridge. Chances are very good that it will get painted. Sometime in 2017 when my husband gets to it on his very long To Do List and he actually has a day or two strung together that doesn't require his attention somewhere else. Until then, I'm pretending. Yellow? I don't see any yellow! Have you been to the eye doctor lately? I'm concerned for your vision.

*My eldest daughter spent 8 days in Guatemala with other students from her school's Spanish department. If we are Facebook friends, perhaps you will remember my request for prayers and good thoughts as she spent the first 3 days sick with the stomach flu and I spent the first 3 days alternately praying for her, answering her frantic texts, and being wracked with guilt for not letting her come home. It ultimately turned out just fine--just like I kept calmly telling her in my texts and just like my Sane Brain kept telling me over the very loud, very scary protests of my Insane Brain. She had a marvelous trip--ziplining at a coffee plantation, hiking up an active volcano, going to a black sand beach, working with kids at an after school program, visiting a local market, climbing pyramids, and trying not to die from being much to close to a poisonous snake. And, oh yes! Speaking and improving her Spanish.

*My family came in from my hometown and Chicago and Texas for the 4th of July. There was no burn ban in place this year, so we spent a great amount of time blowing things up to celebrate our country's independence. We also ate. A lot. And laughed. A lot. And just all around crammed as much enjoyment and togetherness as we could into a couple of days. Oh! And the Dreaded Owls never made an appearance. Will wonders never cease?

*My sweet mother-in-law left the bonds of this Earth to meet her Lord in Heaven and we spent a few days with my beloved's family celebrating her life--talking, laughing, looking through photos, crying, hugging, and remembering the countless ways she loved us all.

*We spent waaaay too many hours in a car together driving to, around, and from Florida. But, along the way, we got to see my sweet Aunt Bonnie, my beloved connected with a buddy, we had a weird little yodeling contest with the people in a truck next to us in a traffic jam, we saw a shark, we saw dolphins, we met up with my folks at a rented house and spent a wonderful week with them, swimming, eating, laughing, walking the beach, and playing approximately 827 games of SCAT.

*We celebrated three birthdays. Mary turned 9, Sean turned 12, and Maggie turned 17. I'm not sure how this is possible, given that I'm only 18 myself. Mary went to her first concert--with her big sister--and had a blast. Sean received a cell phone as his right of passage. And Maggie got a job. So you know, all is good in the 'hood.

*We returned from vacation to the windup to back-to-school. There was school shopping and more school shopping and meet the teacher and registration and orientation and so much paperwork that I'm sure several trees were harmed in the making of this school year.

*The kids started school on the 14th. On the 16th, I had one sick kid--two days in and his immune system went Holy Schnikes! Look at all these people! Look at all these germy surfaces! I know, I really feel the need to battle these. Oh! And I know what else sounds fun: Let me battle this virus while I'm already battling the allergens already in your body. Ready, Set, BOOM! Aaaaaaand he was down for the count. The same day, my eldest son, you know the one with the smart phone attached to his body permanent-like? He missed the bus. Let me say it again: Third day. Phone that not only does fancy things, it also shows the time to the minute, attached to body. Bus missed.

It was at that point in the program friends, that I knew. I might have had the Longest Shortest summer ever, but that was just a lead up to what may become the Longest Longest School Year ever.

A Fractured Five Senses Poem

My kids have all written what is called a five senses poem while in elementary school. It's not a poem that rhymes, rather one that focuses on using your five senses to describe your surroundings. I shall attempt to replicate such a poem with a Que Sara Sara spin.

Home:

I see: dirty socks lying like dessicated worms in crumpled heaps on the floor; pale tumbleweeds of dog fur that roll across the floor with the breeze; piles of notebooks, keys, and sunglasses that make an end-of-school-year mountain on the kitchen island.

I hear: the wet, slurping sound of the dumb dog's tongue repeatedly licking a spot on her dog bed; the thunderous kawunking thump of the washing machine on spin cycle, sounding like a Blackhawk helicopter in my laundry room, signaling the end of its useful days; the squawks and screeches of yet another battle between siblings over the blaring television.

I smell: the bitter, but lovely smell of mama's little helper coffee brewing; the stale, heavy, still somewhat appetizing aroma of bacon that was cooked days ago; a slightly musty, warm Frito odor coming off the dog as dozes in the sunbeam by the door.

I taste: the bittersweet hotness of the cappuccino as I guzzle it down while signing school papers; the bright, minty flavor of the sweet peppermint gum I chew to keep coffee-breath at bay; the bland, plastic taste of the tip of a pen as I compose yet another grocery list.

I touch: the gummy surface of a countertop left mottled and blemished by dirty cups, bowls, dishes, and wrappers; a slightly damp, highly stinky baseball jersey as I throw it into the dying washer; a wet shower mat with my bare feet, causing me to leap onto cold tiles. (Ick.)

Home.


And there you have it. It's probably not the A+ work my children received on their poems describing places like Disneyworld or the zoo, but it's my poem and I'm sticking to it.

Brave

He dons his uniform and cap, gathers his glove and equipment bag, and heads out the door yet again. It's baseball season and he has another game. He virtually vibrates in his seat as we drive to the game. He tells me about his teammates. He regales me with great plays. He tells me that he hopes he gets a hit.

It's been a bit of a dry spell in the hitting department. He's going great guns on the field. He's catching pop-ups, he's making double plays, he's aggressive. But when he steps into the batter's box, I can see it in his shoulders. I can see the tension. I can see the co-mingled hope and fear as he takes a couple of practice swings.

And I watch. And I cross my fingers. And my toes. And I whisper a silent prayer: Please, God, just once. Just one hit. Just to bring his confidence back. Please.

And I listen to his coach and his teammates as they offer encouragement: You can do it! This one's yours! Good eye! Big swing! Take it for a ride!

And I watch as he goes down swinging. And my heart aches as I see him walk dejectedly back to the dug out.

But then, when it's time to head back out to the field, there he is, all grins and freckles and joy. And when it's time to head back into the batter's box, he is there again serious-faced, ready to give it another try. Ready to swing away again.

And I think how hard this is and how strong he is and how brave he is to step into that box every time and keep swinging. And I am proud of his bravery.

****************

She looks beautiful all in white. She is proud of her dress. She twirls. She loves her shoes; loves the clonking noise the little heels make as she walks across the wood floors.

She has been preparing for this day. She says she was practicing in bed at night. She says she is ready. She is aglow.

And I see her, in the same dress her sister wore, taking the flower wreath on and off her head, rolling her eyes as we tell her "one more picture" and my eyes prick with tears. My baby. The one I didn't know I needed until we found out about her. I can't believe we are at this milestone already.

We head to the church and there is milling about and more pictures and exclamations when friends are seen. And finally, it's time. We are gathered in the pew, like 8 ducks in a row, listening, waiting, watching. And I look over at her.

Her face has crumpled. She is crying. And I know. I know she is frightened. She is afraid of walking down that aisle. She is afraid of making a mistake. She is afraid of all those eyes on her.

And I begin to whisper. I whisper to her that it will be okay. I whisper that we will be right there with her. I whisper that there are others feeling frightened. I whisper that it doesn't matter if she makes a mistake--no one cares, God certainly doesn't. God loves her heart. God loves her humor. God loves her compassion. God loves her. I crack a joke. I cross my eyes. I make a face.

She gives me a tentative smile.

But then it's our turn. We rise and walk down the aisle. She is still crying. I see compassionate eyes in the pews, watching my girl. She checks my face and I offer her every ounce of encouragement I can summon. As she approaches the front, I see her panic. She wants to flee. She tells me: I can't! And I tell her: You can! You can do hard things! I am so proud of you!

And she does. She does it through tears, but she does it just the same.

We head back to the pew where the rest of the family is waiting with smiles and hugs and pats and thumbs up. And she settles back into the pew, relieved, as she watches others have their turn.

And I think how hard this is and how strong she is and how brave she is to put one foot in front of the other and keep walking down that aisle. And I am proud of her bravery.

***************

I am doubtful. I question myself constantly; Is this the right decision? What if I mess up? What should I do next? What do people think of me? I am sometimes jumpy and uncomfortable in my own skin. Some days I want to pull the covers back up and say Not Today. I think I must be the only one: the only one who feels this way, the only one who struggles, the only one who hasn't got it all together, the only one who wishes she was someone else, was somewhere else. And I don't want any part of it. I think it might be easier to just stop. Quit.

But then they show me. Every day they show me how to walk bravely through this world. It's not always graceful. It's certainly not easy. But it's always amazing.

Because My Mother Taught Me To Say "Thank You"

It's May. And for as much as I groused in my last post about dreading some things in May, well, today the sun is shining, the windows are open, and the birds are serenading me. (I can pretend, people.) In short, I'm feeling pretty blessed this morning.

While I was reading through my blog feeds this morning, I came upon this. Go read it. Seriously, I'll wait.

Mmmkay. Done? Having been a special education teacher for about 10 years before I started having children and having children of my own, I understand both sides of that particular coin. And today, I want to say a few words to the teachers who meant so much and made a difference in my own life.

Mrs. Fluss (Bertauski)--You made 3rd grade so fun. I remember the pranks you pulled on other teachers and the ones they pulled on you. That left an impression. It made me think that a workplace could be enjoyable and full of camaraderie. Your unit on space ignited a love of all things space related. Seriously--when my mom and I visited the Smithsonian Air & Space museum for my 40th birthday and I got to meet real live astronauts? I got all fangirl giggly and teary-eyed. Embarrassing-- but in a good way? You set the bar high for any teacher that came after you.

Mr. Espindola--You made this hypochondriac girl want to attend school. You were young and full of ideas. It also helped that you were cute. I remember your unit on government and the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution test we had to take. It was hard. You pushed us and encouraged us and made us believe that we could do hard things. And we rose to that and did hard things. (Because of you and Schoolhouse Rock, I can still sing the preamble of the Declaration of Independence some 35 years later.) And the time for the health unit that we got to make breakfast at school? That was unheard of at the time and our class was giddy at the prospect. I looked to your example when I taught my own students to try new and unheard of ideas.

Mrs. Carlton--You made me love writing. You made me love literature. You made me believe I could write. And you did it all in a way that made me love you.

Mrs. Moseley--I can't pretend to be a good speaker. I convey my thoughts much better through the written word. But your speech class was a comfortable, safe place to learn public speaking skills. Your critiques were always honest and encouraging, making getting up to the podium a little less intimidating. So even though I still get muddled when speaking to adults, when speaking to kids, I know my audience and I can rock that mother out!

Mr. White--Algebra was scary and hard. But you wouldn't let that stop me. I was intimidated by numbers and by you, but you didn't let that get in the way of trying to help me to "get it." That time I got a B+ on a test? I know how I felt as a student. And years later, when working with students who found things scary and hard--students who were intimidated--I didn't let that get in the way of trying to help them "get it." And when they would come to show me a good grade? I know how you must have felt when I got that B+. Well done, sir.

Mrs. McVey--When we were studying poetry, I was like just about every other student in your class and I inwardly groaned my way through it. I had no idea that studying poetry would plant a seed that would grow into a love for words of all kinds. I had no idea that the words of Blake, Housman, Chaucer, Coleridge, Cummings, Eliot, Frost, and Thomas among others would someday come home to roost in my head and my heart. Thank you for encouraging me as a writer.  When you selected an essay I had written to take to a conference/contest, your actions confirmed my abilities. And now, even though there are plenty of people who write better than I, I know that my words have worth and that I will write anyway.

Dr. Caldwell--You stand out among all my college professors. Your genuine love of and compassion for special needs students was evident in the way you prepared us to become teachers ourselves. You were encouraging and funny and wanted us to give our very best all the time. I will never forget when a student in our class was absent because his wife was in premature labor and you asked us to pray for them and drop them a card. Or the time when you loaned my folks your car to help them get home and then you gave me a ride back to the house I lived in. Of course it helped that you and my folks went way back, but I'm fairly certain that you would have done this for any other student had they called you. Thank you for teaching me kindness, generosity, and compassion have a place inside and outside of the classroom.

And to many other teachers that I didn't mention, but that touched my life in countless ways, thanks to you too, for your hard work, dedication, professionalism, and joy in your work. Your work has eternal significance. Well done!

Now it's your turn: Comment and tell me who were your favorite teachers and why?

Photo Dump

Pictures from the last week or so from my dslr and my phone.

3 generation selfie.

Yes, we drive through a town named Boody on our way to my hometown. We also drive through a town called Willeys. The 10 year old boy that inhabits my brain finds that hilarious. Alas, I didn't get a picture of Willeys. This time.

This is how all my hands in SCAT looked. Ugh.

His favorite thing from his Easter basket.

Sean's beautiful blue slushie.

Our kicks. On Rt. 66.

She grabbed my camera to take some selfies. 

Then her brothers got involved.

So much for that idea.

Yep. We hid some eggs at Tastee Treat. 

Also at the Lincoln and pig statue on the courthouse lawn.

These people look normal. But if you wait in line with them a while, you learn otherwise.