Family Fun Fact #17

In 1994 Hula suffered a blow to the head that temporarily eliminated all of her reasoning skills. She doesn't remember it, but it must have happened. Otherwise, she has no excuse for allowing her mother-in-law to dress Teen Angel in this gosh awful nightmare of an Easter outfit.

Just Desserts

Sometimes I don’t listen to myself very well. I’m great at handing out pearls of wisdom and then forgetting to wear them. Take yesterday. Hubby and I were surfing through the TV channels when he stopped briefly on one of those infomercials. It was the one where the short woman with the curly hair makes 16,000 kinds of dishes out of a piece of bread, a tablespoon of apples and a sandwich maker for just two easy payments of $19.99. She pulled two tasty looking tostada cups out of the gizmo, and I looked at Hubby and said, “You know, that stuff always looks good, but when you get right down to it, it still tastes just like a piece of bread and a hunk of meat”. Insert smug laughter here. And flash forward to two hours later.

Mama J. called and said she had made two banana cream pies and we could have one of them if we wanted it. Since it was dessert we naturally wanted it. Not to mention the fact that we should take advantage of the fact that Mama J. cooked, because that won’t happen again for another six months. Hubby loves banana cream pie, especially his mama’s banana cream pie. It was also his one day of the week when he relaxes his diet and eats dessert…if you don’t count that vanilla shake he has on Tuesdays that he thinks I don’t know about. He was positively salivating over that pie and told Teen Angel to hop over and get it since fetching is the reason we birthed her. She went next door, brought it home and promptly dropped it on the back step. Upside down. It splattered in nine directions and wasn’t salvageable in any way. Trust me, I considered scooping up the parts that landed where I thought the dog hadn’t walked recently but didn’t think my weakened immune system could stand it. Teen Angel cleaned it up, and I broke the news to the Man on a Diet. I thought for a moment he was going to cry. He looked like I did the other night when Missouri beat Memphis and screwed up my NCAA bracket. He whined about that pie for an hour.

I thought I’d make it up to him by making the closest thing to banana cream pie I could with the ingredients I had on hand. Now, before you laugh, you should know I’m pretty good at this kind of trick. I can usually open the cabinets and whip up something tasty with the stuff that’s sitting there. I’m not braggin’, I’m just sayin’ I could do a little Iron Chef sumpin’ sumpin’ if I had to, and no one would walk away hungry. I kind of like the challenge, which is why I didn’t just make a regular pie crust out of some flour, water and shortening. Instead, I grabbed a package of refrigerated crescent rolls, a small box of instant pudding, some bananas and some whipped cream. I lined a muffin tin with the crescent rolls and baked them up like puffed pastry cups. I let them cool, filled them with pudding and bananas, topped them with whipped cream and proudly handed one to Hubby after dinner. Insert more smugness here. He gratefully thanked me, gobbled it up and said, “Mmhmm”, when I asked him if it was good. He didn’t elaborate, but I thought he was still mourning his mama’s pie. I was too full to eat my concoction. When Teen Angel came home from church youth group she foraged around in the fridge for something sweet, and I told her about the pudding cups. Her reply? “Yeah, I tried one but it tasted like a big roll in the middle of some pudding.”

Would someone please hold my pearls?

Fun Monday-Easter Baskets

Our sweet Fun Monday hostess with the mostess this week is jMo at Wisconsin Candy who wants to know what we would like in our Easter basket:

The topic is Easter Baskets: Share a story, is it better to give or to receive, what would you like in yours?

Let me tell ya', I'm all over the Easter basket thing. I love a good Easter basket. I have great memories of childhood Easters, especially those annual egg hunts at church when we would scatter all over the grounds scrambling after brightly colored marshmallow eggs. I was always the child who wanted the WHITE chocolate lamb, which was not an easy thing to come by back in...well, never mind. Let's just say it was before white chocolate was plentiful. I could make that lamb last for days, sometimes weeks, while my brothers gobbled theirs up right away. (Psst. I was the annoying kid who still had Halloween candy stashed away at Christmas.) For this assignment, I started to list all of the candies I would like in my basket today. Then I remembered the three hours I spent in the car with my sixteen year old this weekend giving her driving lessons and thought I should ask for something other than candy in my basket. After all, we have at least three more months of practice driving before her test.

I'd like a thick soled shoe to stand up to all of those times I spend mashing my right foot into the imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side of the car.And an elbow pad for when I press my elbow into the door, trying to push us away from the edge of the road where there is no shoulder.A helmet would help for when I'm pounding my head against the dash, saying, "How many times do I have to tell you?And duct tape for my mouth to keep me from saying, "How many times do I have to tell you?" And to keep her from saying, "I know, I know!"

Let's top it off with a Humvee. That way when we veer across the center line, we'll have some protection from the oncoming traffic.

Oh, and a little white chocolate to sooth my clinched up stomach upon our return from each lesson.

It's a good thing I can hoard my holiday candy. I see a lot of chocolate in my future between now and and Independence Day.

*Images courtesy of: shoes.com, bulletproofme.com, injurysupplies.com, armyrecgonition.com and mackenzieschocolates.com.

Twenty Words or Less

Spring bug..101 fever...pissing me off....filched antibiotic from husband...ran errand...woozy...need another nap...BLECH.

Freeze Frame

I have a confession. Ever since I got the camera for Christmas, I have been a picture taking fool. I cannot stop. If it moves, I shoot it. If it doesn’t move, I shoot it. I took some 400 pictures at work during the ice storm, documenting our three weeks of intense disaster recovery. We had enough pictures for a 24 minute video. 24 minutes!

Now that spring has sprung, I’ve captured every bloom within a 30 mile radius. Yellow blooms, pink blooms, blooms that fall on rocks, even bloom with colored spots. Every time I pass some new flora or fauna I haven’t snapped yet, I pull over to the side of the road for a picture. Like this:
And this: It’s the inside of a tree downed in the ice storm. I thought it looked like it was crying over its fate.

I’m the same way at home. I have Pioneer Woman syndrome, documenting every move of my family. Hubby and Teen Angel should be numb to the lens by now, but they aren’t. It’s not for lack of trying on my part.

My favorite subjects are people because they do some infinitely fascinating things, especially when they don’t realize you’re taking their picture. Wherever two or more are gathered, I get the urge to take some pictures. Like yesterday, while I waited at the music store for Teen Angel to finish her guitar lesson, and I was surrounded by guitars and banjos and interesting characters with dreadlocks and tattoos. It was all I could do to fight the urge to intrude on some strangers with my lens.

I must admit my very favorite person to photograph right now is my baby nephew, Special Delivery. He’s five months old, and oozes personality, making him a fun subject. He likes to interact with us now and is well aware of his charm. He’s also quite wiggly, which is teaching me how to use the aperture settings and the importance of good lighting. The little stinker is like a worm in hot ashes. I snapped beau coup shots of him Saturday while we helped Super Cop and Mrs. Scrubs move into their new house, and at the risk of inundating you with more baby pictures I’m sharing with you some of my favorites because….because…I…can’t….resist. Somebody stop me!!

Truth in Advertising

Dear makers of Crystal Light,

May I suggest that you take a lesson in product naming from the folks at OPI nail polish? Their names are so descriptive and whimsical, and they always seem to fit the contents of the bottle perfectly. I'm making this suggestion because this:

should be Sunday, Bloody Sunday or My Bloody Valentine or even Murder She Wrote. 'Cause Cherry Pomegranate doesn't begin to describe what happens when you mix it with club soda.Just a thought.

Your home girl,

Hula

Ears Lookin' At You

When we got our miniature schnauzer six years ago we made a conscious decision to keep his big floppy ears. Hubby made an appointment at the vet’s to have them cut, because everyone said that’s what you’re supposed to do with a schnauzer. But Teen Angel and I pitched a hissy, whined, moaned and pleaded with him to cancel that appointment because we loved Jack’s big ol’ ears. They give him character we said. And they’re cute and blah, blah, blah and yadda, yadda, yadda and wha, wha, wha until Hubby relented. Not that it took much convincing since Hubby’s kind of a wienie about lopping off body parts and kind of a pushover when it comes to the women in his life. Boy, are we glad we saved those ears. They make us smile on a daily basis, especially when Jack goes for a ride and let’s his hair down. That dog loves to ride in the golf cart. Nothing makes him happier than zipping down the street on the golf cart with the breeze blowing in his face. And his ears flapping in the wind. That’s how I snapped this picture Friday:This photo captures the true essence of his little canine spirit. In fact, it’s so accurate, it’s ear-ee. Ha! I crack myself up.

Anyone care to give this one a caption?

Fun Monday-Tale of the Undies

Oh, what an unusual assignment we have this week. Our host today, mamadrama, recently found a pair of men's underwear in the parking lot at work. She figures they fell out of someone's gym bag, but it certainly does make you curious about their origin. That's what inspired her assignment for us:

For the March 23rd Fun Monday, What type of tale would you create as to why you had to ditch your underwear in the parking garage at work?

Hmmmm. Interesting. Well, the mind certainly wanders in all kinds of directions on this one. After turning this one upside down in my mind for a while, I finally decided that the only reason my underwear would end up in the parking lot at work would be because they fell out of my gym bag, and I've come gosh darn close to doing that actually. And as I typed this sentence I suddenly remembered I haven't emptied my gym bag and washed last week's running clothes yet. Yikes. So, I'm changing the rules just a smidge and giving you a list of why anyone's underwear would wind up in a public parking lot, besides the obvious reason. These are kind of feeble, but it's the best I could do after a two hour nap. Let's do a top ten list a la Letterman, shall we? Paul, cue the music.

10. Children's author Dave Pilkey's superhero, Captain Underpants, did a quick change in public.

9. A dingo ate my baby...and stole my clothing.

8. I'm not the only one who tests how long they can wear drawers before they literally fall off.

7. A tornado ripped through the laundromat during spring storm season.

6. A protest over the AIG bonuses got way out of hand.

5. The Girls Next Door moved in next door.

4. The Hanes convention was in town, and they gave away swag bags.

3. It was Take Your Drawers to Work Day.

2. A parade came to town, Matthew McConoughey was the grand marshal, and the ladies needed to throw something.

1. And finally....what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!

Okay, that's all I got. Let's mosey on over to mamadrama's to see what everyone else came up with, and let's hope they were more creative than me. If anyone needs me, I'll be doing some laundry.

Pretty Baby

Teen Angel and Special Delivery

Oh, that girl loves her new cousin. It seems like just yesterday she was the baby, and we were blowing bubbles on her belly and kissing her ear. As I look at this photo, I have one overriding thought: My baby isn't a baby anymore. In fact, everywhere I look these days is a reminder that she's growing up. That she has tossed aside childish things and is well on her way to becoming a young woman.

For example, the last two years she has earned money during the summer by babysitting several days a week and mowing. This summer, she’ll have her first real job where she’ll earn minimum wage and fill out a time card. She’ll be working at our favorite bakery in town. The job market for teens is pretty tight around here, so we were afraid she might have trouble finding something, but she got a call this week from the bakery owner asking her to “be a part of their team”. She goes in next weekend to work out her schedule. She is excited, and so are we because it was probably the hard volunteer work she did in the church kitchen during the ice storm that earned her the recommendation for the job. For that, I’m very proud. She’s a good worker, and I know she’ll do well.

She continues to practice driving, so she can take her driver’s test this June and hopefully, earn her license. And can I just say I think I’ve done a remarkable job of being calm and not grabbing the dashboard or stomping my imaginary brake pedal while giving those lessons from the passenger’s side of the car?. If all goes well, she’ll be driving solo with the sun roof open in two months. Her first summer of independence. And she has had a couple of dates recently. Aye, yi, yi. Is that ever tough to watch her walk out the door on the arm of a boy who thinks he’s Dale Earnhardt, Junior.

In the last month she has received solicitations from four colleges. It’s time for us to start looking at campuses and weighing the options. From what I understand, now is the time to get on waiting lists because it’s getting harder to get accepted just about anywhere these days. She’s already giving me and Hubby a taste of the empty nest syndrome we’ll feel when she goes to college in a couple of years. She was out of town last weekend on a school trip and will be gone again this weekend. We survived last weekend okay, but it was strange. Not bad. We always spend a lot of time together, so we’re not like those couples who don’t know what to say when they are alone together. You know, the folks who drift apart over the years, held together only by their children. But we are used to being a trio, not a duo, so it felt a little odd to be without her. Like we were missing a limb or something. I’m sure she loved it. It was the first time she took a school trip that one of us did not chaperon. It was time for us to take that step, too. To let her be on the road without us, making her own decisions about responsibility and safety.

There comes a time when you have to start giving them some freedom, to stand back and hope they remember what you’ve taught them, remember what you stand for and make the right choices. You know they’ll make some wrong ones along the way, and that’s what is tough. These are some difficult years, but I know we’ll get through it, and this stage will fly by faster than we expected. We’ll have much grayer hair than when we started. On the positive side, she’s a good kid, a really good kid who will probably do great things and make us proud. And I just might score that amaretto scone recipe I’ve been trying to worm out of that bakery for the last year.

Party On!

"Spring is nature’s way of saying, “Let’s party.”
Robin Williams

From my camera this week:

Winter Schminter

See this? This is what I wore to work today. White pants AND white sandals. Spring may still be two days away, but I’m officially declaring winter over. Done. Dead as a doornail. Flat as a flitter. Gone like the wind. I’m breaking up with him, and he can have his ring back. I’ve had enough and I’m not going to take it anymore. I don’t care about your white shoes before Memorial Day rule or that whole white pants are only for summer nonsense. I’m done with the coats, gloves and black pants. I’m ready to move on, dang it. I don’t care what the calendar says. Calendar Schmalendar. Calendars are for rule followers. I like to color outside the lines, thank you very much, so I’m declaring today the start of spring. Um, just don’t tell anyone I had to run the heater a little in the car on the way to work this morning.

The Sounds of Silence

March 16, 2009
5:30am

The popping sound of the light on my alarm coming on startles me from a sound sleep. I quickly smack the button before the alarm starts to jangle. Every morning my hand races to beat that alarm from sounding the start of another day. 5:30 am. An unholy hour to rise if there ever was one. I hate having to get up this early, but it does give me one of my favorite moments of the day. I will lie here in silence and savor it for a few minutes before I put my feet on the floor and start the regular churn.

I am a slow riser. Today will be no different. Each day when I first awake there is a little part of me, the eternal optimist, that thinks today might just be the day I’m a morning person. That I will bounce out of bed and grab onto the morning with enthusiasm and speed. Today is not that day I realize with no real disappointment. The realist in me knows it will probably never happen. A picture of Ralphie from A Christmas Story crosses my mind and I hear him say, “Skunked again.” I smile at the movie reference and wait for my thoughts to gather, for while my feet are slow to move at this hour, my mind is already shifting gears and building speed. The thoughts ping around like a rubber ball. They are hard to control. Will I be on time to work today? Is Teen Angel feeling better? Oh, she needs lunch money. Gotta’ write a check before I leave the house. Dang. I should have cleaned my shoes last night. What do I need to accomplish at work today?

I lie perfectly still in the dark and listen. I listen closely for signs that all is the same as when I drifted off to sleep, Hubby is next to me, his warm leg touching mine. The rhythm of his breathing is steady. I wonder for a brief moment what this time of the day will be like if he dies before me, and I become an old widow woman alone in this king sized bed. Where did THAT come from? That thought is too uncomfortable, and I quickly brush it aside. Mama crosses my mind. I should call her, I think. I make a mental note not to wait for her to call me. There is a rustling at the foot of the bed, and the dog is repositioning himself. The alarm has awakened him, but like me, he is in no hurry to move. I listen for his breathing, and smile. It is in synch with Hubby’s. I think about how much joy that little miniature schnauzer has brought to us and surmise that most folks who don’t want a dog in their bed have probably never slept with a dog. I smile at how cozy the three of us are in our little cocoon. Off in the distance, I hear the crow of a rooster from the next road. It’s that quiet in the house. A few more weeks, and we’ll be able to hear the light low roar of racecars at the racetrack. As the crow flies it’s not that far from our house, but we don’t notice it until we go to bed. What is that? An indiscernible noise. Something new? Oh, just the heat kicking on. Frick. When is spring going to come and stay? If I have to wear a coat one more time I’ll scream. I picture the daffodils in the backyard and hold onto the visual for as long as possible. Just a few more days, Hula. Just a few more days and spring will be here.

I’m still sleepy. I stayed up too late last night. It was Bunco night with girlfriends. I giggle to myself. A Bunco hangover. Is there any such thing if there were no drinks involved? I close my eyes again, replaying some of the fun from the night before and willing my body to fight the urge to drift back to delicious sleep. The urge is strong. I could easily go back to sleep. I spring my eyes open to keep that from happening and try to focus on the sounds again. I listen really hard for Teen Angel in the next room. I rarely hear her breathing in there, but sometimes she moves in the bed, reassuring me that she’s okay. Does a mother ever quit imagining that bad things can happen to our children if we close our eyes or turn our back for just a moment? I think not. I hear the groan of her mattress as she moves. She’s fine. Good. She coughs. Hmm. Her cold doesn’t sound much better than it did last night. I decide to give it two more days, and if she’s not significantly better by then to take her to the doctor. Hubby has to take Papa T. to the doctor today. Hope that goes well. It’s always an adventure now when they go to the doctor. You never know how lucid Papa T. will be. I say a quick prayer that it’s a good day. That Papa T. is having a sharp day, and behaves himself for Hubby. I drift to my alcoholic friend and wonder if she had a sober night last night. Probably not. I remind myself that I cannot fret over it. I say a quick prayer for her too, turn that worry over to God, as best I can anyway, and move on before my heart starts to ache for her. I just can’t go there this morning. It’s too early to start that kind of worrying.

I finally move, stretching my arms and legs. My left heel is a little sore. Crap. I hope the tendonitis isn’t flaring up again. I really am going to get old, aren’t I? I tell myself I won’t let it happen without a fight. I close my eyes one more time to drink in the quiet sounds of my family, snoozing in the dark. Uninterrupted sounds of peace and contentment. It’s so soothing. The dog stretches. He’s starting to come alive. His bladder must be calling to him, too. It’s probably about time for the two of us to venture outside for his morning walk. I glance at the clock to check the time. Yep. 5:45AM. I’ve spent fifteen minutes trying to rise and shine. A morning person would consider that wasted time. I smile at the thought that it was time well spent, and I slowly slide my feet to the floor to stand and greet the day.

Toe Shoes & Water Wings

Last Thursday I went to the ballet, dahling. I love that I can say that. I may live in rural Kentucky, but our city is loaded with the arts. A few years ago, some very forward thinking folks got together, raised a ton of money and built a fabulous performing arts center in our city. We have one of the most beautiful performing arts centers in the United States, and at any given time of the year I can drive fifteen minutes from my house and see a touring Broadway show, a ballet or a great concert, which is pretty incredible given the fact that the population of our city is 30,000 people. We don’t always know when to clap or what to wear, but we have taken to the arts like a duck on a June bug. Last week Mrs. Scrubs and I saw the New York Theater Ballet for just $11 each. Giddy up. How could we pass on that? It was their interpretation of Sleeping Beauty, so the audience was full of children, squirmy excited children in awe of their surroundings.

There were several hundred little aspiring ballerinas dressed in tutus, leotards and toe shoes asking questions too loudly and giggling at each other. Mostly, they were glued to the action on the stage. It was another one of those times when I wished I’d had my camera. I would have certainly snapped a picture of the little girl sitting on her daddy’s lap peering over the first balcony to the stage below. And the little girl in the center of the first row who stood on tip toe the whole time with her nose pressed above the edge of the stage. I don’t think she ever moved. For $11 we got a show and the show within the show. As we left, a little girl in front of us pranced across the parking lot imitating the dance moves she had just seen. Mrs. Scrubs and I giggled at her ambition. It whisked me back to my childhood and memories of the dreams inspired by dancers and celebrities.

I didn’t dream much about being a ballerina. Oh, I was always fascinated by toe shoes, and I remember sticking tacks in the bottom of an old pair of Mary Janes and jumping around on the sidewalk at grandma’s trying to create some makeshift tap shoes. My dancing moves were inspired by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I loved those dance scenes in the old movies. I even remember doing my own version of Singin’ in the Rain with an umbrella, but those were just fun and games. What I really wanted to be, WHO I wanted to be, more than anything in the great big whole wide world was Esther Williams. I wanted to be the Million Dollar Mermaid. The Bathing Beauty who starred in those big, showy Busby Berkley water ballet movies and swam in a flaming pool.The one who slid down a huge water slide while standing up or dropped from dangerous heights into a ring of bobbing beauties. As a kid, I stayed up late many a night watching her old movies. For me, she had it all. She was beautiful. And athletic. And she got to swim all of the time. My swimming time was limited. When you grow up in the sticks, you don’t get much time in the city pool. Our city pool was less than a block away from my grandma’s house, and in the summer I spent plenty of time standing at the fence watching the swimming, but we were rarely there long enough for me to jump in. I think maybe that’s why I was so fascinated with Esther and her movies. We always want what we can’t or don’t have, and Esther had a big fancy pool at her disposal all of the time. She had great swimsuits. Cute swim caps. (Yes, I’m old enough to have had one of those.) And she always got the man. By the way, she always got the man in real life, too. I read her autobiography a few years ago, and she had quite the love life. She was one hot mama.

Yep. You could keep your toe shoes, I wanted the fancy swimsuit. I wanted to be a mermaid. And ya’ wanna know a secret? I spend a fair amount of time scouring TMC, AMC and all of those other old movie channels for her movies now. It’s one of the few things that will keep me up past 11pm anymore. Well, that and eating popcorn too close to bedtime. But that’s another post.

*Images courtesy of DVDTalk.com and HollywoodBlog.com

Fun Monday-Out of The Mouth of Babes

It's Fun Monday time, and this week is definitely fun. Mariposa is graciously hosting for the third time, and she's labeled this one "Kids Say The Darnedest Things". Here's her assignment for us:

Yes, they can be your children...your nephew...niece....siblings...just any experience which makes you say...indeed, Kids Say the Darnedest Things! They need not be a lot...but no limit to how many you can share...more means more fun!

I think God presents us with funny moments from our children to keep us from yanking off their heads and tearing them from limb to limb when they're standing on our last nerve and jumping up and down. I love watching kids because they're so honest and funny sometimes. I had a hard time narrowing down the items for this topic because there are so many from which I could choose. I finally picked two. The first features my nephew.

When he was just big enough to walk and talk pretty good, we drove to the Nashville antique/flea market, which used to be a huge event in October on the fairgrounds there. Food and drink vendors were scattered around the grounds, and more than once that day Hubby stopped at a stand and bought a beer, always saying, "Cold beer, please". About two thirds of the way into the day, my nephew was walking hand in hand with Hubby when he pulled Hubby towards a food stand, indicating he wanted something. Hubby walked right over to the stand to buy Chance whatever he wanted, figuring he wanted a corndog. When they got to the front of the line, Chance, who could barely see over the table, propped his elbows on the table, and smiled brightly at the clerk. She said, "What would you like, little man?" His reply? "Cold beeeeer pwease." My sister in law was not amused.

My second story for you today hails from Teen Angel's toddler years. We were on a family outing at a mall near Louisville, Kentucky and once again, my nephew was with us. He was about eight years old at the time. Teen Angel was big enough to walk and string sentences together, but there were plenty of words she didn't know...or I thought she didn't know. I was sitting in the floor of a shoe store, trying shoes on her, while Chance, Sissy and Mama J. watched. An elderly lady was standing near us, and...well....she pooted....silently. We all realized it about the same time, and Teen Angel looked up at me and loudly asked, "Who FARTED?!" Now, a good parent would have shushed her and not made a big deal out of it. But I was so stunned that she knew the word, that I was not thinking clearly. In fact, I wasn't thinking at all. I snorted. And then giggled. I just couldn't help myself. Chance, who had been trying not to laugh, burst out laughing as soon as I giggled. Pleased that she got such a pleasant reaction from us, Teen Angel did what any toddler would do. She started laughing loudly and repeated, "Whooooo farrrrrrted?" Sissy and Mama J. lost it, and none of us could get control of ourselves. The poor, poor woman whom I'm sure was mortified to have been called on her little air biscuit, slid around the corner and out of the store. We were out of control. We laughed until we cried, right there on the floor of Payless, unfortunately sending Teen Angel the signal that it was okay to say that word. She kept repeating it, and we kept laughing. I tried to tell her it was a word she shouldn't use, but the horse was already out of the barn. As if that weren't enough, about a half hour later when we were walking through the mall, Teen Angel spotted that same woman, pointed at her and said, "She FARTED!" I wanted to crawl under a rock. I'm sure that woman thought we were horrible people.

That incident has given us a million laughs over the years. Both memories of my nephew are fond ones, especially since he's gone now. It makes me smile just thinking about them now. I also smile when I think about how he couldn't pronounce the "tr" sound when he was little and used the "f" sound instead. He loved firetrucks and liked to use that word. We spent one whole year clamping our hand over his mouth in the presence of a firetruck.

Oh, I can't wait to enjoy the smiles that await us at everyone else's site today. Follow me on over to Mariposa's to read their stories.

Hula's Newest Favorite Thing

This flavor is enough to make even the non believers eat a Peep.Kroger, top shelf, seasonal aisle.

Going Green

While I was stomping around whining about winter these last couple of weeks, I failed to notice something. A big something. Spring has started to arrive, and I’ve been stumbling over it like a blind woman. Little signs of new life are all around me, and I missed it until this past Tuesday. While I was walking the dog and waiting for him to PICK A SPOT TO POOP ALREADY IT’S THE SAME YARD YOU POOPED IN YESTERDAY AND THE DAY BEFORE, I noticed that the grass around the backyard path was greener. Noticeably greener. In fact, the whole yard was greener, so I took a second look around the yard and found all kinds of green things that made my flip flop lovin’ toes tingle. Like the blooms on the rose bushes. And the little shoots of tiger lilies.That odd little vine that shoots out of the fringe tree sprouted while I wasn’t looking.And so did the peony bushes. And grannie’s hydrangea.Those what-cha-ma-call-its that look like brussel sprouts are really sprouting.But so are the weeds. Man, do I need to clean out some flower beds. Oh, wait. I have a husband whose retired and can do that. Hula, make a note about that.
You’ve heard the phrase “Happy as a pig in Sunshine”? This little pig is happy in his bed of flowering weeds. And I almost got down in the dirt and rolled with him when I saw how many of these we had.As usual, the good Lord had answered a prayer for me and I was too busy wagging my tongue to notice. Surely, he won’t mind if I pretend not to notice the snow flurries that are dancing around all of that green stuff today.

The Evolution of Spring, Kentucky Style

On the second day of the week, the Lord made spring. 77 degrees and sunny. Hula ran in shorts and a t-shirt. And it was good. On the third day of the week, the Lord made winter…again. 35 degrees and a wee bit of sleet.Hula ran in full UnderArmor, gloves and a sock cap. And it was bad.On the fourth day of the week, the Lord made sinus medicine. Potent and tinged with acetaminophen.
Hula took it because her head felt like this. On the fifth day of the week Hula moved to Arizona. And it was good.

*Images courtesy of: oksenate.gov, maa.org, falk.com, ratemyfrown.com and willcountyema.org.