When Pigs Fly Over Your Kitchen Table

**Edited to update. I ordered mine from Plow and Hearth, but you can Google flying pig chandelier and several other stores carry it.

My chandelier was damaged. (Um, no box? Hello?) So I can't bring myself to show you a photo of it. The pigs have gone to the slaughter...

So, here is the catalog pic. I hope to have it replaced. . 

(It is actually not iron, but cast metal.)

Go ahead and laugh.  That's why I love it.

Boxes

You never think you have a lot of stuff until it is all put into boxes. 

You have yard sales to declutter and simplify before you pack up and when all of it is packed you are so happy and pleased with your efforts.  But, then you get to the new place and start to unpack.  No matter how many yard sales you had before you moved, you wish you'd had another one. 

By day nine of unpacking you are past the yard sale phase and have decided what you really should have done is donate it all to a charity promoting world peace and preventing world hunger and just live in the back of your new house in a small pup tent that you bought from a boy scout.

Every day I get up and walk through a box maze to the Keurig coffee maker.  (See, moving has driven me to drink.) I sip from the one cup I could find and watch a little Regis and Kelly.  As the days progress the maze gets smaller and the coffee mug choices get larger, as I unpack more and more boxes.

Boxes have personalities.  Ugly, smug, sneaky, and calculating.  They smile with their packing-tape grins and tease, "Nah nah nah nah nah!!!"

There are the clueless, forgetful ones with missing parts. ("Electronics and chords" (always misspelled.)

There are the friendly, but cumbersome ones ("Clothes")

But, the nastiest and rudest of all are labeled, "China."

Each tea cup is wrapped in at least one hundred pieces of paper and each dinner plate is stacked in an origami designed, multi-layered paper girdle. 

My china packer on this move was so thorough in his china wrapping skills that he stuck one great big strip of packing tape around the layers and layers of paper just to be sure that the china didn't come unwrapped as it traveled across the country in the huge moving truck.  (You never know. Those Lenox china sets have been known to try and sneak out in the night while the driver gets twenty minutes of sleep at the Super 8 in Dallas.)

But my iron flying pig chandelier didn't even make it into a box.

Go figure.

I am happy to say that yesterday I unpacked my very last box of china and glassware. (I think.)  Unless one is lurking in the garage giggling with glee that he has managed to hide away in the dark without my knowledge, I can now move on to the less tedious, but equally challenging items.

"Decor."

Who knows what could be in there!?

The Reader's Digest Version

Newsflash.

We moved.

My third grade English teacher would be so proud of my introductory paragraph.

Hubs' job has taken us back to the Florida panhandle.  Back to the beach, the waves, and most importantly, Target. 

As an added bonus (not that Target and Starbucks were not enough for me, my friends) we get to move back into our house. We've had tenants in our home for the last three years, good tenants.  Thank the good Lord for that.  However, their color choices are not my color choices. 

I like color.  They like brown.

I have friends with beautiful homes filled with browns and tans and camels and khakis. Their homes are lovely.  If I try to decorate mine with the exact same colors, it doesn't look good at all.  They say you choose the colors that look good on you. This may be true. I tend to decorate with what I wear- greens, blues, pale yellows and greens.  Brown is not my color. The last time I owned a brown coat I looked like I had the flu for the entire winter.

So.  Anywho.

We've been painting.  And here's the other thing.  The air conditioner is out.  Yes, m'am. I move back to 95 degrees with 200% humidity and I choose to paint my house while the air conditioning is busted.  Hey, I never claimed to be smart. (We are in a hotel, so at least we don't have to sleep there.)

Our household goods don't arrive until next week so I am trying to use my time wisely, painting and cleaning before they get here.  Hopefully today the air conditioning will be fixed today and the paint won't melt off the all, along with my make-up. 

On another note, I am looking forward to The Help coming out soon.  I loved the book and can't wait to see the movie. 

What about you?  What's your news? 

Yes, Virginia, there is a place to get your diesel and your dinner.

There is a standing joke about the South that you can fill your tank and stomach at the gas station. Some gas stations specialize in fried chicken. Others have sandwiches. Once I bought a seven-layered cake at a gas station. In fact, I made a special trip. However, I have never actually sat down to eat at one.

Until today.

There's a little town outside of Smalltown, New Mexico which boasts a gas station/restaurant.  I don't know if it has a name at all because the only sign on the building simply reads "Restaurant."  Hubs heard about their green chile cheeseburger at work and was determined to have one.

Today we left horseback riding and headed to The Restaurant.  We also happened to need gas, so we pulled up, filled the tank, then drove the car another 40 feet or so to park. 

We stopped by the cashier to pay for the gas.  As I waited, I saw a sign next to the beef jerky which read (forgive me as I paraphrase,) "We do not sell raw meat to the public.  We can only sell bacon or luncheon meats, and are not allowed to sell raw meat.  We are trying to change this, but do not sell raw meat to the public until further notice. Sincerely, Virginia." 

Now, I don't exactly know how many people walk into a gas station wanting to buy raw meat, but apparently there is a huge demand for it there. I don't know about you, but I am thankful that Virginia nipped that one in the bud.

We walked over to the dining area and found the short order counter.  The hostess/waitress pointed to the menus in the little plastic bins and the three of us took a look.  The green chile cheeseburger wasn't on the menu, but Hubs asked about it and she said she would make him one.  Daughter ordered the classic burger, and I simply ordered hamburger steak, with a salad and baked potato.

After we made our drinks at the little soda machine, we found a table by the window. I have to say the view of the gas pumps outside added to the atmosphere.

As we finished our dinner, a family came in, pushed three tables together, and stood in line to order.  Grandma got the silverware from the little bins and set the tables.  My guess is that they were waiting for more relatives to join them.

Grandpa, in his Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots, placed an order for his grandson.

"He'll have the hamburger without any vegetables.  Is that right, son?"

"Yessir," the little boy answered.

As we left, I heard the cook fire up the grill and thought to myself, "I bet Virginia would be pleased."

Dear Blog,

I have had this post in my head for months. The one where I write how much I missed  you, dear blog, and that I should visit you more often.

Then again, it is a lot like saying you miss going to see Aunt Edna.  Aunt Edna knows you love her and she wishes you would visit.  You love her, too and you truly, truly miss her. But, now you've been away so long that it feels awkward going back, even though all you want to do is run up on the porch, hug her, and have some of her cookies.

Okay. So that wasn't the best analogy.  This is what happens when you don't write for months. You ramble and ramble and make up ridiculous scenarios about relatives and baked goods.

The truth is I have missed blogging, but every time I thought I would make the time to write, I didn't.  Every time I wanted to write, the screen stared back at me in silence. It felt awkward, kind of odd, and I even had to remind myself of my login password, like having to call Aunt Edna for directions.

But, now? I have the itch again.  I have stories in my head.  Silly, ridiculous phrases about life that make no sense whatsoever.

You know, my typical stuff.

So, I've missed you dear blog, dear banner that still makes me laugh.  I have missed you, site meter and blogger login page.  I promise to visit more often and this time I will bring the cookies.

Sincerely,
Melanie





 

Does your wife prefer milk or honey in her Prince of Wales?

I really should start writing more than once a week.

Anyhoo.

Hubs and I played a game on the computer which was really a quiz to see how well you know your spouse. About halfway through the quiz we realized the website was based in England which explained why they asked about your mum and whether or not you like Catherine Tate (who I had to Google later.)

So we finished it anyway because we are committed like that and then found another quiz which was more suited to our geographical location.

We scored pretty well, pumping up our confidence that we have a good marriage since online quizzes are extremely reliable marriage meters.

Hubs did well. He knew I didn't like surprises, I do like espresso, and that my favorite color is pink.  He was rather clueless about my dream job.  He said "CIA agent" which, to his credit, isn't really my dream job, but maybe my dream, at least in the 4th grade.

When I said,"No, it's writer," he said, "OH, YEAH!"

Further proving my point that I need to blog more than once a week.

What about you? What's your dream job?  Better yet, take any good British marriage quizzes lately?

Some may doubt that she is adopted.

Our dog Jessie is... um, unique.

As I write she is trying to fluff her bed that can't really be fluffed.  She also does this with blankets.  In addition, her head is too small for her body. 

That could explain it.

Oh, I'll just make a list...

1.  She has a tuft of hair on top of her head that sticks straight up.  We call it her "do."

2.  She is unusually skittish of the wind.

3.  She lifts her leg when she goes potty.

4.  When her ear gets flipped inside out, she just leaves it there.  For like hours.

5.  We flip it back for her.

6.  When we first brought her home she wouldn't eat out of a bowl.  I had to feed her on my (now retired) Pampered Chef cutting mat.  Or the floor.  I prefer the mat.

7.  She thinks the doorbell on iCarly belongs to us.

8.  She is afraid of the brush but not the small comb.

9.  She hides treats around the house and then forgets them.

10.  She likes to smell hair. 

11.  She hangs upside down on the couch.  Until she falls off.  Then climbs back up and does it all over again.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to turn down the television. iCarly is coming on and it could send her into a frenzy.

She fits right in.

Can't we just have a nice, fun Spelling Bee?

There are a few things from childhood that should be passed on from one generation to the next, like playing Duck, Duck, Goose, saying "Jinx! You owe me a Coke" when two friends say the same thing  at the exact same time, and the age-old decision maker (which could actually be used in international peace talks) Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Then there are the things that should die, never to be spoken of again.

Like school lunch meatloaf, that wierd powdery substance the custodian uses to clean up vomit, and field day.

I always hated field day.  We've already established in prior blog posts that I am neither athletic nor interested in sports. The one sport I watch on television is baseball and that is because it's the only one I understand.

I'm gifted.

I remember wanting to be sick on field day.  I don't know why I never asked Mama to let me stay home.  Maybe it's because I knew she wouldn't let me.  She would never lie and what is a mother supposed to write on that excuse?  "My daughter was absent because the three-legged race makes her nervous?"

Everything made me nervous.  It runs in the family.

So, when I received the email from Daughter's school that they needed volunteers for field day (which is now known as the olympics. Let me tell ya, that doesn't help their case) I quickly sent that email to the delete file.

My good friend Kim even tried to convince me to make cotton candy that day.  No way.  Even pink spun sugar couldn't lure me to field day.  Making cotton candy is one step away from working the sack race booth.  Just thinking about it makes me itch a little.

I stayed home.  While all the other devoted mothers manned cotton candy machines and bean bag tosses, I was all cozy in my sweats waiting for Barbara Walters to bring up a hot topic.  That's when Nancy called me.

"Hey. I'm freezing.  Will you bring me a hoodie?"

Who is this?

Oh, I kid.  Just a little.

So as the good friend I am, I gathered several hoodies (a girl needs options) and headed to the school.  Nancy didn't tell me where she was so I had to wander through the booths shouting out to other volunteer moms and even to Daughter until I found Nancy huddled in the wind, shivering.

I gave her the hoodie of her choice and meandered back through a sea of elementary kids, most of whom had the same expression on their faces that I used to have.  The one that says, "I wish I was sick today" and "Oh, man. The three-legged race makes me nervous."

Once in the parking lot, I let out a sigh of relief that I'd survived, managing to avoid all field day volunteer opportunities.

It seems my feelings of field day have passed on to my own daughter.  I could see it on her face before she got to the car line. As she described the torturous events of the day (which included them running out of cotton candy, gahhh!)  I decided that the tradition of field day should not be passed on to the next generation.

It should be swept away by the custodian in that weird powdery substance, along with the lunchroom meatloaf.
 

I just hope there are no fingerprints on the television when the trumpet sounds.

I don't mean to make light of the END OF THE WORLD or anything but I was just a tad bit glad that May 21, 2011 wasn't it because my house did not meet rapture standards.

I have always had company standards and vacation standards, but now all of this end of days talk has made me create rapture standards. 

I clean before we go on vacation so my relatives don't talk about me at the funeral.  Well, they can talk but I want it to be about my casseroles and not my toilet bowls. I make sure everything is dusted, the bathrooms are scoured, and the trash is taken out.  I have a fear that we will all die and my mother and mother-in-law will enter the house appalled at my poor cleaning abilities.

"I always suspected," they would say.

Company standards trump vacation standards.  In addition to the typical vacation standards of clean floors and uncluttered counters, company standards include pressed pillowcases and good smelling bath soaps.

Obviously, rapture standards trumps everything else.  I am not certain what I will add to rapture standards but I'm pretty sure I'll be going through our movie collection. Not that we have anything that one would call questionable but I know some people may want to pillage my Gone With The Wind collector's edition.

I'll be spending this week cleaning house. If those crazy folks decide to predict a new date, please give me a good, solid week.  I haven't done the baseboards in forever.

All of this rapture talk has made me ponder my faith, my spiritual readiness, and yes, my dust bunnies, giving new meaning to "Get Ready."

And, yes I will be grateful when Christ returns and takes me out of here, but is it a sin to hope that my house is clean at the same time?

On a serious note, are you ready?   

Now that there is an automobile.

Hubs has never been what you would call "into cars."  Now, he likes cars, as opposed to say having to walk everywhere, but he has never been the type of guy who would point out a Ford Mustang or a Grand Prix, or a BMW for that matter.

He has also been the type of husband who always ended up with the hand-me-down vehicle.  Either I hand the old family car down to him when we purchase a new one, or someone else does when they trade theirs in at the used car lot.  His last car was a used Toyota Camry with engine light issues which, at the time, I believed to be the beater. 

I. Had. No. Idea.

When we moved to Smalltown nearly three years ago, we sold the Camry and drove out here in one vehicle, our (my, ahem) new Honda Pilot.  It is always easier to make a cross country move in one vehicle and Hubs decided when we arrived in Smalltown that he would buy another beater that he would sell when we left Smalltown.

Once we settled into our home, we went car shopping.  We visited the used lots at the Toyota and Ford dealers.  None of them were within Hubs' price range which really meant that they were all still running.  I kept trying to persuade him to spend a little more so we could have a warranty, but he was convinced that he could find the perfect (or imperfect) car for him that he would simply sell when we left town.  After all, he only needed it to get him to and from work.

That's when we met Rusty.

Rusty is the nicest and most honest used car salesman I have ever met. He even plays Christian radio in his showroom.  Granted, his showroom also has one crusty old coffee pot with sugar packets from 1984 and a small upholstered chair that may or may not have been in a nursing home visitation area.

I'm just sayin.'

We met Rusty when the dealer down the road told us that Rusty is the man he sells his unsellables to when they can't get them off the lot.  Let that sink in for a minute. 

Rusty's used car lot, known as Car City, sits on the edge of town.  There are slightly dinged pick-ups and compact cars scattered on the lot, along with a huge family of prairie dogs who peep up out of their holes at sunset next to white wall tires and bent fenders.

Praire dogs aside, Rusty found a car that met Hubs' standards.  It was (somewhat) reliable, it had four tires, a steering wheel, a windshield (with a crack) and most of all, it was cheap. 

Let's make a deal.

We did and Hubs drove away from Car City in a Dodge Intrepid, well, once the cracked windshield was replaced. 

Since that fateful day, the Dodge IsCrepid, has leaked oil, made strange transmission noises, yet has managed to get Hubs to and from work, fulfilling its purpose, adding a new spin on the Purpose Driven Life series.

It has also been my nemesis.

Because we all know that no matter how much you say that a vehicle will only be driven by one family member in order to get them from Point A to Point B and back, it is part of Murphy's Law that the secondary driver (me) will someday have to go to Albertson's while the vehicle's primary driver (Hubs) takes Daughter to horseback riding in the secondary driver's very comfortable Honda Pilot.

Now I know what you are thinking.  Why can't the primary driver (Hubs) take Daughter to horseback riding in the Dodge?  I'll tell you.  It's because the secondary driver doesn't want her kid stranded in the country. 

It's a Mother's Love.

I climbed in the Dodge yesterday to head to Albertson's and just as I started the engine, Hubs ran up along side me motioning for me to roll down the window.  As I did, the window went down slowly with a squeal and a squeak. 

Hubs reached in the car and said,"The turn signal doesn't work. It broke off."

"Broke off?" I said,"I can't drive this.  It isn't safe."

"Yeah, you can, just stick your arm out like this to turn right and like this to turn left."

I rolled me eyes and rolled up the window.  SQUEAK.  SQUEAL. 

Then headed to Albertson's, remembering all the arm motions I learned in Driver's Ed, and praying for a miracle that perhaps if I lingered in the deli long enough someone would steal the Dodge and drive it away.

A girl can dream.

All the while, Hubs and Daughter safely and comfortably drove to horseback riding lessons in the Honda Pilot. My Honda Pilot.  With my new Elton John CD.

So if you ever see a white Intrepid with Florida plates and a small ding on the rear bumper, feel free to drive it away.  I left the keys in the ignition for you. Just make sure you remember to stick your arm out of the window when you make that right turn next to Car City.

And while you're sitting at the stop sign, wave to the prairie dogs for me.

Southern Girl In A Parka

Nearly three years ago Hubs' job brought me to New Mexico.  It's the place with little rain, lots of sunshine, and warm days. I thought I was living in the Land of Enchantment.  Turns out I'm in Palin's Alaska.

Yesterday's wind chills were below freezing and we have another layer of snow, now melting.  In the past week I have prepped the pantry for power outages (lots of peanut butter and bread,) watched the roads shimmer with black ice, and purchased a snow shovel.

It's not that I am afraid to shovel or even that I don't want to do the work.  The truth is that if the need arises for me to use a snow shovel, it means it is COLD.  I don't like cold.

We Southern girls (at least some of us) don't shy away from hard work.  We may appear to be dainty and delicate.  The truth is we are tough, independent and not afraid to to get dirty.  And no, unlike all those swooning characters in the movies, we don't faint.  Well, except for that one sweet aunt in every Southerner's family who more than likely suffers from a girdle that's too tight.

So when the time came to clear the driveway, I layered up in my thermals, sweatshirt, boots and parka.  If you had told me when I was a child in Southwest Georgia that I would one day own a parka, I would have crinkled up my face at you in confusion.  I always thought only skiers wore parkas.  Skiers are athletic and, goodness knows, I'm not athletic.

I shoveled.  I cracked and removed ice.  Daughter looked on from the warmth inside as she prepared to go to school.  With all the snow and ice gone, we managed to make it to car line without skidding and slipping down the drive and looking like folks who "aren't from around here."

The next time the driveway needed shoveling, Daughter donned her own parka.  She shoveled, scraped and scooped until the driveway was safe again. Just like a good Southern girl, tough and independent.

And, yes, she volunteered.

Like her Southern mama, she came inside for a cup of hot chocolate, topped with Redi Whip and sprinkles.

Hey, we're tough, but we're not stupid.

"We are, like our beloved garden greens, sturdy, strong, and best when tested by the elements and fully seasoned.  I never bought the notion of the "steel magnolia" because it's a short-lived, silly blossom that can't make it through a simple Women's Missionary Union meeting without shedding its powdery guts onto the mahogany sideboard."
Celia Rivenbark-  We're Just Like You, Only Prettier

This is not the kind of blizzard where you get Oreos and Reese's Cups.

Right now it is a balmy -26 degrees wind chill here in Smalltown.  Fun times.

We've had several days of snow and strong winds.  The snow isn't deep but the temps are freezing.  If there was any doubt before, it is now completely clear to me that this Southern girl has Southern blood running through her veins. Arctic weather is not for me. Give me a 100 degree day with 95% humidity, some Skin So Soft for the gnats, and I'm good. (As long as I have some A/C and a big glass of sweet tea, or course.)

I haven't been out of the house since Tuesday.  OK, twice I stepped on the porch to look down the street at a neighborhood power outage. We had power throughout the night, but one section of our neighborhood was in the cold darkness for several hours.

But, other than stepping two feet onto the crunchy snow in my parka and snow boots, I've stayed inside.

I plan to do the same today because (1) The roads are looking less than reliable with the possibility of ice and (2) It's cold, people!

Just to emphasize how wimpy I am, let me tell you about Daughter's horseback riding instructor.  This lady has been outside in the weather chopping ice from water tanks, replenishing fresh hay, and checking on all of her horses.  As she put it, by the time she was bundled up, fifteen minutes had passed, she still hadn't left the house, and she looked like the Michelin man.  Or Michelin woman, as it were.

She is tough as nails.  A true pioneer woman.  She braved the weather in layers upon layers of fluffy down and fleece, battled icy shovels, and diligently worked with gloves which froze to the horses' gate latches. At the end of her rounds, she reported that all horses were fine, braving the elements as they were designed to, with tails to the wind. 

Which is exactly how I would be posed. Only I think I will keep mine inside.

Clarity And Cold (Sounds Like A Country Song)

I was chatting with a friend last night who had read my blog post from Monday.  She misunderstood my post and thought that we had cocktails at the baby shower. She found it interesting that a baptist church would serve cocktails. She also wondered why a new mom would open a Cuisinart at a baby shower. 

So in the interest of clarity, let me go on the record and say we had nothing stronger than the ginger ale in the pink punch and that my references were to a BRIDAL SHOWER which WAS NOT AT THE LOCAL BAPTIST CHURCH. (I may also add that I didn't partake of any of those cocktails.)

However, I must say a Cuisinart can make a nice gift at any stage in life.

Now that I have all the housekeeping done, let me move on to the rest of my week.

Monday was spent at the doctor's office, two in fact.  Nothing serious. Just routine stuff.  At first, I was kind of bummed that I had scheduled two appointments for the same day. Once the day was over, I was glad that it only took up one day of the week instead of two.

I'm old. Doctor's appointments have managed to make the blog. Next thing you know I'll be carrying all my pills in a Ziploc bag and talking about the weather.

It has been cold.

On Tuesday morning, I woke up to freezing temperatures.  School was delayed due to weather problems and if it had not been for a text message from a friend, I would have been the only mom dropping off her kid at car line. I knew it was cold, but I didn't know how cold.

Until I noticed the low water pressure.  Then Jessie came inside with a muddy face and paws.  Not a good sign. 

I walked to the alley and discovered my fears were validated. The valves connecting the main line to the house line had frozen and burst. Water was gushing out and all the birds were playing in it.  A call to the water company brought a repairman who was able to shut off the geyser and still give us access to water.  That afternoon the Sprinkler Guy (as he is officially know) fixed the valve, reinsulated the box, and even covered it in dirt for extra protection. 

Whew.

Wednesdays are usually our horseback lessons and the temperatures were still near freezing with wind chills in the 20's.  Daughter's instructor always gives us the option to cancel for poor weather, but my daughter decided to cowgirl up and ride anyway.  Me, being the deranged, I mean supportive mother that I am, agreed to let her ride as long as she wore layers, gloves, and bundled up.

Her instructor also agreed. One other adult student was riding and the third student opted out because of the weather (smart girl.)  Bundled up, we all headed out to the arena. I huddled there on the stool next to her instructor as we discussed horseback riding. New Mexico weather, and the old show Green Acres.

Then she turned to me and said, "Are we certifiable?"

"Yes," I said through chattering teeth and blue lips.

Each time the students rounded the corner, the instructor would check on them. They were cold, but they wanted to continue.

As it tends to do in New Mexico, the temperatures dropped, the wind direction changed, and in the words of Allison's horseback riding instructor, "It's no longer cold. It's BITTER."

Then, she called out,"Bring 'em in, girls." 

The strong, steel magnolia Melanie was proud of toughing it out but the real Melanie breathed a sigh of relief.  Because it was so cold, I could actually see that sigh of relief.

Sometimes you have to cowgirl up, but even cowgirls know when to bring 'em in.

And wear thermals.

The Unknown History Of French Design and Why You Could Get Carded At Your Next Bridal Shower

I am drinking coffee and sitting at the computer (obvious) in my robe and slippers. The robe smells faintly of dog because Jessie loves to cuddle. It also smells faintly of my new perfume which could either be a good tool to mask the puppy smell or a very bad combination.

Either way I think I will throw it in the wash after I post this.

Legend has it (cough cough) that Coco Chanel was designing a perfume back in the 20's when she put in a request for "musk."  Her assistant was busy listening to Ragtime on her phonograph (the 20's version of Beyonce on the Ipod) when she misunderstood and thought she said "mutt."  This grave mistake was the catalyst for Chanel's assistant's new career as a dog groomer.

Or so I've heard.

So now it is exactly 7:30 AM and all I've done is go on and on about how badly I need to do laundry while I perpetuate rumors on the Internet about a famous designer and dog grooming.

Insert transition here.

Our weekend was pretty typical for us.  Daughter had a friend over after school on Friday.  They put on a play which they wrote themselves and may I just say that are so creative.  Later that night Daughter and I decided to have a slumber party which is really just us sleeping on the floor after watching a movie.  Or, in my case, me falling asleep on the floor while watching a movie.

We went to a baby shower for twins on Saturday.  I love baby showers, even now that I don't have a baby. Baby showers make me feel happy and nostalgic and I am always excited to see a new mom or mom-to-be waiting in anticipation. 

However, bridal showers only make me feel old.  Do you know that now they serve cocktails at bridal showers? I am baptist, so that would never have been a menu option for the ladies of the WMU, but it seems to be a growing trend to get a little tipsy while you open up your new Cuisinart. 

And I always thought the cheese straws were spicy.

Sunday was church, a quick stop at the grocery store, and a short walk and bike ride. It is getting cold here in New Mexico. Makes me want to stay in my robe all day.

Right after I wash it.

Like Kudzu, Only Not As Interesting

Legend has it that kudzu was brought to the South from Japan or somewhere to prevent soil erosion.  Well, guess what? It worked. Now you see kudzu all over the sides of highways and dirt roads in Alabama, Georgia, and any other state which breeds mosquitoes in Biblical proportions.

Not that there is a connection between kudzu and mosquitoes.

At least, I don't think there is.

Kudzu spreads like a bad strain of pinkeye (not sure if there is a good strain of pinkeye.) It covers anything remotely stationary, killing or ruining it. Bridges, trees, roadsides, really slow moving old people. 

Where was I?
Oh, yeah.

I'm not dead.  I'm here. I'm alive. What started out as writer's block ended up turning into an unintended bloggy break. Several of you emailed me to see if I was doing alright.  I appreciate that.  I even had some family and friends ask me if I'm OK.  Yes, ma'am. I am.

Since I last posted, the following has happened.

Our dog Jessie was ill, well again, ill again, then well.  Now she is a perfectly "normal" growing pup who likes to eat bugs and smells like dog exactly 5 seconds after her bath.

I turned 40.  The Big One, Elizabeth.  Other than the bad food at Red Lobster, it was uneventful.

I am growing out my bangs.

So, as you can see, you haven't missed much.  However, I do pledge to keep on keeping on producing the same ole' drudgery about living in SmallTown and how much I miss Starbucks.

Like kudzu, I'm still around.

However, I promise not to choke out all of your evergreens. Or your Great Uncle Cleetus.

Blowing The Dust Off

I nearly forgot my password to blogger. It's been that long.

Things got a little nuts around SmallTown.  Our new pup ran a fever for a day, nearly scared us to death, and then ended up being perfectly fine.  I think I lost a few brain cells and perhaps have a new bald spot, but other than that, we're good.

Other than near nervous breakdowns, other things have kept us busy.

This week we have worked on Daughter's science fair project.  She has tested which microwave popcorn brand pops best.  Our house smelled like popcorn for two days.  I lit one of my fall candles and then it just smelled like pumpkin popcorn.  That had burned.  Badly.

Speaking of pumpkins, we carved one for Halloween, put it on the porch, and left it. A WEEK LATER I walked out the front door (which we never use) and saw our sad little pumpkin melting and molding away like a really bad science fair project.  His crooked smile had turned to a painful frown and his eyes were weeping in ways that vegetables tend to do when they are left outside to decay for days and days.

I scooped him up, put him in a garbage bag, and respectfully tossed him in the trash.  It was quite tragic.  Then I bleached the porch. The smell of bleach is so welcoming when you enter a home.

As you can see, even though I haven't posted in a sweet forever, you haven't missed that much.

You're welcome.

Happy Weekend!

Test Test

I'm still here.

It has been busy in SmallTown.

Will post as soon as I can catch my breath...

Puppies and Toddlers

The highlight of our week has been our new puppy. She is about 7 months old, full of energy and very funny.  Rescued from an abandoned field, she had been in foster care for some time and now has found her furever home with us. Daughter named her "Jessie" (from Toy Story) and it fits.  

I'll post pictures later.  Once I've figured out how to keep her still long enough.

As you can see, we've been quite busy.

Everyone says having a puppy is like having a baby, but I tend to disagree.  Babies sleep all the time. You can put babies somewhere and they don't move.  You can strap them in a car seat and watch them in your little mommy mirror. NOT PUPPIES.

No. 

Puppies move.  A lot. They jump on your head while you nap on the couch. They climb in your lap while you are driving, making you hope and pray that you won't have to hit the breaks or get pulled over by the cops because, hello, your passenger bites.

Nope. Puppies are nothing at all like babies.  Puppies are more like toddlers.

Toddlers want to be everywhere all the time.  They wake you up while you try to nap on the couch.  They would love to climb out of the car seat while you drive, and believe you me, they try.

Like with toddlers, you teach your puppy the right way to behave and they try, only when it is in their best interest. Puppies sit or stay or lay down (maybe) if you give them a treat.

Toddlers stop screaming in Wal-mart if you bribe them with a Happy Meal.

Of course, this is only in the beginning of training.  Eventually they do what you tell them because they want to please you.  Until they become teenagers.

Puppies are learning where and when to go potty.  Sometimes they go outside.  Sometimes they go inside.  They try not to have an accident on the carpet, but really, they don't care because someone else is going to clean it up.

Toddlers are in the potty-training phase.  They want to please mama and daddy and they love to wear their new Disney character undies. But, really they don't care if they have an accident because someone else it going to clean it up.

And sometimes they go outside.

When a puppy suddenly gets quiet and disappears into the other room, you'd better put your coffee down and check on her.  She is probably chewing your new shoes from Steinmart or eating something from the trash.

While you're on Facebook, your toddler tiptoes down the hall.  You find her standing in your closet, wearing your new shoes from Steinmart while eating that half of a Hershey bar you thought you threw in the trash.

Let's face it.  You spend half the day saying, "What a good girl," and the other half saying, "What did you do?"

Yes.  Puppies and toddlers have a lot in common.

Puppies and toddlers are scared of strange noises.  Like the dishwasher and Cookie Monster.

Puppies and toddlers have big bellies that are warm and usually smell like their last meal.  Or something they rolled in.

Puppies and toddlers hate storms, firecrackers, and scary-looking people.

Puppies and toddlers are good judges of character.

They love children, ice cream, and warm blankets. 

They can sleep wherever they land.

They throw up when they eat too many treats.

They love you unconditionally.  They cuddle with you in the mornings, but just for a moment until they've moved on to something new. 

Yes, puppies and toddlers are a lot alike. Before you know it, they are eating grown-up food and napping less, learning new things and exploring on their own.  You turn around, and they are all grown up.

And, thank goodness, they finally stopped going on the carpet.

Is this thing still on?

I think I may have broken a record for amount of time not posting.  At least I accomplished something.

It has been a busy week for us.  Not busy in that there is a lot of blog material, but busy in that I want to take lots of naps and watch old episodes of Andy Griffith.

I have some things to share, but in the meantime, I have to comment on The Amazing Race.

First, I am glad the Ivy League Singers are gone.  I couldn't take all the singing.  No one goes through life just bursting in song.  That's just for TV and movies, which I guess they were kind of on, but it's a reality show, so hello.

I can't decide whether I like the home shopping team or not.  On the one hand, I find their over-friendliness a bit inappropriate.  I mean, who hugs a person in a foreign country after he purchased sunglasses?  On the other hand, they can be funny. 

I find myself both rooting for the father/son team and saying, "COME ON."

I was glad someone had to eat something weird.  I have no idea why.  It was just time.

Phil cracked me up with his eyebrow communication.

I hope they go to South America this time.  It's been a while. 

I find the lack of drama between teams this year (compared to last season) to be very refreshing.

That is all.

Weekend Wrap Up: That's it?

Well, the weekend was about as bland as could be.  Daughter is still not 100%, so our days were filled with episodes of Spongebob on the couch interrupted by trips to Wal-mart "just to get out of the house."

There is some sort of cough/sort throat combo going around and, unlike the corn dog/cherry limeade combo we get from Sonic, it is neither filling nor refreshing.

I'm about ready to be over this sickness thing.  It's hard to see your kid cough up a lung.  Last time I checked, those things are important.

I do have to thank you for all the FABULOUS pumpkin recipes you left in your comments. As soon as everyone's taste buds return to full capacity I am going to try them.

And thanks for understanding my prepositional grammar issues.  Apparently, bloggers love to break grammar rules as long as they are on our own blogs.  Contrast that with the watchful editing we do on church bulletins and praise music screens, and you have what some literary folks call IRONY. 

LOVE IT.

I AM ALSO NOW ADDICTED TO ALL CAPS.

I"LL STOP THAT NOW.

you are welcome

Speaking of church, we had to leave during the music yesterday.  Daughter started to feel flushed and funny and in the mom world we know that's a sign of upcoming doom.  Since the traditional baptist church decor does not normally provide Wal-mart bags or small trash cans for illness, we excused ourselves quietly.  We managed to get home without incident and she was fine.  It was just one of those things, but why take the chance?

That reminds me, a friend of mine once told a story about a person fainting during the church service.  Her mama thought he was slain with the Spirit.  As it turned out, he just had low blood sugar.

So, today I have a million errands to do (which could make good blogger fodder) and yet I sit and blog. 

Again, irony.