The Dream Job

I was reading an article in the paper this morning by one of my favorite columnists and she wrote about dream jobs. She had met a man on the train that was a physicist and she was all excited because that was one of her dream jobs. When she told him that, he laughed and said it wasn't all that great--he wanted to be a photographer.

Another one of her dream jobs was to be the pianist in the orchestra for the musical "Wicked", so she tracked down that guy. He laughed too, and told her he wanted to be a play-by-play announcer for a ball team. Sheesh, seems nobody is happy, are they?

So, it got me thinking what my dream job would be.

That's easy--I want to be a columnist for a major newspaper. And not just any columnist--I wanna be like Mike Royko--a hardened, witty dude, with a cutting edge and wicked sense of humor. 'Ol Mike is gone now, so I'd be more than willing to take his job--except newspaper jobs are doomed these days. Every paper I know of is going down like the Titanic and I think I'd want to be paid for all my wittiness. That is half the fun. What good is snarky if you are hungry?

Second choice? Uh.......well, if we are really pushing it.....I'd want to be a singer/dancer/actor on Broadway. But I don't want just a lame role--I wanna be the star that gets to sing a giant showstopping number or two. And it can't be in some dinky show either--it's got to be BIG and fabulous and one that everyone wants a ticket too. I dream big, don't I?

While my choices have a ton of requirements, I don't see them as being viable or realistic in any way. So, if I was absolutely forced to decide on something that I could possibly accomplish without all the stars lining up just so, I'd pick an interior designer or an architect. I'm all about furniture and fabrics and stuff. And I think it is something I could achieve in this lifetime.

So, what is your dream job? Do you wanna be a cowboy? Or a trapeze artist? How about a ballerina? Oh, man, I'd love to dance like that. Uh oh, I'm finding that I want to be a lot of things.

C'mon. You know you want to be something. Even if you are old and you are tired, or you are happy already--I don't want to hear that. I wanna know what you wanna be when you grow up!

She Gone!

I talked to my neighbor, Laura, yesterday. Yeah, I know what you are thinking....."Lin?! Talking to her neighbors?? Hmmmm. I thought Lin hates her neighbors???!"

Yeah, yeah. I do. But Laura lives a few doors down and on the other side of the street. So, really, she's kinda down the block where I can't see her and she doesn't drive me nuts. Plus she is fun and we do stuff together every once in awhile and she got me hired at the place I work. I guess you could say we are friends and neighbors--a rare thing for me.

Anyway, while we were talking, she mentioned that her next-door neighbor had died that morning. I guess the woman died in her sleep, watching the tube. And while that is sad, all I kept thinking was "Hey, that's the way to go"--well, if you gotta go, right?

We have some pretty stinky neighbors around these parts and Laura pretty much agrees with me on that, so it isn't just me who doesn't want to talk to these weirdos around here. But she was sad that this lady died. Me? I didn't really care.

My only experience with this woman was her butting in when we were having problems with the neighbors behind us a few years ago. She was all about going over there with her friend to see what was going on and peering over our fence--which was the bone of contention with that neighbor. So, she sorta miffed me because she hasn't spoken to me in 20 years, but she can stick her nose into my problems. Go figure. Some folks are like that.

So, while Laura was all sad and talking about the wake, I was all like "Oh, that is sad", but I didn't give a hoot. I didn't feel a thing--not sad, not happy, not angry for what she did, nor sympathy for the family. I was void of feeling. Isn't that weird??

The sole thought I had was how that was a really peaceful way to die.

Devil in Disguise

Every year, the White Sox host an "Elvis Night" where it's all Elvis, all night.

There is an Elvis that parachutes into the stadium, an Elvis that sings the national anthem, three in the dance contest, one that throws out the first pitch, and well, you get the idea. And all of this transpires while Elvis tunes are cranked in the stands--loudly, I might add.

This is great and all, but I'm not really into Elvis. And after 9 innings of Elvis-this and and Elvis-that, you are treated to fireworks featuring guess who? Yep, Elvis. And then there is an end-of-the-evening Elvis concert. Ugh. It's a tad over the top and even if you like Elvis, it sorta grates on your nerves.

So, why go, you ask? Well, because my birthday and the anniversary of Elvis' death happen to be very close to each other, and when we decide to go to a game to celebrate me, it just happens that everyone else has Elvis on their mind. Sheesh. Priorities, people--let's get them straight.

Guess who I sat next to?

Did I mention that the fans dress like Elvis too? Sigh.

It's got to be the morning after

I posted this for your viewing pleasure because....well....I'm a little out of commission this morning. Seems the halftime show (a.k.a. "football game" to non-marching band parents) celebration went a little long last night and we are sort of .....uh.....hungover.

You know it's bad when you are the last folks in the bar and you wake up with your voice deeper than Brenda Vaccaro. It's kinda sexy until you see me. Let's just say it's not pretty.

So, until I have some coffee and a few Excedrin Migraine tablets, just enjoy the pond amongst yourselves.

Please, no swimming.

It's the most wonderful time of the year.....

Marching Season.

I wait for it to begin again the minute it ends. I go through withdrawal when the season is over, listening to the year's program on my Ipod like a total band geek.

Tonight is the first football game, which to some is exciting. But it is also the first performance of the band--which is the real reason I go to the games. There is a lot of suffering on those cold bleachers for me while I wait for half-time to finally get here. And I do have to admit to bailing at the start of the third quarter if the weather is a tad bit inclimate. I'm a fair weather fan for football, but I will bundle up like Nanook of the North for anything band.

It seems a little odd to be not watching the trumpet section this year, as Col has moved on to bigger and better things. But I am looking forward to focusing on just one child again in the band and watching colorguard perform for a change.

Again, the frog of change rears its head. It's not all bad when he appears, you know?

I Love Hobbes Thursday - Stealth Cat

See, if you hide behind the chairs, the frogs can't see ya--

but you can see them.

For some reason, Hobbes thinks his 47 lbs of Stripey Goodness
is invisible sometimes.
Even the neighbor behind us admits to telling him
"You are orange. I see you."

It was Colonel Mustard in the Library with the Pipe

I just happened to go out to check on the frogs the other night and I found out what is eating my fish and maybe even the rabbit. One quick sweep of the yard with my flashlight ruled this out:

But instead, I found this:

So, what I thought was a big problem is a big problem times 3. Ugh.

And while I stood there telling those beastly murderers to beat it, they just sort of stood there and looked at me like they were thinking "Yeah, yeah, lady. What time's the buffet?". That's not a good sign--they aren't the least bit scared of me. I poured some extra coyote pee all around the pond that night--for good measure. I don't think it's gonna change anything, but it made me feel better for the moment.

Did I mention that the cocky Garden Center Dude was wrong about the heron? I may have to go back and rub it in a bit. You know, just for fun. I said it was a raccoon from the start.

I hate being right.

Dream Job: The Sod Father

When we go to a White Sox game, this is always my favorite part:

It's what I call Pre-Game Entertainment--but my family just views it as the grounds crew watering the field. Sigh.

I love to watch the Sod Father watering the dirt, while his crew backs him up wholeheartedly, carrying the hose just so. I love how they never let the hose tangle or drag on the wet soil, screwing up the precision-raked infield. I love how they don't scream at each other "I need more hose!" or "It's caught on this rock!". And there's never the embarrassing "Turn ON the WATER!!"..... "WHAT?!"..... "TURN ON THE WATER!!". Sheesh.

I watch these guys, enviously, every single time we go to a game. And I wonder why my family can't support me like this when I water. I mean, these guys have it mastered--why can't my knuckleheads?? It can't be that hard, can it?

So, while my family is snarfing down hot dogs and cotton candy, I'm pointing out proper hose-carrying techniques and protocol for assisting the Sod Father. They all pretend that they are listening, but I know the aren't really. I'm just doomed to work with fools when it comes to the hose.

And the best part?

When the Sod Father is done watering, he just drops the hose and walks back to the exit. There is no fighting with the hose mobile or wrastlin' with the hose. Nope. That's what his assistants are for--they just put that hose away with no snarky faces or snide comments. Sigh.

I'm truly envious.

Frogs aren't always pretty

Sometimes the Frog of Change doesn't do some pretty things--like eating a sparrow or a goldfinch. And while it is part of his survival, it isn't pleasant for others to experience.

I walked out the other morning to find my big frog with two legs sticking out of his mouth. Icky? Yep. But a frog has got to eat and the dragonflies and crickets he's been downing up until now isn't gonna fill his gigantor belly anymore. He's going for the big stuff. Consider it the Value Meal of the pond--you've got yourself quite the filling meal there with one stop and little effort.

Well, maybe choking down a bird that is nearly bigger than you takes a lot of effort--I'm thinking it does.

So, yesterday was my birthday and still, no call from Sonny Boy. Oh, sure, I've called him, but he's too busy to talk. Sigh.

Okay, I get it--he's adjusting, he's with friends, he can't talk at this moment or that, but it was my birthday. Throw me a bone, Junior. Can you not step out for 2 minutes and wish your mom a Happy Day?? Apparently not.

We all crammed into Joe's little car last night to go out to dinner gratis G'ma Phyl. We packed into the Mazda because it has blue tooth capability and if we called Col, we could all hear what he was saying and all chime in. It was a win-win. He'd only have one phone call to endure and it knocked off the obligatory call to Mom, Dad, Sister, AND G'ma. So, you'd think he'd get it and chat away?

Nope. We still got one word answers and a boat-load of silence. I wanted to kill that kid.

In the restaurant I got a text that read this: Happy Birthday. That was it. No, "Hi, Mom!". No "Hey, hope your day is GREAT!" or "Oh, I forgot to send a card" or "Where are you going to eat?". Nope. Nuthin.

So, I did what a good mom does.....I fired back a reprimanding email reminding him that I spent a TON of money and time on his butt lately and that he needed to stop being a selfish ass and call home to talk to those who love him. He needs to wish people a Happy Birthday and get out of himself.

To which I got this in reply: "Sry".

Yeah/no.

Later in the evening, after his grandmother made some sweet attempts at justifying his behavior, the phone rang and Em announced it was my knucklehead son. He made some lame excuses about phone service in the dorm and we actually had about 3 minutes of nice conversation. I explained that he needed to call home once a week (thank you, Jodi) to check in AND actually talk to us. Two-word sentences were not allowed or appreciated.

I later learned that Joe had stepped outside and called the kid to ream him out for his behavior--hence the nice call in the end.

The Frog of Change sorta choked on his dinner.

Get out your party hats

Guess what today is?

I am forty-seven years old today. Forty. Seven. As in three-years-from-fifty years old. Ack. Yeah, not so "thumbs up", kid on the right.

How come I don't really feel that old? Well, some days I do, but for the most part, I feel like I'm still twenty. Except my body doesn't look twenty.

Could you image if we looked like the age we felt each day? I'd wake up all bent over and hobbling like an 80 year old woman, then I'd be young, thin, and youthful after my second cup of coffee. I'd be feeling like that twenty-year old for most the day until around 8 or 9, when I'd start aging again, my bones aching and my feet shuffling to the couch to chill.

It would be hilarious, wouldn't it? Imagine not saying to folks "How are you today?"--you could just look at them and tell. I'd see Mary over at the copy machine, weary and stooped over, looking wrinkled and years older than she really is, and I'd be like "Oh, Mary. Can't drink like you used to, eh?" and then we'd laugh. Or not.

Or you would see your grandma walking around with her Ipod on, texting the grandkids, talking all hip-hop, and you would know that her pain meds were actually working that day. Imagine the possibilities. I'm gonna have to work on this thought today--maybe from the back of my eyelids or the hammock in the yard.

Either way, I'm not a big birthday gal. I'm not looking for cake or lots of well wishes, I'd just prefer the day to be what I want to do for a change. No bill paying, ironing, cleaning up cat barf, or even vacuuming. I set the birthday standards low and I like it that way.

I'm just hoping the day includes a nap.

The Frogs of Change

Again, the frog of change is upon us.

Lots of changes this week as Colin moved away from home and into his new home 3 hours away at college. It was bittersweet, but I was excited for him to experience college life like I did wayyyy back in the day. Just knowing that this will be the time of his life made it easier to say goodbye.

I'm recovering this weekend, trying to get used to his empty bedroom and the absence of his friends (Taylor, Stephanie, Julie, Mario, and Amanda) around our place. I'm still doing the "mom" thing of counting heads and trying to remember who is going where and I'm coming up one short. I wonder how long it will take for me to really realize he is gone. Even Grace is confused--she keeps going in his room looking for him.

It's funny the support group I have aligned myself with--other moms who know exactly what I am feeling that give you that knowing sympathetic smile and hug. Those moms know how your heart breaks with letting go, but we do it anyway for the benefit of our children. And they give lots of advice for coping with empty rooms, the lack of reassuring phone calls, and panicky calls for more money. I consider myself lucky that I have all these women who have forged this road before me, and that they are so willing to help a sister out.

It's interesting this life as a mom. From the moment of conception, change is our way of life and we learn to adjust as we go along. I can fight change, but it will do me no good--it happens with or without my permission. Like the frog, I learn to smile and hold onto the lily pad that is my life.

Intern-O-Rama

The company I work for is very culturally diverse. I mean, we have folks from everywhere working for us across the country and in China. In our office alone, we've got folks from Taiwan, Turkey, France, Malaysia, and China. Add in the interns and you've got yourself a mini-United Nations--but we get along better.

Remember Johnny Shu, Consistent Performer? Yeah, well he's back this year as a fancy schmancy HR Manager earning some ridiculous wages. No more intern crap for him. Nope. Now we have Laura, Cute French Intern, to replace him. And cute she is--and hilarious too.

Laura fits right in with Irene and I, except she is forced to sit on the other side of the office--the non-fun side. Sigh. Poor Laura. She has to walk all the way around the office to come over and crack up with Irene and I with that adorable French accent that she has.

We spend lots of time talking about her adventures in the city and warning her of how to be safe. After one long lecture about not walking home along the lakefront at 1:00 a.m. (imminent death in Chicago), I was declared her American mom while she is here. I have taken it upon myself to explain American terms like "booty call" and "over the top" to my French pally--hoping to keep her hip and safe while she is having fun abroad. Her mom can rest easy knowing I'm on the job here in the States.

Now if I can only figure out how to keep her from tripping and ripping up her toes all the time. Girlfriend has some shoe issues or something and she keeps showing up for work with bandaids on her toes. I'm done asking about that.

Just listening to Laura tell her tales in that accent of hers is hilarious-or 'ilarious' as she puts it with her ever-dropping H's. She is cute as pie and I keep threatening to take her home and put her in Colin's newly empty bedroom--something I'm sure Joe would be all too approving of. Imagine explaining a French intern coming to live with us.

Now while you are all jealous of me working with Irene and wacky interns, I have to say they are not all fun. The one that is sitting by Irene and I this summer doesn't think we are funny. Sheesh. Imagine that. Irene and I are hi-lar-i-ous.

It all began with her firing up the labelmaker and me breaking out into the Labelmaker Song that I'm noted for:

Whirrrrrrr.
"Labelmaker!"I sing loudly.

To which I'm met with complete silence.

Whrrrrrrr.
"Labelmaker!" I sing again.

I hear Irene giggle over the cube walls.

Whrrrrrrr.
"Label....."

"I didn't know there was a song for a labelmaker." is the snotty reply. "I suppose there is a song for the tape dispenser too, huh?" is her attempt at being funny.

"No. Why would there be a song for that?!" I say. "That would be stupid."

Yeah, she doesn't talk to us too much anymore. Whatever. We make our own fun, Irene and I.
Well, and Laura too. At least she thinks the Labelmaker Song is funny.

I Love Hobbes Thursday

Forgive me, I've been going through baby pictures these days.
And who can resist baby Hobbes??

Sheesh. Everybody is growing up--even the darn cat.

Commence boo-hooing

I swear this was yesterday--Colin's first day of kindergarten.

Who could imagine that in such a short time he'd be off to college?
Color me blue today as I move him in to the dorm.

Do bears eat carrot sticks?

Sorry for the quality of the photo, but this sign, posted nearly everywhere at the Falls, cracked me up. I dunno, there is something about warning the general public about pizza-eating black bears that makes me chuckle. Yeah, don't worry about him eating you, just protect your pizza, folks.

I have spent the last 3 days at work doing nothing other than party planning--I feel like Julie McCoy, Cruise Director, for my place of employment. Seriously, I think I'm gonna start calling it "party" instead of "work":

"Oh, gees, I'm exhausted!My party is crazy these days!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I can't go. I have to party that day."
"My party is nuts! We have so much partying to do!"

See? Sounds great, doesn't it? Yeah, no. I mean, I hate to complain, but all these birthdays, wedding showers, baby showers, and golf outings are just digging into my work time.

I can't believe I just wrote that.

And the food? Criminy. I think I gained 10 pounds this week alone! All that Mexican food, pizza, buffalo wings, Tres Leches cake, and mozzarella sticks can make an employee full. I am literally sick of junk food and I think I said so as I grabbed all the celery sticks and carrots from the buffalo wing platter. Funny how I didn't encounter any resistance from the crowd.

I'm not kidding when I tell you that we even ordered "healthy" pizzas for our presentation by our current intern who is a registered dietician. Yep, we snarfed down as she lectured us about counting fat grams and calories--and we laughed while we did it. I think we disappointed her. Whatever.

I'm just grateful we don't have any of those black bears up here in Chicago--they'd have a field day in our office.

It's complicated

You know you are getting older when getting a new cell phone throws you. What is the age that technology starts to throw you and you really don't accept it so easily? At what point did I start saying "Oh, that new-fangled technology" like my grandpa? Sigh. I think it was this week for me.

We signed up for a new cell phone plan now that Col is off to college. I guess I'm wishful thinking when I say that we got it so he can make more calls to us. Hah! Yeah, I'm not even fooling myself. Maybe that Skype thingy will encourage him to call me, but that means I have yet another technology to master. Sheesh.

So, this whole new phone thing came with the promise that I can keep my new phone of last year that I am just now beginning to master. Well, that lasted for about 30 seconds--I found out this weekend I was doomed to have to learn a whole new phone. Ugh. I nearly wept. Seriously.

I have now spent the entire weekend trying to figure the blessed thing out and I still don't have all my contacts transferred from the old phone. And when I finally figured out how to send a text, I sent Colin the test message "Is my new phone working?", to which I got a very confused response from my friend, Betty--"Yeah, I guess so".

So, now I look like a complete idiot to my friend and my son. It's the double whammy of stupid. Thank god I make a complete fool of myself on most days--people don't expect much different from me then.

I had to then figure out how to explain it all to Betty in the cool text lingo, which I have no idea what it is, and then I just finally give up and tell her to have a nice day. Criminy.

Well, I figure it could be worse, like the granny in her white pants on the escalator in front of us last night at the mall. Maybe her friends should have told her that you could see her Depends right through her white pants before she left the house. Em and I were not very mature about the whole thing--I nearly peed my pants from giggling. Don't even tell me there is a special place in hell for me--I know, I know.


On another note, G'ma Phyl sent ya'll (that's my Kentucky lingo leftover from vacation) a message:

"Thanks so very much to Duck and Wheel bloggers for all the kind words and encouragement while my cat Bailey was ill. What nice people you are, always ready to help and cheer one another.

Bailey wasn't well enough and a very kind vet put him down because he had kidney failure. Eighteen years wasn't enough for Bailey and I to be together and I miss him something awful. I'm so fortunate to have such a supportive daughter who understands the love one can have for an animal and I thank all of you for the help you gave me during this hard time."

Lin's Mom

Yeah, you guys are great. Mom's right--as usual. Glad I got ya'll.

So, that's why they smile at me

Grace sent me a link the other day that explains the meaning of frogs in dreams and literature and such. For the most part, frogs indicate change because of all that tadpole stuff they do. And change it is--for the ability to sprout arms is pretty life-changing in my book.

But then, I was in a Asian store yesterday and they had a golden frog on the counter with a gold coin in his mouth. Noting that my frogs are rarely golden and they never go around carrying gold coins in their mouths, I was intrigued. So, you know I had to ask and the girl told me they mean good luck for businesses, hence the spot on the counter. So, change it was again--only a different kind of "change".

I've noticed my photography is drawn to those frogs lately. I love to go out and just watch the frogs, which sort of just entails them sitting very still looking at me, but I like to count how many I have at any given time--kinda like an frog-themed I Spy. Gees, I love those little bitty guys, but then I love my two mooses too--wow, they are big frogs.

I'm also finding myself wanting to post photo after photo of those green beauties, even though some of you don't find them half as lovely as I do. I guess frogs are an acquired taste--no pun intended for those of you who have to bring up frog-leg dinners all the time.

As I was loading the photo today, I finally realized why my penchant for frogs these days--change. Grace was right--frogs represent change. And with Colin leaving this week, I guess my frogs are just reminding me of where I am. Yep, change.

It's a good change and I'm ready for it (written hesitantly). Yeah, I'm sad to see him leave and yes, I'm gonna miss him like the dickens, but it is all good. He is off to his next adventure and I'm sooo excited for that. It's funny to be a mom because you feel everything for your child like it was you. I feel like I'm heading off to an adventure as well.

So, if I'm posting way too many frogs these days, bear with me. Change is upon us as the green frog smiles.

Now if I can only find one of those golden frogs with the coin in his mouth to pay the tuition.....

Is shuffleboard in the Olympics--because it should be

While it isn't exactly curling, I did learn how to play shuffleboard while I was on vacation. And I'm not sure if it was the company I was keeping, or perhaps it was just the sport, but I was digging it.

Mr. Wood mentioned something about playing shuffleboard to Joe and I one evening, and the next morning, there was a knock at the door. There was Mr. Wood, smiling, and inviting me to join him and Mrs. Wood for a round of shuffleboard up by the playground.

Always up for a challenge, I grabbed a water and went up to the courts to see how to play. Joe was already gone golfing by then or I'm sure he would have been game too. We are always up for learning something new and shuffleboard (game preference of seniors) seemed innocuous enough.

Dang! If that game wasn't like curling!! Except there isn't any sweeping, which sort of bummed me out because I like that part of curling. Every so often a leaf would fall on the court and I went over and kicked it off, but that didn't improve my scoring or anything and you really couldn't count it as sweeping. Sigh.

Whatever.

So, I'm just about a professional shuffleboardian now. I learned how to shoot that puck with precision to land on the box with the points on it. I also learned the very difficult art of boofing (not a technical term) an opponents puck out of their points box. And every so often, if I was really, really lucky, I could rebound one of my guy's into one of theirs and I could boof it out of the points as well. Think pool or curling and you'll get what I'm saying.

It's very complex--much more than you would think. And you can get really competitive if you so wish. Me and the Woods weren't so competitive until their son-in-law, Brian, came up. He sorta lit the fire and we were all about teams and scoring and kicking shuffleboard butt. Except I didn't--but I sure tried.

So, now I think my new sport of choice is shuffleboard. Well, I mean, next to curling--that sweeping still gets me.

I Love Hobbes Thursday - "Kitty Tail"

"Kitty Tail" is huge fun around our place. While my blogging falls by the wayside, evenings are filled with grass-chasing and orange ottoman-hiding in the yard. I swear he has no idea how very extra-large he is.

Hobbes thinks playing "kitty tail" is just the best thing ever. I'm not sure it is the grass being dragged all over the back 40 like a snaky or if it just the mere fact that someone is out in the yard with him that makes him so happy--either way, we have fun. He hears the words "kitty tail" and he comes running from wherever. It's pretty hilarious.

And when Kitty Tail begins, not much else gets done around this place. But maybe that's the beauty of Kitty Tail.

I think it's kinda growing on me too.

Semi-Wordless Wednesday

I have no clue on where they came from, but the pond is harboring the cutest teeny tiny frogs lately. Literally, they are about 2 inches in size and when frightened, they skip across the lily pads, barely making those broad leaves budge.

Simple joys. It is what the pond brings me on a daily basis.

And while those damn teeny tiny tomatoes frustrate me, the teeny tiny frogs bring a smile to my face. It's all perspective, isn't it.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes

Dear Cocky Garden Center Dude:

It is not a blue heron that ate my fish.

Seriously. Unless they eat rabbits.

Sincerely,

Lin, CSI

Remember when my fish got eaten and I went to the garden store and I told the guy my problem and he kept saying that it was a heron and wouldn't listen to my reasons why I thought it wasn't a heron but he sold me a $20 box of coyote pee to put around my pond anyway even if it was a heron and I was an idiot for not listening to his professional wisdom? Yeah, well, I kinda have proof that it isn't a heron that ate my fish after all.

This week, Sammy the Weiner Dog is here with us and he likes to go out in the yard in the evenings with me and the kitties. He's not big on just hanging out and doing sodoku puzzles, so he sorta just noses around the gardens and sees if he can find some wayward cat poop or bird food to eat.

I was harvesting my cabillionth basket of those damn cherry tomatoes when I noticed the dog was nuzzling around by me.

"Sammy, get outta there." I say, sorta just to make conversation with the dog and his butt was blocking my way to getting some handfuls (sigh) of ripe tomatoes.

But he wouldn't move. Sniffy McSniffer was apparently hot on the trail of something and he wasn't budging. I stood up to see what he was sniffing when I saw fur. A whole body of fur. And it wasn't mouse-size fur--it was....uh....big fur. Like bigger-than-a-squirrel fur.

Of course, being all naturey and I-love-the-earthy like I am, I did the natural thing....

I ran screaming all the way down the house.

Joe was out front laughing, going "What? What?" and "What did you find?" and I was all "It's a body! A furry body!!" and I was really loud so the whole neighborhood could hear. Except nobody came out to see what we were doing, I think they were all peering out their windows to see what wackiness was transpiring over the Duck House.

Either that or they were just thinking "Oh, criminy, there is that woman and her loud mouth again. Shut the window, Edith, and give me my oatmeal." Which is probably more the case.

Joe came running, Em came running out the door, and I just stood there--half afraid to see what was dead by my house. I kinda figured it was a rabbit, but I didn't want to look past the fur and the blood.

"It's a rabbit" Joe says with his face all sqwinched up, "I'll get a shovel." Which is Joe's immediate reaction whenever he finds something gross. Me--I want to run. Joe gets his shovel. We are a match made in heaven.

And then we go through the icky job of cleaning up carcass with squwinchy faces and "ewws" all around. Thank goodness it was garbage night.

So, here's this poor little bunny rabbit stopping by the Infamous Ever-Blooming Tomato Plant (that he read about on my blog) for a little breakfast and WHAMMO! He gets it by the neck. That damn tomato plant is gonna be the death of us all, I'm telling you.

And so, the plot thickens and the list of suspects are slowly narrowing down.

• Blue heron? Nope. Don't eat rabbits.
• Opossum? Nope. Scavengers--they don't kill their dinner and they aren't carnivorous.
• Raccoon? Ahhh, I'm not thinking so. They don't attack bunny rabbits in the morning for breakfast.
• Fox or Coyote---Nah. That's really a stretch.
• Black cat who has been coming around to fight with Grace? Hmmmm......

Man, I love proving that damn garden center dude wrong.

BarkFest 2010

I love when Sammy the Weiner Dog comes to stay with us and barks his fool head off at the two goofs next door. Those 3 will stand there for minutes just barking like knuckleheads until I yell at them to knock it off. Sammy listens to my plea for silence and quickly walks away, but Yip Yap the Non-Stop Barking Dog doesn't ever stop, hence the name. I hate that animal.

Those neighbors are clueless that those animals are out there barking endlessly, annoying the hell out of the rest of the neighborhood. They only come out to check when Sammy comes and joins in the Hound Jamboree--and then they have the nerve to tell Sammy to be quiet. Really?!

See--that is why I hate my neighbors. And so, I find happiness and joy in riling their two beasts up and then we quickly skedaddle into the house knowing those folks are finally annoyed with our barking dog.

Ah, neighbor wars.

You say "tomato", I say "Enough!"

That's it. I'm opening up a farm stand.

A wee farm stand with nothing but tomatoes.
Teeny tiny tomatoes.

Sigh.

Prayers are needed today for G'ma Phyl and her cat of 18 years, Bailey. While he lived a good, long life, our little pally isn't doing so well today. His kidneys are failing and while there isn't much hope, it is still very hard to say goodbye to a friend.

Colin and Bailey go way back--this really puts perspective on how long Bailey has been a part of our lives.

Positive Polly and her tomato plant

Okay, who's the joker who was switching labels on the tomato plants at the garden center?

I spent weeks waiting for these tiny things to bloom into giant-sized juicy red tomatoes, only to find that they are actually cherry tomatoes. Ugh.

I plant one tomato plant each summer. One. As in there is only one plant to provide me with an over-abundance of ripe fruit at the end of the season. There is just enough tomatoes to feed the family BLT's until they are weary of them, to cut and serve fresh on the table, to make salsa out of, and to freeze for winter recipes. I learned the hard way--you really only need one tomato plant for our family.

So, I bought the one plant that we need this spring and stuck that bad boy in the ground. And I soon realized that we are not going to be overrun with giant juicy tomatoes--but overwhelmed with a cabillion cherry tomatoes that nobody likes. I'm cursing whoever the knucklehead is that stuck the wrong label in my tomato plant at the store. Idiot.

But being that joyful optimist that I am (not), I'm not letting it get me down. As life hands me lemons, I'm making lemonade. Well, actually I'm making teeny tiny salsa and wee bruschetta. Sure, I'm nearly cutting my fingertips off trying to chop up cherry tomatoes, but I'm not gonna let that plant win--I'm determined that I'm gonna figure out how I can make BLT's that are 2 inches in diameter.

And don't tell me they taste different than those larger varieties.....I'm making lemonade here, people.

I Love Hobbes Thursday - Peace

Guess who got a snappy new collar?

Like Miss America, Hobbes is working on world peace.
Or at least in the backyard anyway...

And the Winners are.......

Late last night, we tallied up the entries and put everyone's name into a bowl--it's the high tech way of being fair at our house. That way, everyone stands a fair chance of having their name drawn for the Sincerely Yours by Tracy notecard giveaway.

Ohhh, it was very exciting. The tension was palpable.
Okay, so it was basically me, Colin, and the cats--
but we were very excited.

I think I heard a drum roll.....
Or was that thunder?

Colin volunteered to be the Official.

And the winner is.....

A. Marie! A last-minute entry that scores a big win!!
Hooray!

She chose this as her prize:


And.....
(because we are fancy here and we have TWO winners....)

Melodie!!
Hooray!

Melodie chose these as her prize:

Thanks, everyone, for playing along and cheering on my cousin, Tracy! She was very excited to see your nice comments and hopes you'll come back to visit her soon. I'm just glad I could finally do a little giveaway for my dear pallies who are here with me each day. You are the BEST!

A. Marie and Melodie--Be sure to send me your addresses so that Tracy can mail out your notecards to you!

The "Poop Deck" Really Needs a Name Change

This should have been the first clue:

Steve and Wendy invited us out on Lake Geneva for a lovely day of boating on their new boat, sans kids, on Sunday. So, there we were, chattin' it up for the two-hour drive to Wisconsin, all proud of ourselves for finally taking the day away from the kids and spending it with friends. We were totally justifying the day and trying so very hard not to feel guilty about leaving 4 very angry teens back at home.

Yeah, that'll teach us.

Joe no sooner pulls out his water shoes to help Steve get the boat tied to the dock and I nearly die laughing. In his excitement to get out that morning, he apparently grabbed one of his shoes and one of Col's, and ended up looking like an idiot with two left shoes on his feet. Sigh. I'm so proud. I think that is when Steve realized he was dealing with idiots.

While we were new to this boating stuff, Wen and Steve patiently point and tell us where to go and what to do to help them get this bad boy in the water. We did it--okay it probably took them twice the time it usually does, but we did it. Before we know it, we are off--zipping across the waves and heading for some fun on a very lovely lake. There were lots of waves. Lots and lots of waves.

I don't know if I mentioned the waves, but it was sort of wavy out there on that lake, so we headed towards the shore to cruise by the mansions and oogle the lifestyles of the rich and famous. And then Wendy showed us the potty on the boat, which was pretty much hanging our hinies in the lake, and we cruised some more. It was a bit wavy, but it sure was fun.

And then my stomach decided it had enough waves. And so did my head....and my knees....and well.....pretty much all of me. Soon, I had to ask Steve to stop at a marina to find me some Dramamine--I think I was green at that point.

While we waited for Joe to wrastle up some motion sickness meds, I suddenly had this urge to go see the back of Wen and Steve's boat.

And that would be me for the rest of the very short boat ride on Lake Geneva.
The End.

No, Joe didn't laugh at me. No, Steve and Wendy didn't kill me for ruining the day. (Well, maybe they wanted to, but they sure didn't show it.) No, the kids didn't even laugh and say "I told you so" or anything like that.

And no, I am not a sailor.

Oh, those southern belles.....

Years ago, I used to quilt a lot more than I do now. I had time to sew back in the day, when the kids were in school. And I used to belong to a quilt guild during that time too. I don't know what I was thinking.

Quilt guild was like a gang, I tell ya. Sheesh, those dames were hard core--they were traditional quilters and god forbid you introduce modern patterns or art quilts. If we brought in a speaker that was the least bit current or modern, half the crowd would mumble nasty comments and walk out. They were nuts, man. NUTS. I swear they were gonna "off" me because I didn't always follow their rules. If I was lucky, I was going to get off easy with a swift whack to the knees with their canes.

So, after a few years of dealing with little old ladies cornering me and giving me the stink-eye, I finally sucked it up and just sat in the back with my mouth shut. Sometimes I mustered a few fake nice comments about the hundredth log cabin purse they'd made or the boat-sized 9 patch that someone hand quilted. Gees, that stuff sucked, but I wasn't gonna step on old lady toes anymore. After awhile, I just quit going--I'm lucky I got out with my life.

My years in that guild scarred me for life, I now officially hate Sunbonnet Sue. (Picture me looking over my shoulder as I type that.)

Sunbonnet Sue is a traditional applique block that shows a profile shot of "Sue" in her prairie dress and bonnet. She is uber dorky and cutesy which makes her a favorite block of quilters over 1000 years in age. Me--I hate Sunbonnet Sue-she's just lame. Maybe that is why I hate that damn goose on my front porch--I think she reminds me of Sunbonnet Sue.

Lame Sunbonnet Sue:

Even more lame Porch Goose:

And then, on vacation, I saw this horrific site. I couldn't help but sneak a photo of this dame--all the while giggling and trying not to pee myself from holding in the all-out laughs.

Chain-smokin', knee-brace-wearin', toothless, badly agin', Appalachian Sue:

I am scarred. Scarred for life.

*Check out the Giveaway one last time--the drawing is tomorrow!