Welcome Home

I find that when the kids go away for an extended period of time, like to camp, it's always nice to make them feel special upon their return.  We cook a meal we know the kids love or spend time together playing a board game or go to a movie.  It's important that they know they were missed and that their father and I are happy to have them home again.

This year, I think we've really gone overboard, and I'd like to go on record as saying it was my husband's idea.  At any rate, there is something waiting for them in the garage when they get home.  It's all shiny and new.  And it truly says we missed them in a way that no other gift can.  When they swing back those garage doors on August 1st, they will know just how much we love them and need them around here.

Most assuredly, it will leave them speechless.  The down side is that, on their very first day home, they will probably get in a big argument about who will use it first. 

What do you think:

The Experiment

Last week's newspaper is on the grass in our front yard. As you face the house, it's resting on the lawn on the left between the driveway and the front walk, near the struggling dogwood tree. It has been there since last Thursday, when it was delivered. This week's paper has now joined it.

It's still there because I'm running an experiment to see how long it takes before someone other than me picks it up and brings it inside. So far, everyone is waiting on me to do it. I know the mailman is probably running his own experiment, since he walks by it everyday and hasn't yet placed it on our front porch. I guess he figures he's already feeding our dog (a treat a day), why should he get the paper, too?

Our neighbors, though they are unaware, are in on the experiment, as well. I'm trying to find out how long it will take for one of them to come walking over and kick it onto the front porch or say something to me about it or stand in her front yard and stare menacingly in the direction of our house.

I'm wondering how much longer I can go on with this little project, as the sight of that newspaper is starting to eat at me every time I pull in and out of the driveway. I try not to look in its direction, but the contrast of the bleached white pages against the deep green grass makes me look every time. Some days, I believe I'm spiraling into a mini-psychotic state, deluded by the idea that the newspaper is itself conspiring against me.

This is driving me mad, mad I tell you. If someone doesn't pick up that newspaper soon, I'm going to bonk. My family doesn't like it when I bonk. Why is the mailman doing this to us? Why doesn't he just pick it up and put it on the porch? I think he's mumbling about me under his breath every day that he brings the mail and that glaring indication of my loss of control is still there.

Do I have to do everything around here?

I can see this isn't going well; not how I planned. Experiment aborted. I'm going out to bring in the old news.

Signs of Summer

The King and I

6 a.m. The clock radio comes to life and the morning newscaster sends his message through the static. "The king will be back tomorrow night," he says.

In my reluctant-to-face-the-world state I immediately jump to the conclusion that all the rumors about Elvis were true all along. He's not dead and tomorrow night he'll be on stage singing, "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog cryin' all the time." Behind my closed eyelids, he's wearing a white, bedazzled jumpsuit with his hair slicked back and he's doing that pelvic thrust move that nearly brought the country down. I try to calculate how old he would be now, but the math proves too difficult at 6 a.m.

Then in that hazy midland between wake and dreaming, I decide God must have sent out a press release over the AP wire. Jesus will arrive for the 2nd time tomorrow night. I conduct a brief inspection of my soul and inventory my transgressions and determine that this may not be the best time in my life for the Rapture. Readjusting my pillow to block out the annoying static from the radio, I send up a prayer asking for mercy and forgiveness.

But wait! My groggy brain returns to the Bi-Lo check-out lane where I vaguely remember reading the cover of a tabloid announcing the disappearance of Michael Jackson's body. Dr. Frankenstein, from somewhere in the deep recesses of my convoluted neural pathways, shouts, "It's alive!"

6:01 a.m. The morning newscaster's voice undulates with the static, as if he knows I'm still in bed and it is his sole objective to force me from between the sheets. He says, "Lebron James will blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."

Lebron James? Who died and made him king? I exasperatedly think.

Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms - Happy July 4th

It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.
~ John Adams, July 3, 17776, in a letter to Abigail Adams

When Adams wrote this letter to his dear wife, regarding how Americans should remember and celebrate their Independence from the mother country, he obviously had no idea how the government he was forming would get in our way. What began as a simple assertion of a people's right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, has become a bureaucratic conflagration.

Verily, one might argue that Adams's memo of proclamation, calling upon citizens to light bonfires, bear arms, illuminate the skies, and participate in sports & games, serves as the justification for our modern ATF. July 4th, if commemorated properly, is prime time for alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. For who among us has not witnessed a man igniting an explosive, meant to light up the continent, with a cigarette in one hand and a PBR in the other?

Ponder that over your game of horseshoes today. It's not only your right, but your obligation as an American citizen.

Happy 4th of July! Celebrate it according to tradition.

Southern Girls Living Fearlessly - Using the Gift

From Gone With the Wind:
Scarlett: Fiddle-dee-dee. War, war, war; this war talk's spoiling all the fun at every party this spring. I get so bored I could scream. Besides... there isn't going to be any war.
Brent Tarleton: Not going to be any war?
Stuart Tarleton: Why, honey, of course there's gonna be a war.
Scarlett: If either of you boys says "war" just once again, I'll go in the house and slam the door.

Just like Scarlett, from the moment we exited the womb, we southern girls were taught the gift of gab; the skill of conversing. BUT, we were also taught what polite ladies shall not, under any circumstances, discuss with others - politics, money, religion, sex; which, in my opinion, doesn't leave us much to confer on.

Our strict training in the ways of womanhood has resulted in two common outcomes:

1. Southern girls often resort to whispering at a volume their friends and enemies alike must strain to hear.
2. Southern girls tend to chatter on without thinking about what they are saying, but avoiding all controversial subjects.

Who among us hasn't had a girlfriend who talked so much that she never heard anything we had to say? She was always preoccupied thinking of what she would say next, and sometimes blurting it right over the top of our own words, as if she didn't even need us in order for the conversation to occur. And most of it was mindless twitter, anyway.

Who among us hasn't done that herself on occasion?

Raise your hand if you've ever tried to share an exchange with a woman who spoke so confidentially it was almost a secret from you, as well as the world. Leaning in as hard as one can to detect the almost inaudible mumble of a friend causes one to grow weary of the tete-a-tete, and usually just plain weary.

Are you are guilty of such quiet crimes? Am I?

The gift of gab is our southern discipline; thus, we must be disciplined about using it. We must not fear it. Our voices can make a difference in the world, without ever hinting at un-ladylike qualities.

First, we must break our bad habits. Those of us who speak in tones so low the earthworms can't even feel the vibrations need to find the courage to speak up and the discernment to know when to remain silent. Those of us who prattle on about this, that, and the other, but nothing of substance, should practice the art of breathing between sentences and phrases. Once that is accomplished, then we must learn to listen.

Second, we must decide how we will use our gift of gab to make the world a better place; the world at large or the world within arm's reach. Once we have honed and refined our gift, as our mamas and grandmamas would want, we will discover its power.

Third, remember to banter about the weather, the kids, the grocery store coupons, the car repair garage. It's good for us. Small talk makes the world go round.

The Final Word:
A study in the journal of Psychological Science found that people who spend time talking to others, having both deep conversations and sharing chitchat, report feeling happier than their silent counterparts. Therein lies the crux of the matter: If we are nattering on without pause or if we are emitting at a decibel for which the human ear is not tuned, then our partner in conversation is rendered to silence, and, therefore, not happy.

True Love 2

It has been determined that my husband is blind to my figure flaws. And, according to a friend, such blindness is a sign of true love.

But I know what really means true love and it has nothing to do with how my butt looks in these jeans.

As I ironed shirts for my sons last night, my husband breezed into the laundry room and shook his head at my work. "You don't know what you're doing," he exclaimed at me. "You're making a mess of those shirts. Why do you keep spraying on starch like that. Those shirts are so stiff they belong on a body in a morgue. Why'd you put the crease there? That's not where it goes. And the collars. My gosh!"

You may not know it, but these are beautiful, sweet, romantic words. He means every one of them from the crevices of his soul, and he cares enough for me to be plainly honest. I love him for it. Even more than that, though, I know he loves me.

The next thing he says is, "I'll finish these shirts." He grabs the iron from my hand, and caps the starch, and rearranges the shirt on the ironing board, and shoos me away. He doesn't even expect me to stand and watch him like he does when he fixes the dishwasher or pays bills on-line.

This, my friends, is true love.