no posts?

I have no excuse.

It is rather inexcusable, 100% so.

I have postable things happen to me. On a severely regular basis, actually.

But often when I sit down to write them out, they are flat; they are like what the earth used to be before Columbus decided to throw us all for a loop, or for a globe.

I need to take time to unflatten them out, and I plan to do that soon. Like yesterday.

Because yesterday was 3/14. Pi Day.

an elderly post from February {unposted until now}

I babysat on Thursday night this week. I don't normally babysit on Thursday nights, but of late the norm has become the exception. So, therefore, it was nothing but normal for me to babysit on an abnormal day.

The natives were restless. Before I even had turned the car off, I had three charges standing outside of my door, brandishing sticks.

Good day to you too, kiddos.

I was promptly taken captive.

"Hands on your head!"
"Walk straight."
"You're our hostage!"
"Hey, hands on your head!"

"Well, stop poking me in the ribs first!"

"No, we poke until the hands are back on the head."

"Aaalright. Hands on the head."

We marched inside. Thankfully, there was a better choice of weapons awaiting us there.

Foam swords.

I like foam swords. A lot. Especially over sticks and staffs. Much better. Much less bruising.

But, of course, I was still the outcast.

They gave me a sword, and instructions to go wait out on the concrete slab of what will one-day-be-a-barn. They were going to then come attack me.

Right. Like I am going to stand for that. I have had one too many brothers and one too many cousins to think that I am just going to stand around and wait to be attacked.
Nope.
Sorry.
I just happen to be a big fan of the element of surprise.

I dashed out to the foundation and laid down on the grass on the other side, next to some old boards and {probably} hibernating snakes.

Yeah, so I have never had a dog before. And so I had forgotten that dogs are the Anti-Element of Surprise. Thanks, Rover.

After some various forms of foaming fencing, I was initiated into the Three Musketeers and we marched off to the Fort (which consisted of a mound of dirt) to throw clumps of mud at an invisible Adolph Hitler.

And then one of the Musketeers morphed into an Indian, and the remaining Musketeers became Cowboys. And chase was on, the hunt was afoot.

Through the mud.
{squelch, squerch, squelch, squerch}

Through the grass.
{swishy, swashy, swishy, swashy}

Back through the mud.
{oh, my flip-flop!}

Eventually, the Indian surrendered.

Sort of. She ended up claiming that before she surrendered, she had actually become a different Indian therefore the first Indian was still free. Yeaaaah. Dear, I used to try that trick when I was your age. And back then it sounded a lot more legit. And actually plausible.

After more chases, fencing duels, mud bombs, and weapon-swapping, we retired inside to eat the dinner of warriors - pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs.

brilliant

There are many conveniences that come with having the microwave right next to the refrigerator.

One of the more overlooked conveniences, though, is the ability to use the light from the refrigerator to see into the microwave.

{Especially if the light in the microwave is out, and the rest of the kitchen is dark because the sun isn't up yet, and you really, really, really need to heat up your coffee.}

la la la, springtime {and snow}

I spied my first red-breasted robin of the spring today.

Apparently, he has the same amount of faith in modern weathermen and their forecasted chance of snow for tomorrow as I do.

i'm cheating again by just posting a quotation....

Original Morgan posts will resume - hopefully - in a few days.

"The problem of reconciling human suffering with the existence of a God who loves, is only insoluble so long as we attach a trivial meaning to the word 'love', and look on things as if man were the centre of them. Man is not the centre. God does not exist for the sake of man. Man does not exist for his own sake. 'Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created.' We were not made primarily that we may love God (though we were made for that too) but that God may love us, that we may become objects in which the Divine love may rest 'well pleased'. To ask that God's love should be content with us as we are is to ask that God should cease to be God: because He is what He is, His love must, in the nature of things, be impeded and repelled, by certain stains in our present character, and because He already loves us He must labour to make us lovable. We cannot even wish, in our better moments, that He could reconcile Himself to our present impurities - no more than the beggar maid could with that King Cophetua should be content with her rags and dirt, or a dog, once having learned to love man, could wish that man were such as to tolerate in his house the snapping, verminous, polluting creature of the wild pack. What we would here and now call our 'happiness' is not the end God chiefly has in view: but when we are such as He can love without impediment, we shall in fact be happy."

- C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

where typos go to become fatal

"Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint." - Mark Twain

the unconventional sticky note

My ceiling fan is dusty. It probably is more often than not, but I rarely notice because I can rarely tell.

You see, my sister and I run our fan 24/7/351, taking exception to two weeks in January and February. Our fan is running until we actually might suffer from hypothermia as a result of turning it on.

As the Two Weeks of No Fan have dragged on, I have been constantly reminded by the sight of the still blades that I need to clean the fan.

But you see, cleaning ceiling fans can be a daunting and dangerous task for short people.
Oh. Yes. Siree. Stop laughing. It's true!

I have to go to the kitchen to confiscate a swivel bar stool, first. Then I have to stand on the swivel bar stool to clean my fan.

When I was younger, I was told to never stand in a rocking chair. And I never have.
Someone should have told me the same thing regarding standing in swivel chairs.

But my fear of swiveling chairs is not the reason why I haven't cleaned my fan more recently. And it isn't that I have forgotten about it.

The truth is, is that every time I catch sight of my fan and its dusty blades it reminds me of a million others things I have yet to do.

"Ooooh, I need to clean the fan... and I also need to call Mrs F.... and Mrs. M.... and I need to email Mrs. F... and I need to follow up on..."

It is hilarious, but true. I have never had a better to-do list reminder.

The fan still needs to be cleaned. But once I get through my to-do list, it will get cleaned... which at this rate will probably be next year over the Two Weeks of January and February.