first step to recovery is recognition

Oh. I know.

If I were to try to attempt to describe the past week or two, it would come out in some nice Gibbly-Goosh. Something to the effect of...

ArkansascousinsfootballcoldscavengerhuntweatherfoodlaughtergamesfriendshomeChristmas.

Give or take half-a-dozen words.

And your past few weeks probably look - or sound - similar to mine. Rather like a literary stained-glass window, or kaleidoscope.

And to top this all off - as if my Mental Bag of Memories and Musings is not already bursting at the seams - today is the last day of 2009.

Note to Self:
Y2k was ten years ago, not yesterday. Accept it and move on. Realize that when people say "three years ago" they mean 2007, not 1999, or 2001. Remember at camp this summer? When you realized that some of the girls in your cabin were born in 1998, and they were eleven years old already!? Get it straight.

You think it is bad now? Just wait until you are older, Pumpkin.

the insanity is all mine

I am sorry. I lost last week somewhere.

I have a suspicion that I left it on a conveyor belt at a check-out register somewhere. Unfortunately, I forgot to put my name on it, so I do believe it is lost for forever.

But - lucky for you - I have yet to misplace today. But, today is fully overflowingly full, and I just have time to say... I am signing off for a week, or more.

Take care. Behave. And have yourself a merry little Christmastime.

a blip on the map

I've gotta run to the post office before it closes...

...for lunch.

g'morning

I don't have much to say.

Indeed, I have nothing to say. And when one finds oneself with nothing to say often the best course of action is to sign off immediately. But there is something hilarious about human nature that proves that when one has Very-Little-Bordering-On-Nothing-To-Say one often ends up talking more than ever.

If one wants to have something to say, or more likely feels compelled to say something, but has nothing specific in mind to discuss - well, that is when one can hardly be quiet.

Perhaps, Reverse Psychology at its best?

And - of course- those types of one-sided monologues always end with the Speaker sinking farther into the despair of not wanting to talk any more. They never feel relief from the talking; they often as not feel desirous to shrink into themselves again to a greater extreme.

And, if that point is reached, then that is when the One-Who-Didn't-Want-To-Talk-Originally becomes The-One-Who-Is-Going-To-Be-Quiet-Indefinitely-Because-They-Have-Just-Embarrassingly-Proven-That-They-Had-Nothing-To-Say-In-The-First-Place.

And, yes... I think I just reached that point...

"The children - they're missing, George!" "Splendid, splendid"

I wasn't supposed to babysit yesterday. Well, actually I was. I normally do on Thursday, but this week that appointment had been moved to Monday instead.

So - in theory - Thursday was open. Then Thursday morning the Other Babysitees had something come up and needed a sitter for that afternoon. So I babysat yesterday.

I only had the Bookends of the Family, the oldest and youngest. The oldest is a boy near my middle-younger brother's age, so I brought along the previously mentioned middle-younger brother o' mine. (Follow me? Good.)

And then the youngest is a two-year old lady going on twenty-five.

The two Adventurers decided to enjoy our - hopefully - temporary swampland. They pulled on their boots and set off. Of course, we had the regular game plan in effect. They stay on the property and every ten, fifteen minutes I would come out and call for them. They would return the salutation as a Roger That.

I watched them tromp off across the front yard. And then the little lady pulled me upstairs to do* my hair.

After ten minutes, I went outside to check on the Munchkins. Right.

I slogged across the boggy front yard calling for them. Did they hear me? No.

It was cold and I was wearing flip-flops. Score one for me.

I was trying to not get frustrated or alarmed, but seriously this was not what I had planned to happen. I delicately stepped my way around the sinkholes on my way back to the house to add the little lady to my Search Party.

We circled around the house, calling for them in the thicket.

We called. And walked. And called. Andcalledandwalkedandcalledandwalk.

Where do children go when they get lost? Is there a nice Lost and Found somewhere where they give them Blue Bell ice cream bars while they wait for the delinquent babysitters to arrive?

Say yes, please.

By the time we had done a 130° around the house, I was beginning to think of how not even Fraulein Maria was able to lose anyone. Not even that Incorrigible Kurt.

Then we rounded the backyard out and headed for the gate to the overgrown back pasture. There was a pond back there, and they often played there. But normally when they played back there they could still hear me call from the convenience of the back door.

Then it struck me. There was a loud rumble, followed by a the trundling of large wheels. In the next lot there was a bulldozer and backhoe throwing their weight around.

Ha ah, yes! My kids weren't lost. {And they weren't driving that heavy machinery either, though, it rather sounds like something they might try.}

They just can't hear me. I laughed out loud as the little lady looked up at me in surprise. I dashed through the gate and hollared those two names as loud as I could.

"YES... Miss Morgan, weeee aaaare baaaaack heeeeeere," came the dim reply.

Nice. Thanks for giving me prematurely gray.

I picked up the little lady and headed back to the warm, dry house. As we crossed back over the side yard, we waved to the Blue Bell truck headed for the back pasture.



*Exact definition of this word is not certain in this case.

Elementary, Dear... Toto?

It looks English-esque outside of late. The weather is highly Sherlock Holmesian. Or Secret Garden-ish.

It looks like the moors outside my window. {Secondary definition of the word "moor" there.}

It is damp and foggy and rainy and soggy.

{"I'm leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it's not raining." Groucho Marx}

But you know. It is fine. Just fine. I can accept some gray, smeary days.

Because. Well. You know.

We got SNOW.

Oh. yes. we. did.

I know, I am proud of my little city, too. And my state. We only half-panicked, too. It was rather impressive. We coped rather nobly.

It started earlier than it was Supposed to. My mom, the Resident Investor, and I were caught quite unawares. We left our Morning Coffee Ritual and trooped out {looking decidedly like every other Ragtag Army in the history of our country} in the chilly rain to cover plants.

We were 3/4 of the way done moving and covering and getting ridiculously freezing cold, when All of the Sudden the raindrops got fatter and colder. And then we got smacked with them and realized that We Weren't in Kansas {Texas} Any Longer, Toto.

It continued for hours. Big flakes clumping together with some smaller, biting bits coming later.

It was Glorious. And Spectacular.

And that is why Dreary and Dull is currently fine.

Anyway, We all know that England is way more exciting than Kansas is any day.
{...But it still doesn't beat Texas... not that that really matters or anything...}

It HAPPENED.

frigid with a side of snow flakes

Ah, yes. There is a microscopically huge 50% {And actually weather.com is bequeathing us with a beautiful 70%-80%} Chance of Snow tomorrow.

Yes, a Chance of Snow for us. It is an overly delightful feeling - even if it doesn't stick.

It feels like the Wall Flower has finally been asked to dance. (And you know what They say: "And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.")

Dance your feet off, Houston. Dance until you can't breathe, until the room is spinning upside down and backwards.

{I am back now... after a detour to see some runaway turkeys on the front porch, to set up a baby-sitting adventure for later today, and to proof an essay for a sibling...}

But as I was describing - it is a heady feeling, one of unimaginable flattery to be the -possible- recipient of snow flakes.

You have to blush and say in complete disbelief, "Me? Me? Is that person pointing at me?"

It is like being on the Price is Right and hearing - "Houston, come on down!"
{Yeah, I know that was rather an American-McDonald's-esque-Commercialistic reference there, but it is staying put just like I would if I happened to find my name being called at the Price is Right.}

It is an overwhelmingly exhilarating experience.

And half of it is the Anticipation. {Plus finding your dancing shoes and mittens.}