THE CHRISTMAS STORY, BEAN STYLE

We're busily decorating for Christmas. We have a plastic Nativity scene for the girls once they decide they've had enough ornament hanging. Apparently, this Nativity scene was quite inspirational to Bean. She proceeded to tell us her version of the Christmas story:

"Once upon a time, Baby Jesus got stuck in the mud. Then, a creature came and took him, and he didn’t go home. So, Zerena came with all the people, and they started to sing. There was no room in the house, but they made some room. All the people came to get the room. The angels came and said, 'We need to ring the bell.' And the angel landed in the night, and took a bath. The end."

STINKIN' KFC ....

I don't go to KFC much. But, here in the South, they serve catfish along with their chicken. My girls (especially Bean) are big fans of catfish. I don't like to cook fish, because I don't like how it makes the house smell, but I want my kids to be able to eat it and get their Omega-3's. So, last week, we all went to KFC while we were out shopping.

We all got the buffet, and were happily chowing down. One of the KFC employees was walking around the dining room with a tray of biscuits, asking if anyone wanted any. It was then that we noticed that this employee was hacking up a lung all over those hot, fresh biscuits. And all over the buffet. The buffet which I was ingesting at that very moment.

So, thank you, stinkin' KFC employee. I was up all night with a sore throat, a cough, and congestion. And pregnancy prevents me from actually medicating myself. Stinkin' KFC ....

WHAT BIG DADDY BROUGHT HOME

Big Daddy did a restaurant remodel recently. The owner loaded us up with some leftover Italian food and some decorations from his restaurant that he no longer wanted. Including this:



My children have dubbed him "Mr. Cooker." Bean hugs him regularly, proclaiming, "I love him!" Cakes likes to admire from a distance, but he makes her a little nervous.


Let me tell you, he just about gives me a coronary every time I walk into the kitchen. Look at him, crouching there in the corner with that huge moustache. My first thought is always, "Who is that hiding behind the table?"


Oh, the joys of being married to a contractor!

CORRELATION BETWEEN LUNAR PROXIMITY AND HUMAN BEHAVIOR

Was it just me, or was Friday an insane day for everyone? Being pregnant, I'm already a little ... um, shall we say unsteady ... emotionally. Add to the mix four small, hyper dogs and two small, dramatic children. And Friday ... Wow! Grammy, who was kind enough to help me stave off a total nervous breakdown that day, and I kept looking at each other and saying, "What is going on?!"

I found out later that Friday night was the largest full moon in fifteen years. Usually, the moon is approximately 238,000 miles from the earth. Friday night, it was only about 221,000 miles from the earth. I don't care what anyone says; there is something about the moon that affects behavior, at least of dogs and humans.

I used to work at a rehab center for adults with traumatic brain injury. After about a week of adjustment, I really enjoyed the job. I have such a soft spot in my heart now for physically and mentally challenged people. I hate that there is such a stigma placed on them. They were great! But, I'll tell you what. On the day before a full moon, chaos reigned in the rehab center. There was a general grumpiness and uncooperativeness about the clients. But, the frontal lobe injuries (those with poor to no impulse control) were most noticeable. It was okay, as long as you kept a good sense of humor about it. It's kind of like being out with a toddler who blurts things like "Mommy, does that man have a baby in his belly? Then why is his belly so big?"

And I've lost my train of thought. But, yeah. Friday was pretty crazy. Any thoughts?

STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

So, it was some time in the wee morning hours this weekend. I had been up most of the night, because about five trains went through the neighboring town, whistles blowing and wheels rumbling. Of course, all the country dogs were barking like crazy. That many trains in one night was weird. Usually, we hear one or two roll by, but five?

As the rumbling faded away, I heard some weird sounds coming from the woods across the street from my house. A couple of men were yelling in a foreign language. Then, a whole group of people started chanting in a foreign language while someone played a tambourine. Everything would get quiet for a minute or so, and then it would start again. This went on for about twenty or thirty minutes.

I've been looking up all kinds of things on the internet, trying to figure out what in the world could have been going on out there in the woods, but I keep coming up empty-handed. Any ideas?

THE DEEP RECESSES OF MY PREGNANT MIND

I didn't sleep very well the other night. We live out in the middle of nowhere, and have very few neighbors. Unfortunately, one of those very few neighbors is into partying on the weekends. Loud partying. So, I was lying awake, listening to the bass thump through the walls of my house at 1:15 a.m., debating whether or not to call one of the five police officers in my small town to come ask them to turn the music down a little bit.

After the partying, Cakes started having a turbulent night. So, I ended up in a twin bed with her, trying to keep her calm and quiet so as not to wake Bean, who was sleeping in the top bunk. And, of course, pregnant me has to pee every five seconds. Oh, the wonderful things pregnancy does to the body. And the mind.

In my few minutes of sleep between loud music, the toilet, and a shrieking cherub, I had one of what I refer to as my "pregnancy dreams." My dreams take on a rather bizaare angle when I'm pregnant. Once I'm in my third trimester, my dreams usually involve me being stuck in a very small space, my only escape being through a tiny opening that I couldn't possible squeeze my enormous, pregnant self through. Or being stuck in the tunnel section of some amusement park ride. Those dreams seem rather self-explanatory, don't you think? But, the dreams during my first two trimesters are just plain weird. So, without further ado, a glimpse into the sleeping pregnant mind ...

I was standing in my parents' bathroom, looking in the mirror to see if I was starting to develop the "baby bump," when I noticed that my belly button looked swollen (as an aside, my belly button grows to the size of a golf ball and protrudes off center very early in my pregnancies). So, I squeezed it. A little drop of water came out. I squeezed it some more. Water started gushing out of my navel like a faucet. Fortunately for me, there was an empty aquarium on my parents' bathroom counter, so I positioned myself over the aquarium and proceeded to squeeze all the water out of my belly button. After I had squeezed out every last drop of liquid, I looked into the aquarium and saw that, in addition to water flowing forth from my navel, a variety of large tropical fish had also come out. Some of the fish were as big as my hand, while others were the size of a pencil eraser. And then, I woke up.

And, there you have it. Strange.

MOTHERHOOD REQUIRES SAFETY GOGGLES

Let me start at the beginning. Two weeks ago, one of my girly-girls was enthusiastically brushing my hair with a hair clip. Said hair clip spiraled out of control and ended up in my right eye. Excruciatingly painful? Yes. But this is not the first or worst eye injury I've ever had.

Back in 1997, I was at my third college. My roomie, Tanya, her younger brother, and I commuted to school every day, and we spent our time between classes hanging out at the campus bookstore where Tanya and I both worked. One morning in the beginning of the semester, I was pulling my syllabus out of my work folder to see how many papers I would be writing throughout the next three months. Anyway, I pulled out the syllabus and promptly stuck it right into my left eye. Fortunately, the school's athletic trainer was in the bookstore at the time. He took me back to his office, flushed my eye out, and patched me up until I could see a doctor. So, I spent the day with a patch on my eye. It only took about an hour for me to tire of explaining why I had a patch on my eye. So, I got a Post-it, wrote "papercut on eyeball" on the Post-it, and taped it to my eye patch. Various people would walk up to me, read my Post-it, and carry on with their lives.

The pain was pretty bad by the time we had finished classes for the day, so we headed straight to the emergency room after we left school. Where I got a shot in my rear end. And Tanya got asked out on a date. By the male nurse who gave me a shot in my rear end. They gave me a fresh eye patch and some Codeine, and sent me on my way.

Since I only had one functioning eye, Tanya drove to school the next day. Since I only had one functioning eye, I didn't bother reading the label on the Codeine that said it should be taken with food. Soon after taking my pain pill, I realized that I should've eaten something and hurriedly scarfed down a Twinkie. It was too late, though. My nausea began to increase steadily, as Tanya's brother sang loudly and off-key in the back seat of the car. For some reason, that made my nausea worse. By the time we reached the school parking lot, I yelled to Tanya's brother to stop singing. Then I opened the car door, threw up in the parking lot, and we continued on to find a parking space.

Since I only had one functioning eye, I also didn't read on the label that Codeine caused marked drowsiness. So, I spent the day asleep on the couch in the student body president's office.

To this day, when I rub my left eye, it squeaks. Loudly. This makes my husband nauseous. I think it's a pretty cool parlor trick, like my double-jointed elbows and clover tongue.

But, I digress. Today, I was putting shoes on Cakes so she could play outside with Bean. Cakes was excitedly grabbing at my head for balance while I wrestled her squirmy feet into the sandals. Then, I felt Cakes' thumb in my right eye. Yes, the same eye that was injured two weeks ago. This time, my mother took me to the emergency room. No shots in my rear end this time, and no one got asked out on a date. They did put a patch on my eye. I was going to take a picture of myself all patched up for the blog today, but I was walking like a drunken sailor at the pharmacy and still had vivid memories of vomiting in the parking lot at college, so I took the eye patch off. And called Tanya to reminisce.

DRUMMER'S EYE VIEW

Big Daddy is a drummer (a wonderful combination of 18-inch biceps and ADHD). Before we became business owners, he had more time to devote to it. But, he still plays whenever he gets the chance. He recently played at a concert to benefit teenage mothers. He was able to snap some shots from behind his drum kit with his camera phone.

That lost shot is of the stage's soundboard.

BIG DADDY: DEER HUNTER EXTRAORDINAIRE

Big Daddy is a suburbanite. He married into a family that is half suburban, and half rural. The rural side is involved in farming, hunting, fishing, all that nature stuff. They live off the land, butchering their own meat, growing their own veggies, etc. And every time a grandkid turns 12, they have the option of getting their own rifle for Christmas so they can begin hunting (I opted for a nice set of PJ's for Christmas when I turned 12). Hunting is a tradition on that side of the family, and each hunting season provides meat for the families for at least a year. I remember one Thanksgiving when the menu included wild turkey, wild goose, venison, and bear. But, I digress ...

Big Daddy has always been somewhat enamored with the simple life of farming, hunting, and such. So, shortly after we were married, Big Daddy decided that he wanted to try his hand at hunting with Grampy.

Grampy accompanied Big Daddy to all the hunter safety courses, and helped Big Daddy apply for his license. Then, Big Daddy and Grampy headed out into the woods on Irwin the Great's property for the first day of Deer Season. They had their buck licenses which, of course, meant that all they saw that day were doe. They were a little disappointed to finish the day empty-handed, but they had a great time of male bonding (involving complete silence, freezing temperatures, a tree stand, and bucket that acted as a restroom - not my idea of a good time, but hey).

So, the next morning, Grampy and Big Daddy packed up the car, and began the four-hour ride home. They had gone about ten miles when they saw a deer run across the road and get hit in the head by an oncoming tractor trailer. Well, the first words out of Grampy's mouth were, "It got hit in the head! The meat's still good!"

They quickly turned the car around, drove up to the deer, tagged its antler with the hunting tag (have to keep it legal, you know), and tossed the fresh carcass into the back of Big Daddy's Bronco. They raced back to Irwin the Great's farm, where they ... um ... processed the deer (I'll spare you the gorey details). Irwin the Great butchered and packaged the venison, and Big Daddy brought home his first (road)kill. Which I didn't eat. Venison ... ew.

MORE SMALL TOWN LIFE

After witnessing the spontaneous parade, you would think that I would remember to take my camera whenever I venture into town. But, alas, I didn't. And I wish I had.

This weekend was the big, annual tractor pull and monster truck rally. I, personally, have never seen the point of tractor pulls and monster truck rallies; but, apparently, I am in the minority out in the country. Our little town of 933 people swelled to over 25,000. I could hear the trucks and tractors in the distance every time I stepped out of my house.

Last night, Bean and Cakes were craving ice cream. It was hot, so I accomodated them. We hopped in the car and headed to town. I was surprised to see more than five cars on my drive there, especially on the winding, one-lane back roads. As I neared Main Street and the houses started getting closer together, I noticed that many of them had their yards partitioned off with police tape and rebar. Colorful, construction paper signs fluttered in the breeze. These signs read, "Parking $5." And people were actually parking on the townspeople's lawns! ("Where else are they going to park?" said Tanya matter-of-factly, when I told her about it later.)

When I got to the stoplight at Main Street, I noticed that all five cops on the town's police force were out, directing traffic and maintaining crowd control. And the people! I felt like I was in a foreign country. And it was so crowded!

As I continued down Main Street to get to the grocery store, the line of traffic headed toward the center of town stretched to the horizon. I began to wonder how I was going to get the ice cream home before it melted. I've never encountered traffic here. There were big, monster trucks, winnebagos, clusters of Harleys, pick-ups, little sports cars. A lot of them were from out of state.

Fortunately, by the time I was done shopping, the tractor pull and monster truck rally had begun. The roads were empty, making my drive home effortless. Every square inch of parking in our entire town, plus many lawns, were filled with vehicles. The high school sports field was overflowing with the sounds thousands of screaming people and big engines revving.

I just don't get it.

SELF-EMPLOYED BLUES

How many people who work in an office 40 hours per week would only accept 30 hours' worth of pay? So, why is it that people expect someone who is self-employed (particularly in the area of construction, like we are) to work for free?

For instance, Big Daddy completed a job for a client. We'll call her Madame X. Madame X promptly found another item that needed attention that was adjacent to the area that Big Daddy just repaired. When Big Daddy calmly explained to her that said repair was not in the original contract and would be at an additional charge, she actually responded, "Do you think I'm made of money?! I have to work for a living!" Um ... what did she think Big Daddy had been doing at her house for the past two days?

I like blogging, because it forces me to find the humor in my daily life. Humor has been a little hard to come by this past week. Clients, subcontractors - sheesh!

But, Big Daddy got a good laugh last night in the midst of this neverending week of misery. I like to cook. It's a nice, creative outlet, and I love food - the perfect combination. I am, however, one of those people that relies exclusively on cookbooks. I don't have that intuition, like Big Daddy, to just know what tastes good together. Anyway, I was feeling pretty adventurous this week, cuisine-wise, and needed to reduce some stress. So, I took some recipes that I was pretty comfortable with and tried to, you know, "make them my own." Apparently, my family has been suffering in silence through my cooking creations. Last night, Big Daddy finally broke down and, amidst tears of laughter, proceeded to explain why I need to keep using cookbooks. Here is the rundown:

1. Zucchini, squash, white, vegetarian lasagna: Okay, so there was about a cup of liquid that had to be drained from the serving dish. And I forgot to add the garlic. Or any other spices. Which basically left us with noodles, cheese, and vegetables. And liquid.

2. Chocolate zucchini cake: I know. Sounds doomed from the start. But, I've thoroughly studied both The Sneaky Chef and Deceptively Delicious; their recipes are wonderful! I thought I could successfully disguise zucchini in a chocolate cake. I was wrong. Even Pioneer Woman's extremely unhealthy and delightfully delicious chocolate frosting didn't help.

3. Big Daddy's bag lunch: Aunt Tracy made chicken parmesan the night before. I didn't eat any of it, so I had no idea that it was about as tasty as my aforementioned dishes. So, I thought it would be a great idea to make Big Daddy lunch out of the chicken. I didn't want the sandwich to get soggy, so I didn't put any of the sauce on it. Apparently, I also left out the cheese, which is a vital component of chicken parmesan. So, I guess the sandwich was a little dry, being composed of healthy, whole grain bread, and dry chicken tenderloins. And, I thought a large container of sliced cucumbers soaked in balsamic vinegar would be a wonderful accompaniment to the sandwich, but Big Daddy begged to differ.

I'm glad he was able to have a good laugh, even if it was at my expense.

SMALL-BUSINESS OWNERS

Sometimes the hours are horrible. Big Daddy won't be home for supper tonight. So, do the cherubs and I scrounge around for nutritious scraps and leftovers, or do I actually make a meal?

Hmmm ...

Maybe I can do some baked chicken for them. And I'll look on the internet and in my many cookbooks for zucchini recipes.

I usually don't think about food when I'm not hungry or pregnant. Today is a rare exception.

Boy, I remember being pregnant with Bean, and I would be driving to work in tears, thinking of all the Northeastern food that can't be obtained here in the South. I would've given my left arm for a taste of home. Pregnancy does those kinds of crazy things to you.

Have I ever told you that Big Daddy got his first gray hair during my first pregnancy? I'm not a very pleasant pregnant lady. I am very in touch with my body, and I spent every evening giving Big Daddy a recitation of every strange sensation I'd had that day, along with my interpretation of the meaning of these sensations.

I remember I was in a meeting with my boss (a partner in a law firm) when I was pregnant with Bean, and she was doing the Can-Can in there or something. My stomach was bouncing all over the place like I had swallowed dolphins in a tuna net. I had to hold my notebook in front of my uterus to try to hide the distraction.

Here's a question - Did anyone else ever feel like a pod person or a host body when they were pregnant?

But, the main point of all these bunny trails is that I don't know what to do about dinner.

STINKIN' COMPUTER!

Yeah, so my computer crashed. I spent the last five days feeling like I was missing an appendage. It's not like I live right around the corner from all my friends and family - I'm out in the middle of nowhere, you know.

Then, today, the computer techie called with bad news. My computer was officially dead. He's salvaging what he can from our old hard drive, and I'm typing to you from our new computer. Big Daddy's business and my sanity depend daily on the internet.

More postings to come ...

SINCERELY 'FRO ME TO YOU

I mentioned my childhood camp in an earlier post. I loved working at Camp Sankanac. I like to think it was a prelude to parenting. We chased around extremely energetic kids, cajoling them to take naps and eat their vegetables all week long.

On the weekends, groups of teenaged camp counselors would invade the home of a counselor's parents and veg out, eat all the food in the house, and try to catch up on sleep and adult conversation. Then, on Sunday, we put on our matching outfits and headed back for another exhausting, fun-filled week.

That would be me on the right, with my oh-so-stylin' 80's poodle perm ....

For more flashback fun, check out We Are That Family.

LIFE LESSONS: AH, SEINFELD

It's so true to life, isn't it? I mean, some people don't like the show, they think all the characters are obnoxious (well, they are all a little obnoxious), they think the humor is irritating. But, no one can deny that this satirical look at four friends in NYC has at least one episode that everyone can relate to (I hate ending a sentence in a preposition, but I'm doing so to avoid sounding pretentious).

Who remembers the episode where George tried to break up with his girlfriend? She absolutely refused to let him break up with her; she kept saying they could work it out. When Jerry asked how the break-up went, George said, "Apparently, I was unable to break up beyond a reasonable doubt." He even tried cheating on her, but that just resulted in him being trapped in a relationship with both of them.

Well, Big Daddy and I made the mistake of hiring some friends for a business dealing. Two months after the original deal, we decided that it wasn't working and we wanted to go another direction. Apparently, though, we are unable to fire them beyond a reasonable doubt. They are flat out refusing to be fired and, unfortunately, refusing to sign the necessary papers to complete the firing process. What the hey? Who does that? We even went out and hired someone else to replace them, and they still are digging their heels in. They keep saying, "If you weren't our friends, we would just let you fire us." Huh?!

I'll keep you posted.

ERSATZ

Another of my little quirks is my compulsive quest for trivial knowledge. One of the reasons I read Muthering Heights on a regular basis is because the author stayed up late one night learning everything she could about badgers. LOVE IT! My English teacher mother often gets phone calls near the middle of the night requesting definitions or origins of words like "clinchpoop" and "popinjay."

Anyway, I was reading a news story online about one of Charles Manson's hippie chicks' possible release from prison because she is terminally ill and has only about 6 months to live. It's called a "compassionate release," and is very rare. The inmate must have family willing to shoulder the financial, physical, etc., burdens of caring for a terminally ill individual. The statistics are that, out of the 60 requests for compassionate release made last year, only 10 were granted (another compulsively obtained piece of trivia).

The point is, the article described Manson's murderous little clan as an "ersatz hippie family." "Ersatz"? What the hey is "ersatz"? So, since I know you are all waiting with bated breath, the meaning of "ersatz" is:

An imitation or substitution, usually inferior (of German origin).

Let's all use that word tomorrow and impress someone!

DELIGHTFULLY QUIRKY

That's how I like to refer to myself. Other people have said I'm weird, or that I have a lot of rules, or that I'm like a senior citizen. But, delightfully quirky sounds so much better, doesn't it? It's almost Meg Ryan-ish.

Anyway, since nothing of particular import has happened lately, I thought I'd let loose a stream of my slightly OCD quirks:

1. When eating Skittles, I separate them all by color. Then, starting with purple, I eat them two at a time. Then I move on to orange, green, yellow, and finally red (which is my favorite). The purple ones taste vaguely like Dimetapp, so I eat them first to get them out of the way. Now, if I end up with an uneven number of one color, I usually give the lone Skittle to my ancient Cocker Spaniel. Like I said, I like to eat them in pairs (an attorney I used to work for witnessed me eating Skittles and proclaimed me to be "all kinds of crazy").

2. I like circles. I don't really like squares much, and triangles are terrible.

3. Although I like to eat my Skittles in pairs, I prefer groupings of five when it comes to home decor. I will settle for groups of three, but I find groups of five more aesthetically pleasing.

4. I tend toward the cluttered end of the spectrum, much to Big Daddy's chagrin. On my list of priorities, picking up clutter is more towards the bottom, with caring for my kids right at the very top. However, as far as my books and DVD's are concerned, I am so organized it is almost debilitating. I have my books separated by genre, and then organized on the shelves alphabetically by author. My DVD's are all on the shelves in alphabetical order by movie title (and if I have movies in a series, I must own the entire series, with the exception of The Godfather III and Spiderman 3, which are HORRIBLE movies!). But I have a huge spreadsheet for my DVD's which separates all movies by genre, director, star(s), year made, and plot synopsis. Why am I so anal in this particular area? No idea.

5. I have a hard time eating with someone who allows small amounts of food to collect on the underside of the neck of their eating utensil.

Bean is a girl after my own heart. She needs her food cut in a particular shape in order to eat it. If the shape deviates from what Bean finds acceptable, the food (in her estimation) is only good enough to throw to the dog. She's as delightfully quirky as I am!

LIFE LESSONS: ALWAYS USE A TOILET

I mentioned in a previous post that the world is Big Daddy's drum kit, and also his urinal. Given the choice between a toilet, or sharing streams with nature, my husband will always choose to go outside. Why? I don't know. I can only assume it's got something to do with testosterone. I will only pee outside if I'm 500 miles from the nearest rest area and am pretty sure my bladder is about to explode.

Anyway, this is Big Daddy's Life Lesson (and he is ever long-suffering to let me share this with the World Wide Web). It happened before I met him, when he was in his mid-20's. One evening, he was walking through a commercial section of town (lots of shops and restaurants, etc.), when he felt the sudden urge to go. Now, it being a commercial section of town, there were many porcelain options at his disposal. But, Big Daddy opted to go behind a store, behind a dumpster, behind a fence, to the edge of the woods behind a row of stores to do his business.

Unbeknownst to my darling husband, however, was that fact that a police officer saw him meander behind the row of stores, and probably suspected that he was up to no good. As such, the police officer followed my husband. I seem to recall a Seinfeld episode touching on this very subject .... So, the cop sneaks up behind him, then let's out a loud and sharp, "What are you doing there?"

Long story short, Big Daddy received a citation and had to go to court, where the ticketing officer and the judge had a few laughs at his expense.

Did Big Daddy learn his lesson? Well, now he just pees in our back yard.

MOMMY, THE PRINCESS

Let's get one thing clear. Mommy is not a princess. I don't like to do my hair, wear make-up, wear dresses, wear shoes that are not flip-flops .... I do like to bathe every day, but that doesn't always happen with two toddlers constantly craving my attention or trying to kill each other when my back is turned. Somehow, though, I ended up with two very girly little girls. They opt for dresses when given the choice between dresses or pants/shorts. I don't even own any dresses! Okay, I own some maternity dresses, but that is only for convenience when I'm huge and have an 8 pound kid punching my bladder. Given the choice, I will always choose pants - jeans to be exact.

At any rate, I've had to learn to do some girly things with my cherubs. So has my husband.

When my husband and his afro are not available for hairdos, I am the one that gets my hair done. After this particular hairdo, Bean declared me to be a princess. So, here is our self-portrait (note, no make-up, hair not done, etc.).

Check out my forehead. Here's a true story for you:

Big Daddy and I honeymooned in Chicago (Big Daddy loves jazz, and I'm not a big fan of sand and/or tropical locations). We spent one day at the Navy Pier. There was a German guy there doing caricatures and singing opera. So, we got in line to have our caricature done. We waited patiently, chuckling at the cartoon portrait of the couple in front of us. Suddenly, the German guy whirled around and said to us in a thick, German accent, "Please let me draw you! You are a cartoonist's dream!" (Just what everyone wants to hear). He looked at Big Daddy and said, "Zat nose!" Then, he looked at me and said, "And zat forehead! You could put another face on it!" Yeah. I've got a big forehead. And that has nothing to do with the title of my post, but there it is.

And that reminds me of when Bean got her first Barbie for Christmas one year. She unwrapped it, gasped in delight, held it up, and said, "Look! It's Mommy!" Gotta love kids, don't ya?

SMALL TOWN LIFE

I wish I had taken my camera to lunch today. Just when I think I'm adjusting to small town life here among our population of 933 ....

My parents are here for a visit, so we wanted to go out to lunch together. There are four restaurants in town - one is a fast-food restaurant, one is a pizza delivery place, one is a family-owned Americana grill, and one is a Mexican restaurant. We opted for Americana cuisine, but found that they were closed so that they could go watch the high school girls' softball championship game. Hmmm. Okay, that's a little hokie, but whatever. On to the Mexican restaurant across the street from the high school.

Shortly into our burritos and enchiladas, we noticed people starting to line up along the street in front of the high school. Not a lot of people, but they were noticeably lined up. Then we heard a fire truck coming, sirens blaring, and the little line of people began to cheer. The fire truck turned into the high school. It was followed by a police cruiser, siren wailing. The line of people continued to cheer. At this point, I was thinking this was a pretty pitiful Memorial Day Parade. Then we saw a school bus full of high school girls' softball players, followed by cars full of parents all honking their horns and cheering. The fire company and the police were actually escorting the (I'm assuming) victorious high school softball team back to the school. And people actually lined up on the street to greet them with cheers and clapping.

Right about now, my friend Tanya, who grew up in a small town like the one where I live now, is probably wondering why I think this is so weird.