A week in catch phrases

We have been on vacation this week and it has been very entertaining in that husband has been all conjunction junction what’s your function by capturing certain key moments with phrases and clauses.

It started early Saturday morning when I was up making coffee and he came around the corner into the kitchen and yelled “WHERE’S THE HUNGRY MAN?!”

I nearly spilled the coffee as I asked him “Wha-ha?”

“THE HUNGRY MAN! WHERE IS HE?” he yelled.

And this was the catch phrase – or question – I heard (and others heard) for the next couple of days.

This question was actually posed to him on his last day of work before our vacation started. A strange and probably deranged woman came running up to him as he was working the cookie aisle in one of his many stores and got right in his face and yelled “WHERE’S THE HUNGRY MAN?!?”

My husband, who’s been working in grocery retail for more than 30 years and has just about seen and heard it all, was understandably taken back by this one.

“Uh, who?” he asked the strange deranged.

“THE HUNGRY MAN. HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?” she yelled.

He quickly figured out, though a crowd had begun to form wondering who this hungry man was and if they should remove their children from the store, that she was talking about Hungry Man biscuits and showed her where they were. It was a really strange moment and one that scared a co-worker he was training that day.

So, at certain moments on our vacation, my husband shouts to no one in particular “WHERE’S THE HUNGRY MAN??!!” just because he can.

Then Saturday, after the wood stuff and as “we” watched the prairie marathon – we meaning I went and did some writing (I’ve done lots of writing this week, beloveds! Almost daily!) while he watched the marathon. At one point he started yelling at the TV “BUT WHAT ABOUT DREW? DOESN’T ANYONE CARE ABOUT DREW??”

And that became catch phrase number two. I don’t know who Drew is or why he matters so much to my husband, but when things are not going smoothly, this is currently the phrase he chooses to express himself with. “But what about Drew, honey? What about DREW???”
And I honestly reply “I don’t know about Drew. I really don’t.” Because I don’t. Really.

Then last night as I watched the CMA Awards ONLY because I was on vacation and ONLY because I am completely in love with my husband who wanted to see it, that’s when I learned about “the smell of the dog” catch phrase number three.

I had asked husband a question about something random and he knew the answer to it and I was all impressed because he didn’t even google it so I said “that’s amazing that you know that.” And he was all “That’s because I have the smell of the dog.”

And now every time he does anything with success he says “I HAVE THE SMELL OF THE DOG!” with great pride and occasionally with these very odd looking ninja moves.

I don’t know what this means blog friends. I do know that our dog smells and it is not a pleasant odor. I don’t know if he’s meaning to say the “hair of the dog”? Of if he thinks he’s saying “the eye of the tiger”? Or maybe “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee”? Whatever, he has the smell of the dog. And he is very happy about it.

A shout out to veterans, bad asses and Spock on the prairie

Oh the guilt blog friends.

Remember the other day when I went on a rant about lying prairie folk? And watching the Love Saga marathon and nobody chopped wood?

Well after my post, husband and I watched the very last one and guess what? There was wood chopping and it was TRAGIC wood chopping.

Pa prairie was indeed teaching his son a life lesson about “man’s work” and “God’s work” while chopping wood and just when I was getting ready to yell a smart ass comment to the TV about “women’s work,” Pa prairie got distracted, brought the ax down and nearly chopped his leg off. It was wretched and there was fake blood. The son had to get Pa Prairie back home and THEN fever set in and there was GAIN GREEN which is not at all about being environmentally aware. Pa prairie nearly lost his leg were it not for the prayers of his loving wife (hence the women’s work) and a kindly stranger who came and plowed the fields while Pa prairie fought for his life. Kindly stranger also had to reopen Pa’s infected wound using hot embers and a big knife.

Dear Lord – I shall never post harsh words against the God-fearing prairieans again. Amen.

And it was not at all the most horrible thing ever, this wood chopping we did at Cyndi and Kevin’s. I did enjoy it and I like that I can cross that off my list of things to try once. But once is plenty.

And were it not for the wood chopping, I would have never learned all that I did about Kevin’s job and the things that man does in the name of fish and earning a living.

I’ve known Kevin for many years in as long as I have known his lovely, brilliant wife. And I’ve always known he was a marine biologist but I never really understood what that meant.

I *thought* it meant he did something with fish. Like poked them with a stick or inserted some syringe type thing in order to test them for disease or bad diets. I assumed his days involved petri dishes and viles and a small man with a hump named “Igor” or at least a muppet named “Beaker.”

Turns out that Kevin does very cool stuff with equipment for the fisher people who use it to make a living. For instance, he might test a new type of net to see if it will help them catch more of what they’re trying to catch. In marine bio-speak it’s called a “target catch” and so often during fishing excursions fisher people catch all this other stuff or “by catch.”

Kevin, and those like him, will go out with the real fisher people on a boat (or ship) and test a new net against an old net. They’ll hang the testy one on one side and the regular one on the other side. The testy one might have a smaller opening in the net and they might hang the net on a diamond pattern versus a square pattern and then fish with both nets at once just to see what happens. Did the testy net produce more of the target catch? Did it reduce the by catch? Did hanging the net differently matter? Etc. Then he takes all that information, called “data” in marine bio-speak and makes a super fancy report that he has to give to the marine biologist gods all while saying things like “captain, I have the ship’s report” and giving the Vulcan salute.

But, if that weren’t fascinating and entertaining enough, while he is testing nets and gathering data he must be on the ship (or boat) and live like the fisher people live. This is very important for two reasons: 1) he is “the man” while on these boats so sometimes fisher people may not take kindly to his super fancy job and would instead prefer to feed him to the fish. But if he pays his dues and lives like they live and does not put on highfaluting airs he may just survive AND get his job done and 2) he has long hair which lends to his street cred, bad-ass, edgy look and if he can couple that with the fact that he spent days on a boat sleeping among the by catch and opening cans of beans with his bare teeth, then he’s less likely to get fed to the fish by the boat people nor will his mom yell at him for having long hair.

His wife would never yell at him. In her eyes, he can truly do no wrong. *sigh*

He often has to sleep on the floor or this small, not-quite-a-bench thing. He has to bring his own sleeping bag and supplies. It’s a very rough and tumble life including using an object called a “groover” that, without being too specific, is a bucket which the fisher people sit on in order to release their own by catch, if you know what I mean. It’s called a “groover” because it leaves a round “groove” THERE on the backside area. That is pretty hard core. I mean, if you’re getting the job done as “the man” AND hanging with Mr. Cooper with the fisher people by sleeping on the floor, chewing your coffee grounds straight instead of doing that pansy-ass thing with water and a filter AND using the groover then you’re pretty much in a league of your own.

And speaking of a league of their own and hard core bad asses, it’s Veterans Day. Find a veteran and thank him or her for doing just what you’re doing now. Breathing in freedom and breathing out certain inalienable rights.

I’ll start: Many thanks to my beloved grandfather and father, who are both deceased, my uncle Whiting, my uncle Sal, my cousin Mary, my step son Jason, my father in law Charlie, Cyndi’s dad and her brother, Amber’s BF Paul and his friend Nate, Molly’s husband, Melissa’s husband, Anita’s husband, John Althouse and his wife, JB Thomas, Lindell and all our many veterans at The Daily News and my very first editor Victoria. I know there’s more than that, and thanks to you as well.

And thanks to Kevin, who said I could mention the groover on my blog and I took that to mean I could post about his job and long hair all while throwing in a reference to Leonard Nimoy.

Of all those inalienable rights, Spock references are my favorite.

Little house on the weary

Let’s start this post by pointing out that prairie people are liars.

All of them.

The “Little House” bunch (or should I call them a “gang”) the “Loves” mob (Love Comes Softely, Loves Enduring Promise, Love Ate a Pizza, etc) the “Sarah’s Plain and Tall” and let’s just throw anything by Louisa May Alcott in the mix as well.

Any literary group that’s been made into a movie or TV series or special that involves the prairie people with their perfect pig-tailed children romping in the fields and playing with their mops dolls made out of mop hair (as mops do have hair) and their corn cob pretend babies and their moms who sew curtains out of bags of grain and make biscuits with corn meal and some sort of lard that you don’t really want to know about (pig lard? What the what??) and their dads who always have a hat and a kind word and know how to put out a barn fire and CHOP WOOD.

WHICH BRINGS US TO THE BIGGEST LIE OF ALL.

They chop that wood and make that wood chopping look so easy. One swing on a big ol’ piece of oak and it magically splits in half. And then another swing and the half becomes a bunch of ready to burn pieces. And the dads aren’t even breaking a sweat! They’re not even cussing! They don’t need an ax AND a hammer AND a wedge AND many glasses of wine to chop the wood. In fact, in most of the shows, while they’re chopping the wood, they’re teaching life lessons to their pig-tailed children!

“Little Billy, you know better than to steal from the preacher (chop, chop) now go on and tell him yer sorry.”

“Laura, you know better than to use the grain bags for clothes for yer mop hair dolls. Yer mama uses ‘em for curtains. (SPLIT. CHOP.CHOP.) Now go on up to the house and read the Bible.”

They make it look fun and full of important moments of truth and there’s something incredibly appealing about a man chopping God’s solid trees of life to make firewood to keep his family warm. And it makes you WANT to chop trees of life to keep your family warm so you can teach them important lessons. Because maybe you and your husband secretly WANT a little house on the prairie with churned butter and cows and glass jars full of apple butter and grain bag curtains and moppy kids? Maybe you’re a sucker for all those stupidly sweet way back then shows and books about how the west was stolen from the Indians won and, in the end, everything always came back to a simple lesson that was usually found in the Good Book.

I’m here to tell you my precious bloggets after several hours of the wood chopping that it is not fun. It is a lie. It is hard work that involves very little actual chopping and more BANGING a hammer on a wedge and DRIVING that wedge into the BIG ROUND PIECE OF TREE until it finally cracks and splits and then you have TWO big pieces of tree and you have to start all over NOT chopping but BANGING. ALWAYS WITH THE BANGING.

Now, our wood was kindly given to us by Kevin (husband to friend-boss) and Cyndi (friend-boss) who invited us to their lovely home Saturday with its lovely yard and lovely but slightly rude, crotch-sniffing dog, to take all the free wood we wanted provided we chopped it. They even cooked us a wonderful meal.

How hard could it be, my husband and I thought, those prairie ma and pa people make it look so effortless.

Those ma and pa people sit on a throne of lies.

We had a wonderful time. The food was awesome (Kevin can do amazing things with a smoker and apparently something called a “groover” but that is a COMPLETELY different blog post that is COMPLETELY unrelated to smoking a chicken that Cyndi seasoned by rubbing it with coco-chili something, but I can’t wait to tell you! Oh the things I learned, blog friends! The knowledge abounds at the Browns!)

After many hours of banging wood (double entendre alert!) and enjoying sweet wine and company, we finally went home and showered and fell into a pile of exhausted stupor in front of the TV.
And guess what was on, blog friends? Yes. A marathon of the new version of Little House of the Prairie.

We watched it, our spirits already destroyed from the prairie people’s lying ways, our bodies spent from lifting the primal tools of our wild west winning forefathers. Our hands cramped and locked in a claw-like grip from all the driving and banging as the REAL life lesson set in — the house is really not so little, the prairie is really not so on.

And thankfully there was not one episode where they chopped wood and told a life lesson because we might have chopped the TV, blog ones. We just might have chopped the TV.

Now, even 24 hours and many Motrins later, my hands ache. I cower at the sight of a Q-tip as I can not grip its tiny design.

And my dear husband, who claims he is not sore from the chopping/banging (and who did most of it), has spent the entire day on the couch watching “The Love Saga” marathon on the Hallmark Channel, searching for the innocence we once knew. Wanting, with all of his heart, for the prairie people to redeem themselves.

Eventually, we will heal, blog friends.

I suspect as soon as we burn a few of those banged pieces, we’ll pretty much be back to normal. Relatively speaking.

(Pics coming soon.)

On weight loss: The “it” in the room

Talulah Mankiller over at Life Under a Rock has a very great post about being a largess person. Read the post here.

I could write a lot of lot about this subject but I’m just going to mention one thing that, as a big girl, bothers me greatly.

It is people who just start talking about “it” with you, as though they’re entitled because you, bigger person, will get “it.” You will not only understand, but you will want to talk about it – whether it’s poundage, diets, exercise, operations that make you eat less, being a size 2x, whatever, it’s fair game: “Got to start cutting back” (wink-wink) “I can tell I’ve put on some pounds” (nudge-nudge) and then they wait for a response from you, large person they are talking too.

My response in recent years to this has either been to a) not respond as I do not feel the way they do or b) respond with something very one-sided like “well, good luck to you. Hope you do well with your endeavors.” And then either change the subject or remove my person from their presence all together.

Clarification: This does not apply to the people in my small but serene circle of life. My family and friends (which includes a select few of the blessed handsome bunch I work with) who conversate about weight and diets and such is not an annoyance because I know them well enough to know that they are talking because they need to talk or it is general conversation much like when they talk about their weekend happenings or embarrassing moments or bowel movements – and sometimes that’s all at once.

What annoys the poopie out of me are the random people that I do not know – the total strangers, the people I don’t see very often who just bring it up like I *want* to know all about their weight issues and diet fads. *And* that I want to discuss my own weight situation. I DO NOT.

And this is not because I am an insensitive (or overly sensitive – shut up Cyndi) person.

It is because I struggled in the self-loathing, abhorrence of the weight loss cycle for many years to the point where I was clinically depressed and felt my life had no value at all because I shopped in the plus size. I began to hate myself. That is a horrible, dangerous way to feel, blog friends. If you’re doing that now, please, please, please do whatever you can to get out of the hate cycle. Your life has value. You are so precious and wonderful and made for mighty things by a Creator that is crazy in love with you and is just waiting to shine all that love in your direction. Seriously. I would not lie about such things.

Now, at 42 and some odd pounds, I am learning as fast as I can to be at peace with myself – and that includes my mind, spirit, soul, heart and body. I feel like a very lovely, sexy girl most of the time. I am blessed with a husband who says sweet things to me including many dirty things he would like to do once we are alone together.

And I am one physically healthy bitch, let the record show.

This is not to say that I won’t ever venture down the road of weight loss again. There is nothing wrong with that road as long as it is an educated, supportive, hale and hearty road paved with right decisions and not crowded with stereotype body images, misogynistic shackles and ill-gathered advice from the ill-informed.

*If* I ever proceed on the path of weight loss again, it will be with a loving attitude toward myself that includes a lot of patience and a lot of divine intervention.

And, of course, I’ll plaster it all over my blog.

So, those are my thoughts. I guess I did have a lot of lot to say.

For which to howl

I’ve been wanting to explain the mastheads that I put up each month for a while now, but then I never do and I think “I’ll start doing that next month” and then another month (or four) goes by and well, let’s be honest, I suck.

So I’ll start with this month. The picture is a shot of the moon that I took several nights ago as it was all big and glowing and hanging in the sky, following me around (seriously – every time I looked up, there it was) waving its luminescent arms trying to get my attention.

I’ve never really been able to get a good shot of the moon, so I was surprised that this shot actually looks lunar.

The kicker line for the month is from a situation that brewed earlier in the week on my daughter Amber’s blog – which she started a few days ago. You can read her first post and see the comment I left about it and the comment *she* left about the comment *I* left and then the one *I* left about hers and blarg, blarg, blarg – it explains being over the bandwagon.

It’s also fitting as November is the month the first born was born. I’ll have to do something tribute like and spectacular for the last born in the month of June. So help me remember to do that when the time comes. Otherwise I’ll feel guilty and have to pay her money.

Which is not like being over the band wagon. It’s like being under it.

Timmi a go-go

I know that I owe you a part two in with the blue, esteemed ones, but I needed to just take a moment to share with you that I am creating this post on a LAP TOP.

An item that is not part of a human body or some slightly risque move in one of those places where the women are clad in scant and the men are most happy about it.

It’s a technological device. A celluloid apparatus. A computer on the go.

Do you know about these things, bloggets? Small hand held computers that fold up like a sandwich and go anywhere and do just about anything?

I have heard of them in that my eldest got one when she began college and was quite the cat’s meow all computing in various places, laptopping and looking all studious college girl.

I have heard of them in that my youngest really wanted one, quite the fussy gussy asking for a lap top in which to become mobile with her studies and what not and rolling her eyes at the father and I as every time she would ask for one we would say “but you have one!” and point to the region just north of her knees but south of her abdomen.

 Now we have one! And it is a joy!

This is, the lap top I am typing away on right this very second, Amber’s first, original computing machine. The one she got her very first year of college. This computer served her well for many years – almost all the years that college requires – until the senior year when it unceremoniously regurgitated itself and would just “lap” but no longer “top.”

So she packed it up in its handy carrying case and got another. And it sat under her bed for long time until we mentioned that we wanted one (maybe Crystal mentioned that she wanted one) and Amber gave us the old one and said “maybe you can get it fixed.”

AND WE DID!

Thanks to brother in law Jeff who knows people who knows people who can do things including making the top work with the lap.

We got it back yesterday and ever since, I have wandered around our dwelling with the laptop marveling at the fact that I can compute HERE (the living room) or HERE (outside on the porch!) or here, where I am right now, THE KITCHEN! Laptopping is such fun. Such mobile fun. And sentimental fun in that it was once my first born’s – so it’s all broken in from the sweat of her college brow and all karma-ed up with years of her use.

I do miss the mouse, I have to say, of that of a desktop. But this is a refreshing change as I am holding the mouse ALL DAY as an editor. Clicking and poking and rolling and all many hours a day to the point where at night many times my hand aches from it. I call it having the mouse cramps.

It has been interesting learning how to navigate a keypad and being mouseless and it is taking time to learn it all, but it is worth it.

And you are worth it, bloggets. I’d have never seen the point to a laptop if it wasn’t for you — well and all the stuff my kids said about them.

But who really listens to their kids?

Out with the old, in with the blue – PART ONE

So remember when I was bitching lamenting about being so tired and all the work we’ve done around the house with our own two hands and feet and blah, blah, blah, whine, whine, wine?

 Well here’s the details and some MORE wine.

 We started with a new stove, if  you remember, and I’m sure you do, precious ones, as my words make a lasting impression — like when one first smells a rose or steps in dog poop — they linger and you can’t get them off the bottom of your shoe.

 Our new stove (still yet to be named!) was not as our old stove which was a “drop in” model in that it dropped in the countertop. Our new stove is a freestanding model and every time I say that it makes me think of Free Falling by Tom Petty which is the ULTIMATE I’m-drunk-off-my-ass-and-I-can’t-sing-this-song-LOUD-ENOUGH-TO-THE-WORLD song and (WAIT! THAT’S IT! New stove shall henceforth be called Tom Petty).
And since Tom Petty was wired different than a drop in, we had to have it installed.

Homestead Maintenance, of whom the cool bartering Jeff, as mentioned here, is the owner, came and looked our kitchen situation over for an estimate. They suggested we go ahead and change out the countertops (which we secretly wanted to do anyway) since things were going to have to be done differently and specially positioned and cut and that moved there, and those things shoved under them things and etc.

At their suggestion, we went to Suppliers Warehouse in Jacksonville to get the countertops as they are just as good as Lowe’s but much cheaper. We found one we wanted (both of us, actually. I wanted one that was black, but more muted. Willie liked the shiny black, so we got that one. I know! I gave in! I let him make a decision in our relationship for once! Now I don’t have to do that again for like, another year! Our marriage is growing, blog friends. GROWing.)

 And then, I took a Monday off from work while Homestead put in the new countertops and stove and I took pictures for my blog.

 Here is Dick (please hold the giggles) with Homestead doing something under the sink to loosen it for removal. Those are our old countertops which served us well, beloveds.

Here is another shot in which you can also see my dishwasher which is now gone. It was old, shot and didn’t work.

Here is Dick and Andrew commencing on countertop removal.

And here’s nakey counters ….

Here is kitchen sink and a shot of the bottom of my fridge. Notice the beige color?

Here is our dog Suzie trying to find the right drill bit for Dick (forgive the dirtiness of that last sentence).

After they cut and installed the counter, they muddied up the wall. What’s interesting is I feel that the new countertops are positioned higher somehow, but they’re not. The back splash on them is actually an inch lower than our old ones, but they feel higher for some reason.

After the installation was complete, my most excellent husband and I began the paint transformation. During the paint job, he’d stepped out of the kitchen for a smoke break and I left him a love note on the wall.

When he came back in, he just started painting over it. He didn’t even see it until I shrieked said something to him about it.

And so here’s how it looked before:

And here’s how it looks now:

I made the curtains (it’s toile fabric that has farm people feeding chickens on it) and I antiqued the hutch. I was going for a French country meets mountain bitch look. I think I achieved it.

Made the runner down the center of the table as well. I know. I’m a pain in the ass, but I’m a handy pain in the ass.

Here are new countertops and a BRAND NEW faucet – the kind I’ve always wanted that you can get the pots and pans under.

 And here is Tom Petty, all situated and freestanding.

And here is our fridge, which my genius husband painted black to match all the other stuff.

Here’s another view. In the center beside the stove, we currently have a shelf where the dishwasher was. We’re debating now whether to get a new dishwasher (which we don’t really need) or build a shelf thing there.

The color on the walls is called “My favorite jeans” and I love it so much.

We reused all that we could – Amber and Willie convinced me to repaint the white knobs black instead of buying black knobs and it worked really well. We also painted the hood over the stove black. Andrew said we should upgrade the cabinets, but we are very fond of our cabinets, so we’re leaving them. 

I am very happy with the new look. I down sized my chicken collection some and hope to keep things as free of clutter as possible.

And what started as a new stove, ended up being a minor kitchen remodel, but I’m proud to say we spent our money well and spent our weekends together working on this. It is a labor of love. As most homes are.

Coming up: Living room transformation – or – why my daughter Crystal can pretty much ask me for anything for the next 10 years and I will give it to her.

I do not heart acorn.

I only have pictures taken in the dark, blog friends, so you’re going to have to forgive me.

These are deadly acorns. Deadly, noisy, dropping all around, very much hurt your feet when you step on them, wake you up at 3 in the morning when they fall from the oak tree and bounce on your deck and hit your window and POUND THE EARTH with the BOISTEROUS BEATING of their STUPID ROUND SELVES.

 They are driving me nuts.

 “Why Timmi, in all the many years of reading your blog and hearing about your sad, strange life which makes us feel so much better about our own lives (I mean really, do we measure our cats? Do we really want a tour bus like Dolly Parton? Did WE marry our ex-husbands? Um. No. Just you, Timmi. Only you.) the wonderful details of your existence, we’ve never heard you bitch about the acorns. What gives, you Toler Thing?”

Thank you for asking, bloggets.

The acorns have always been here. At our Hubert home. Living in our oak tree that is located just on the other side of our sidewalk on the side of the house.

What’s so special about the acorns NOW is that until this spring, there was a sun room attached to our house, with a roof and four walls and a door. So when the acorns fell off the tree, they’d land on the roof and roll down and fall on the grassy ground, all silent and stealth like.

But no more! Not this year! Not from now on!!

Thanks to a great barter my husband made with a guy named Jeff last spring, we got rid of our sunroom (which had extensive damage and needed to be torn down) in exchange for a truck. It’s a terrific story that has the inspiration of a peace treaty and the spirit of The Louisana Purchase in that these two men made a deal and simply shook hands on it. No paper work. No contracts. No lawyers. No texting. Two guys who said “I’ll do this in exchange for that” and then trusted each other’s word. I didn’t even know stuff like that still happened.

But that’s another story for another day (and BTW, please get lawyers and paperwork and contracts if you decide to have someone tear part of your house down. Jeff is an exceptional dude but there’s a lot of unexceptional people round these parts) right now, it’s all about acorns.

Acorns that, once they fall, no longer have a roof to gently catch them up high near the limbs of the oak tree and offer a tender path to roll down to the ground of Mother Earth. Acorns that NOW fall heartily and heavily from the oak tree which now sits so pretty right at the edge of our precious deck on the side of our home where our sunroom once was. Our deck which offers the perfect place for the acorns to land once they go careening toward the ground with a force so strong it can only be described as gravitational THRUST as there is no PULL involved.

Oh. But they don’t land! There is no silent droppings! The acorns BOUNCE and SPRING UP and sometimes if they’re feeling peppy they even RICOCHET.

It has been nerve wracking (nerve racking? nerve wrecking?) because we LOVE our new deck that is now where the sunroom once was and we sit out there all the time. We have coffee and eat dinner out there and if we did actually ever have people over to our house ever, we’d entertain out there.

But several weeks ago, acorns began falling. At first, my husband and I were all “Look at the cute acorns! So sweet and fallish … so full of autumn. They are so dear!”

But now? NOW? After nearly a month of crashing and banging and seriously? I think someone could seriously die if one of these acorns seriously hit them just seriously right?  NOW they are not cute. They are not sweet fallish. I do not heart acorn.

I JUST WANT TO SLEEP.

New deck on the side of the house is right outside of our bedroom. So all night long the acorns are out there, bouncing on the deck, falling from the sky, partying and jazzing it up with Zatarain’s.

And tonight (well, last night, technically) it was a MAJOR PARTY in that they fell FOR HOURS and were SUPER LOUD and drank MOJITOS and sang KARAOKE just before Lionel Ritchie showed up to sing ALL NIGHT LONG as that is the acorns THEME SONG.

They hit the deck, the chairs, the table, the door, the side of the house. There was thwacking and walloping. And not just one at a time. MANY at a time. Many acorns falling. MANY.

I’ve researched it and apparently there is some sort of an acorn explosion going on. Every seven years or so, the acorns flip out and reproduce like mad, slutty bunnies and cover the earth with their roundness. One story I read said walking on them was like “stepping on a carpet of marbles.” It is! IT IS LIKE A CARPET OF MARBLES!

And tonight (well, today, technically) I gave up on sleep at 3 a.m. and decided to snap a few shots of the evil that befalls my home. And in these shots? These are just the acorns from ONE DAY. That’s right. I sweep the new deck that now sits where the sunroom once was nearly EVERY DAY. And yet, by the next morning, ACORNS!

Well, I am tired. I surrender. At day break, white flag in hand, I will step on to my deck and admit defeat to the acorns. I will tell them they have won. I give up. I let go of sleep. I’ll wear shoes outside to protect my feet from the marble carpet. I’ll tell our son, who visited us briefly last weekend and sat nervously on the deck as acorns crashed down around him, that we’ll visit in the kitchen from now on. I’ll lay down my arms. I simply want peace.

And maybe Lionel Ritchie to sing me to sleep with “Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady.”

Coming up for air

We’ve been in the midst of a couple of major projects in our home – meaning that each weekend, for the last three weeks, we have been wrestling The Big Tasks.

Not the ordinary ones. Not the “oh look, it’s the weekend – time to cut grass, wash clothes and clean out the fridge” tasks. No. It’s been “oh look, it’s the weekend, time to paint the kitchen and the living room, move all the furniture from the living room and master bedroom into the den (and make it fit) rip out all the carpet in the house, paint the refrigerator to match the new stove, repair and paint the ceiling, fix the broken shelf in the bedroom and wash and oil the kitchen cabinets.”

THOSE Big Tasks.

We are nearly done. There is a freshly painted kitchen with a new stove, new countertops, new curtains and a few less chickens; there is a freshly painted living room with new curtains, a less-cluttered, calmer décor and a lovely new spongy carpet hugging the floor in an embrace so tight and so filled with love you’d swear it was made by Hallmark, not Mohawk.

We had experts do the counter tops (work done by Homestead Maintenance, a local business that is wonderful, efficient and a joy to be around) and the carpets (Lowe’s! Lowe’s is awesome!) but all the rest we did with our own hands and feet and profane mouths.

And we are tired. Exhausted, my bloggets, after lo these many days and nights of scattered possessions and rearranged living spaces and out with the dusty old and in with the flangly new. Except for a little trim work here and some rearranging there, we’re pretty much finished.

So we are looking forward to a weekend of nothingness. We have chored and chiseled and worked our pa-tooties to the bone.

There is much to tell and many pictures to share, and I am hoping to sneak away at certain points of during this weekend of nothingness to share them with you because you mean that much to me. You complete me, blog friends. You are the wind beneath my wings.

And that is so much better than breaking wind – which is how my husband has celebrated the completion of each Big Task.

I’m so proud to be his woman.

Recovering anti-socialites – PART TWO

So much has been happening. The new stove has come to live with us and brought his friends the new countertops and his buddy the new faucet.

I say the new stove is a “he” because it is all tall, dark and handsome. But he might actually be a she, all lofty, mysterious and sexy. I’m not sure what the sex of the new stove is yet because I have not used it. Mainly because I’ve been a busy bee at work all week but more mainly because new stove has no idea what it’s in for once my culinary horrors talents are unleashed. Best to ease into these things.

Soon (hopefully) there will be new carpet as well. But, more on that later (with pictures! I know! It’s like Christmas already!) back to us anti-socialites …

I called my sister in law Jackie last week to talk about a chiminea she had offered to us several months ago.

It is a beautiful, cast iron, gorgeous item that she and her husband got in the mountains a couple of years ago. They have since built their own fire pit and found that they didn’t use the chiminea much anymore. So they offered it to us.

Happy I was.

I have secretly lusted after this heavy-metal, got from the mountains, fire in my belly baby for a long time. Or maybe not so secretly. I would have conversations with it during family get togethers at Jackie’s house. I would bring it love notes and perfume. I courted it shamelessly. When Jackie said we could have it, I like to fell out. (Which is an expression my former boss Kathy uses all the time and is extremely appropriate for this moment, except I think I *did* indeed fall out — I was so excited by this gift.)

Well, so, the offer was on the table and we accepted and profusely thanked Jackie and her husband Denny and then …

Then …

We never went and picked the dang thing up.

Life got in the way and mountain trips happened and toilets overflowed and grandkids ate carrots and kids graduated college and kids went to prom and much stuff until it was MONTHS LATER. Then I wasn’t sure if the offer was still good or even if they still had it and even if they did, if they’d dane give it to us, the people who said “thank you” and then “we’ll never come pick it up.”

Finally, I got up the nerve to call Jackie and say “Hey, remember WAY BACK when you offered us that chiminea? The one that I love and actually sent a Valentine too? But that we never came and actually took home? Um … can we still have that?”

Jackie, being the angel that she is, said of course it was still ours and we could come and get it and why not stay for dinner as they were going to cook a pot of fish stew.

Mountain chiminea AND a home cooked meal?
CAN WE COME OVER RIGHT NOW?

So I made a banana pudding and we went to their house.

Now, I could write pages and pages on Jackie and Denny’s house because I do it all the time in my head when I’m there. It is one of the most loving, comfortable, inviting places I’ve ever been. Jackie has a talent for pulling warmth out of thin air and making it part of her décor – which is calm, comfy and full of family photos. Denny can build anything out of anything with his two hands. Together, they’ve created this lovely cabin in the woods that’s like a mini-vacation for Willie and I every time we go. We’re like little kids, wondering around, looking at what they’ve done since the last time we were there, and everything they do is more than amazing. The home is wrapped in love and as soon as you step on their land, you’re instantly calmed and soothed.

It was a great night. The fish stew – which I had never had before until that night – was out of this world. It’s one of the few meals I’d actually like to try and make at home and the fellowship with family was just as delicious as the meal.

Here are Jackie and Denny stirring the fish stew, which they cooked outside on their back porch. Denny built the porch and just about all of the furniture on it.

This is the back of their house. Most everything you see in this photo, Denny built.

This is the most fabulous storage shed and water wheel and, you can’t really see it good, but to the left of the water wheel is an outdoor Jacuzzi complete with a water fall that Denny built. There’s a long pier-like connection that attaches this whole section to the house.

This is the fire pit that Jackie built. She did this whole thing with cement, which she colored to make look like stone, then used a stone form.

THIS is Cluck-Cluck. Both Jackie and I love chickens and have them covering our kitchens. A couple of months ago, this rooster just showed up at their house and never left (can you blame him?). He is SO handsome – full of so many gorgeous colors. I love him. I covet him. I want him to run away with me.

At first, Cluck-Cluck was kind of in a fowl mood (oh hush, you knew it was coming) that I was taking so many pictures. But, after a while, I swear, this bird started posing.

Here’s a strut shot.

Here’s a FABULOUS “I have tail feathers, but I don’t shake them” over the shoulder candid.

And here is Cluck-Cluck where he roosts for the night on the back porch.

But what was SO awesome about the night, in addition great food and company and chickens, was that my brother in law entertained us.

I knew that Denny could play the fiddle, but I had no idea that he could also play the banjo, guitar, drums AND sing.

And he plays bluegrass. Which is what my husband believes they play in heaven.

Here’s Denny fiddling while my husband tries to contain his joy.

And here’s Denny playing the banjo next to me as he sang “In the Sweet By and By.”

The by and by was so sweet, my wonderful blog friends. It was as tender and gentle as the potatoes in the fish stew. I was full up to my ears in the scrumptiousness of it all. If I can ever give an evening to family and friends that has half the warmth and love that this one did, I will be one happy chicken.