I am a mess.  My last entry I go and tell you I want to create a bigger, better blog, and then I go more than a week without posting anything here.  I'm sorry.  Time just gets away from me nowadays between feedings and school and diaper changes and baseball tryouts and laundry and sleepless nights and ballet rehearsals and well, I think you see how it is.

In the meantime, I thought I'd post this funny little thing that I saw over on Ginny's blog.  You type your name and the word 'needs' and do a google search.  Then post the first ten sentences that come up.  I thought this might be fun, but actually it was scary how well Google knows me and what I need....

1.  Kellie needs more votes!

Oh Google!  You're too late!  I lost in that Funniest Blog category for the Homeschool Blog Awards months ago.  Oh well...

2.  Kellie needs a cheeseburger.

That's cruel, Google.  You must know I just started Weight Watchers, and that cheeseburgers have about 523 points.  I wouldn't be able to eat anything but cucumbers for days if I had a cheeseburger.

3.  Kellie needs to stop doing stuff to her face.

Now Google, just what exactly do you mean?  I wash my face.  I put toner on my face.  And I refuse to give up my mineral foundation.  Leave me alone, Google.

4.  Kellie needs a clue.

Oh, Google, you have NO idea!

5.  Kellie needs to channel her inner Angelina.

Why just the other day I was thinking how badly I needed to go break up someone's marriage and then proceed to have and adopt four children with the guy in three different countries!  Google, how did you know???

6.  Kellie needs to sing country.

Yes, I do!!!  I mean here I am in Nashville and all.  I just need to slip a little twang into my voice and head on down to Music Row and get signed.  Excellent, google!  Just excellent!

7.  Kellie needs a family that is patient.

Google, I tell them this everyday.  I tell them I'm trying.  I tell them that I'm trying to get back on my feet and scrub the toilets and scramble them eggs and things like that.  Google, do you know what it's like having your third child who won't nap at age 36?  Do they?  *sob, sob,sob*

8.  Kellie needs her own TV show.

I don't know, Google.  Really?  That might be a little much, especially if I'm going to sing country and  adopt international children and all.  I think I'll just focus on the bigger, better blog thing.

9.  Kellie needs to go back to school.

Alright, Google, back off!  I can't go back to school.  I have no time!  I have no resources!  What?!  Are you giving me a scholarship....and a nanny, Google?  Are you?  Huh?  Huh?!

10.  Kellie needs to get a grip and move on.

You are sooooo right, Google.  Things got really out of hand there.  Sorry.  Moving on....

****Thanks to Kellie Pickler, former American Idol contestant, whose fame and noteriety provided all of my funny Google finds!***

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Yes, it's sad and ridiculous...but very, very true.  Sometimes I can't remember HIS name...

Isn't that awful?  And tragic?  And slightly retarded?

I've been so disturbed by this fact that it has caused a bit of reflection on my part in search for a REASON I can't remember my baby child's name.  Here's what I've come up with so far....

1.  I'm mildly retarded.

2.  I'm sleep deprived.

3.  He has too many nicknames.

Baby Jack, Jack-Jack, Cap'n Jack, Black Jack, Cracker Jack, Pepper Jack, Jack-in-the-Box...you name it.  And the funny thing is, even with all these nicknames, do you know what I call him about 50% of the time?  Two "names" actually....Baby and Bubba.  One generic and one just plain hick.  I guess I'm just a generic hick.  A confused, indecisive generic hick.

4.  I inherited a name-confusion gene from my late grandma.

My grandma, bless her heart, had a hard time with names...especially if she was agitated or frustrated.  I was called, for most of my life by her, Linda-Debbie-Bonnie-Cindy-Jody-Kellie.  If she couldn't remember your name, she just started going down the list until she came to the right one.  That list, by the way, is half dog names....and one was a boy.    I regularly call my baby some combination of Harrison-Damon-Jackson.  I even have called him Annaleigh a couple of times, but I don't want to talk about that.

Even when Grandma got the first name right, she would sometimes falter on the middle name.  After Harrison was born, she told two of her sisters on the phone that I had named our baby Harrison Ford.  Thankfully, I or Indiana Mimi was close by and corrected her to Harrison Paul.  The other day I made up a whole song with three verses and a bridge, all about Jackson Paul.  When I was finished singing it to him, I looked up at Harrison who was sitting nearby listening.  I asked him what he thought of my clever tune.  "Oh, it's fine," he said smiling sweetly, "except his name is Jackson Henry."  Oops.

Grandma, if you're allowed to read my blog from Heaven, please know that I totally understand now, and I'm sorry for teasing you about this.  Forgive me.

5.  It has not been decided exactly what we are officially going to call him.

OK...here's the deal.  Up until about 3 or 4 weeks before his birth, his name was going to be William, but one day I just sat the family down and told them we had to come up with a new boy name, that William just wasn't right.  Well, that was tough.  I love the name Jack and brought it up again.  Big D wasn't loving it.  He likes longer names.  We rolled around in a few more suggestions, and then we finally came to rest on Jackson.  It was a good compromise.  Well, fast-forward to the day he was born.  We christened him Jackson Henry, which I think is the cutest, sweetest boy name in the world, and what does Big D do?  He immediately starts calling him Baby Jack.  Now, every time I go to call him by name I have a moment's hesitation when I'm not sure if Jackson or Jack is going to leave my lips.  Mostly it's Jack...except when it's Baby or Bubba.

6.  I'm either consuming too much or too little caffeine, and it's doing something funky to my brain cells.

I keep going back and forth and can't decide, so I think I'll go brew a pot of coffee and ponder it some more before I have to feed what's his name.

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...and I'm out once and for all to prove it.  I'll use my own kids as specimens.

Here is my 12 year-old daughter.  She goes to great lengths not to be weird.  She tries very hard to fit in.  She....

...umm...well....never mind.  Forget you ever saw that photo.

I'll just use my 8 year-old son.  He is certainly not weird.  He prides himself on his practiced coolness.  He always...

Uhh...oh my.  Okay, two down, one to go.  Moving on...

Alright now, Baby Jack, while not exactly in the throes of his education is certainly not weird.  He hasn't even been present on this earth long enough to be weird.  He's just a tiny baby, for goodness sake.  Why, he...

I give up.  I guess home schooled kids CAN be weird.  Obviously, it is an inherited trait that begins at birth.

Tune in soon for my next exciting post on "Home Schooled Kids Are Always Nice, Well-Mannered and Love Their Siblings"!

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I normally do not get very political here on my blog.  In fact, I believe the one and only time I ever mentioned my political views was on election day when I made a last minute conservative plea.  Since that revelation of my political preferences, and things ultimately didn't go the way I wanted, I've been fine.  I have just committed to trust God and pray for our new President.  I've also encouraged my children to do the same.

But one of my children has a problem with this.  This is that child....

For reasons that we don't entirely understand, Clara has fears and concerns about our new administration.  What?  Don't believe a dog can have these sorts of inclinations?  Then watch this...

I tried to tell you.  We own a very conservative dog.  And no, we've never hit her with a newspaper....and we didn't teach her to do that.  

Here's what she was responding to...

I don't know what Clara knows about hope, but it's pretty obvious she's chosen fear.  Her remediation is high on my to do list.

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Recently I posted some new pictures of Baby Jack on my Facebook account.  One of the pictures was of Jack and one of his Christmas presents:  a light-up, musical seahorse toy.  A friend commented that my title for that picture sounded like it was a fairy tale, and after looking again at the same series of pictures, I've tried my hand at actually writing that fairy tale.  You, my dear blogging friends, are about to have the pleasure...or otherwise...of reading it.  Here we go....

Once upon a time, there was a little, tiny baby named Jack.  He was pretty much friendless in the world, so his mommy bought him a seahorse.

"For me?" Jack asked. 

"How exciting!" Jack exclaimed.  "I've always wanted a seahorse!"

It was then, however, that Jack realized there was something very, very wrong with his seahorse friend.  It was bigger than he was, and Jack was a little frightened.

Jack knew something had to be done.  So Jack slowly crept up on the unsuspecting seahorse.

"Come here, little...er I mean gigantic...seahorse,"  Jack cooed.  "Let's have a little chat."

"Just a little closer..." said Jack.  And then he made his move to EAT the seahorse!

"No, no Jack!" cried his mommy.  "You musn't eat the seahorse.  The seahorse is your friend."  Jack cried because he really, really wanted to eat that seahorse he was really, really sorry about his behavior towards his first friend.

And so Jack said sorry to the seahorse and kissed him on the cheek.

Jack and his seahorse lived happily ever after.

The End

And that my friends is why I just write a measly blog and am not a published author.

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We're not supremely huge into the whole Halloween scene, yet we do go trick-or-treating, and my children are allowed to dress up in something non-scary.  I usually like to throw something on for fun too.  Two years ago was my very favorite costume...

This year, however, I am stumped.  What does one dress up as with an extra twenty pounds of girth strapped to your mid-section?  Hmmmm.....Let us google, shall we?....

I typed in "maternity halloween", and this is what I found...

Well, that's not bad.  A pregnant female pirate.  I believe it was Anne Bonny, the historical female pirate, who claimed a pregnancy to get out of a hanging.  But for me?  Naaaah....that's so two years ago.

Then how 'bout this?

Hmmm...a nurse.  Pregnant women know nurses.  Nurses know pregnant women.  I'm sorry though, but if any nurse of mine came in wearing those shoes I'd laugh my head off.  Plus I'm not sure I want to be reminded of nurses right now.  Nurses make me think of catheters and medicine drips and pain.  No, a nurse isn't right.

This one looks promising...

On second thought, maybe not.  Since when are halos furry?  And it seems she has borrowed the nurse's shoes.

Here's a cute one...

A pregnant Raggedy Ann!  Cute wig and hat.  I like the big buttons.  Sensible shoes.  Stylish tights.  Tights?  Wait a minute....I can't even slip on my own socks these days.  I can't wear tights.  And I wouldn't want to be responsible for ruining Andy's reputation.

Now, this one is just too much...

Dorothy?!  Wasn't she like 12 years old?  And wasn't her dress a little longer than this number? I know it wasn't shiny.  No, I could not ruin the integrity of classic literature or a beloved movie.  Besides Bridget would never fit in that basket.

I'm sorry....

...I...ahem..I....just...well, I...have no words.  And it takes a lot to render me speechless.  Well, I do have one thing to say:  Either she is not really pregnant or they photo-shopped her ankles.  Period.

*sigh*  I guess it's back to the drawing board.  I'll let you know what I come up with...

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I obviously have very little understanding of the male gender.  I've known this for years.  I grew up in an almost all chick household, with just myself, Debbles, Indiana Mimi and Gigi.  I had guy friends, but I didn't understand them.  I had a few male teachers, but I didn't understand them either.  I've read male authors, whom I've enjoyed, but have not completely understood.  I met and married Big D.  I love him, but often he's beyond my comprehension.  Harrison regularly completely boggles my mind.

Recently he's been reading the above book that he received last year for Christmas.  I'm all about encouraging kids to embrace their genderness, you know, boys will be boys and all of that kind of stuff.  Now, while I'm generally not in favor of banning books, this one may be banned from our personal library.

Harrison has been harassing me for the last few days...and yes, I did say harassing...over this particular page...

First, he wanted to know what 'essential' meant.  I, not having a clue why he was asking, told him that it meant necessary.  So now he has been doing an inventory of what he has and doesn't have.  Thus far he has assessed that he's fairly well equipped to be a dangerous boy, with the exception of a Swiss army knife and a box of matches.  He actually once possessed a small pocketknife, but we eventually had to confiscate it due to the dangerous activities (that involved blood and guts) with it.  I've never even considered handing him over a box of matches.  I like my house too much to do that.  And may I take the moment to applaud the Igguldens for having the foresight to include band-aids on their list, since they are requiring young boys to carry around knives and fishhooks and needles.

Harrison's also been pretty obsessed with this page...

But don't worry, the Igguldens shortly follow these instructions with this...

I now feel much, much better that my son has the desire to construct lethal weapons.

The other day Harrison was playing innocently outside with a very blunt-edged football, so I sat down with this dangerous book to find out what else my son would be learning as he continued with this reading material.

Girls?!?!  He's eight years-old for Pete's sake!  Does he really need advice on picking out the perfect bouquet of flowers or on not signing his handmade Valentines because girls like the mystery?  Well, I did find this section useful...

Avoid being vulgar.  Excitable bouts of windbreaking will not endear you to a girl, just to pick one example.

Oh, Mr. and Mr. Iggulden, just visit our home any time, and you can witness all kinds of these sorts of vulgar acts that are not endearing to girls.  You could leave armed with enough research to write your future bestseller, The Vulgar Book for Boys.

Then there was this page...

Do the authors realize they have just endangered every cat, dog, squirrel and child under the age of two within 100 yards of our home?

And then there was this...

I can't tell you how relieved I am to know that his allowance will be well spent!

At this point, I had had enough, and was searching for my own box of matches, to rid our home of this dangerous book, when I happened to spy this page...

Ah, well, that's nice.  The English teacher in me is a little slower in her bent on destroying the offending book.

Then I saw this..

It seems that the Igguldens are fans of classic poetry, including such writers as Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, and Shelley.  Hmmm...impressive.

Lastly, I saw this...

Okay, Igguldens, your book is spared.  I guess there is enough worthwhile and safe and interesting within these pages to make up for the few really dangerous things that you encourage.  However, I would like to point out that I believe my son was already dangerous enough before your book came along...

And so with that, I go to put my matches....what's this?....wait a minute...no, it can't be....

*sigh*

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I'm sick and tired of being pregnant.  I mean really sick and really tired of it.  I'm tired of my back hurting.  I'm sick of the acid reflux.  I'm tired of being tired.  I'm sick of having swollen feet.  I'm tired of and from the sleepless nights.  I'm sick of people telling me how cute I look because I know they mean more of a Weeble Wobble cuteness...

rather than a Cameron Diaz cuteness...

And I'm tired of little old ladies eyeing my belly in public, just itching to pat it, but restraining because they know by the look on my face that they will more than likely get slapped for it.

But none of that is what this post is about.  I'm channeling my inner Norman Vincent Peale and practicing the power of positive thinking.  I'm focusing today on what is GOOD about the last trimester of pregnancy...

1.  I am no longer expected to clean the bathtubs.  Really I can get away with not cleaning pretty much anything, I think.  I also don't have to pick up anything off the floor if I don't want to.  No one thinks ill of me for it, and they're more than happy to do it for me.

2.  I can eat whatever I want and not gain a gluttonous reputation.  So what if I have seconds at dinner?  So what if I ate the largest and last piece of chocolate cake?  I'm eating for two and everyone knows it.

3.  I don't have to walk up and down the stairs to get anything.  If I want a bottled water, the kids run down and get it.  If I need my camera from upstairs, Big D runs up to get it.  This is the closest I will ever get to owning slaves, and it's kinda fun.

4.  People are starting to ask me what I need for the baby, which means they are thinking of buying me something.  That's great!   I love presents.  So far, I don't think that I have convinced anyone that the baby needs a new laptop, but I'm working on it.

5.  Slip-on shoes are fashionable, which is a very good thing, since I no longer can reach to tie my sneakers.

6.  Along that same line of thinking, it is getting cooler here, which means jeans and closed-toe shoes, which means I no longer have to worry about shaving my legs or keeping my toe-nails painted.

7.  Peanut is moving around a lot, which is my favorite part of pregnancy...feeling and seeing the baby move.

That is all I can think of, which is sad, because I'm not sure seven things can get me through the next eight weeks or so.  Ummm...Norman, a little help here?

Oh, and speaking of the last trimester of pregnancy, my good blogging friend, Sandpiper, who is about to give birth any day now...the lucky dog..., passed an award along to me...

...and I just wanted to thank her for that great honor!  I'm not going to be officially passing it on, but if I regularly read and comment on your blog, just know that I *heart* it, okay?

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Behold, my geriatric, decrepit cat Baxter...

Okay, so he's at least eighteen in people years, and yes, that makes him over a hundred in animal years, but obviously he doesn't know this because he's riding a skateboard in our garage.  I promise we didn't put him there for the photo op.  That's how we found him.  I also promise that he mostly just slept on the skateboard because that's what he does everywhere.  At least that's what we think.  We should probably install some hidden cameras....

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Crud....I have "blogger's block."  It is not that we don't have plenty going on in our lives right now.  That, unfortunately, is NEVER the case around here.  And I do really enjoy using this blog to sometimes chronicle the everyday events in our lives...especially for family members that we don't get to see on a regular basis.  Yet sometimes I desire to break away from that and just blog from the heart.  I like to yap about homeschooling, or dish on a good book that I read, or review a movie.  But tonight as I sit in front of my computer screen, I have none of that.

My empty-headedness led me to browse through some picture galleries on my computer, and because I have nothing better to say now, I have chosen some of these to post and explain....if that's possible.

Up first we have a weird face with a whipped cream nose by Harrison...

This was taken at the Cheesecake Factory restaurant on Annaleigh's birthday a couple of years ago.

Then we have a good friend of ours, Mary, sporting a pair of Elvis glasses that she did not buy...

Mary is an aspiring Christian music artist, who came to visit us and record an album a couple of years ago.  I actually had nothing to do with the taking of this photo, but apparently she uploaded her pictures to my computer, so I have no choice but to post one.  To compensate her, please visit her website by clicking here, and listen to some of her music.  She really is very talented!

Here is a shot of the kids completing their favorite chore of all-time:  picking up dog poop from the back yard.

As you can see, they never pass up an opportunity to pose.

This is a picture of Harrison's teeth...

...when he's been eating chocolate ice cream.

This is a picture of Indiana Mimi twirling her napkin in the air at a character breakfast in Disney World...

I don't know what to say about that except that she is a very zealous person.

This is a couple that I don't know...

We briefly met them at a restaurant around Christmas time.  They were from Texas and had forgotten their camera.  I immediately volunteered to take a picture of them and e-mail it to them.  They agreed, and I promptly forgot about it....until this evening when I was browsing my picture gallery.  I have no earthly idea where their e-mail address is, so....Dear Texan couple, if you happen to ever stumble on this blog and see your attractive faces here, please e-mail me, and I will be glad to send you the file for this lovely picture.

Here is a rather rude giraffe that stuck his tongue out at me...

This is a photo of Annaleigh climbing a rock wall...

...but what I really wanted you to see was the ornate hairstyle that I created that day.  It is called the fish bone braid.  This will be featured in the hairstyle book that I am putting out someday called, Hilltop Hair.  Look for it in stores soon!

And, finally, this is Indiana Mimi's dining room table covered with a variety of flavors of Hershey Kisses...

The legs under the table belong to Ma (Big D's mom) and Indiana Mimi.  We all went to Wal-mart one evening before Christmas and were amazed and overwhelmed at all the flavors of this candy that had appeared seemingly overnight.  We had no choice but to conduct a taste test.  We discovered that the truffle flavors were not so hot, but we quite enjoyed the toffee and the candy cane varieties.  However, do not store the candy cane flavors with the others or everything will taste minty.

Here ends this rather riveting piece on the hidden gems I often find in my computer picture galleries.  (Please leave me a comment and tell me what in the heck to blog about before I post something else as ridiculous as this...please!)

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The lady of the house around here is calling for occasional guest writers now because she just can't seem to get it together nowadays to blog regularly.  So I, the lone canine in the household, am up first.

Recently, my old bed was getting a little flat.  I'd had it about two years and had pretty much squished the squishiness out of it.  My people didn't seem to notice how low to the floor I was getting, so I did what I had to do to get their attention and to get some new sleeping arrangements.  I peed on it.  I didn't just tinkle....I let loose my whole bladder so that it soaked right through to the pitiful, flat pad, which can't be washed.  They had no choice but to buy me a new bed.

I waited anxiously for the bed's arrival.  Imagine my surprise when they laid this baby on me....

I've always had just a large bed in the past.  But this time, for some reason, my people bought the extra-large variety.  I can really stretch out on this bed, and my long legs still never hit the floor. 

Another plus is the crushed red velvet material.  Wow...pure luxury!  I guess since I'm getting on in years, they've decided to pamper the old gal a bit.  But I just have one question....and be honest.  Does red make me look fat?

However, there are some drawbacks to my new digs...

Drawback #1....

And drawback #2...

Bummer.  (And it's quite obvious that red makes both of them look fat.  Wait a minute....they just really are fat!)

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Basically, pancaking a tutu involves taking a large, elasticized ball of tulle, which I guess you could say is more in the popcorn or dumpling state, and using needle and thread to turn it into more of a pancake shape.  It also involves frustration, tears and suicidal thoughts.

Annaleigh has been taking ballet lessons for seven years, and I have yet to be required to pancake a tutu.  She has worn tutus as part of her costumes before, but for some reason they already came pancaked, I guess.  Why this one didn't, I don't know.  Actually, I'm not even sure why ballerinas are required to wear tutus.  I guess it's along the same line of reasoning as male dancers wearing such tight leotards that it looks like they have live squirrels stuffed in their drawers (and to give credit where it's due, I borrowed that colorful analogy from an old Dave Berry article, but I've always thought it to be scarily accurate).

Regardless of the "why's",  Annaleigh came home from ballet class in late April carrying this large ball of white tulle and proceeded to tell me that I was required to pancake it.  The teacher had apparently given them oral instructions in class to pass on to their mothers.  Obviously, she is not the parent of a pre-teen girl, because Annaleigh's instructions to me went a little something like this:  "Well, first you get a piece of thread about so long (she demonstrates with her hands) and then you sew through all the layers, and then you......Well, I can't really remember if you cut it and knot it there or not.  Oh well... anyway, then you sew through just about three of the layers and then cut it and knot it...maybe.  It's supposed to go diagonal.  Oh yeah...and always start from the bottom.  And you just go all the way around.  And it's supposed to be about three inches thick when you're done."  I went to bed that night and cried my hormonal self to sleep.

And then I procrastinated.  I waited until two days before her recital, and then finally I sat down with my popcorned tutu, determined to transform it into a pancaked tutu.  Annaleigh sits on the couch beside me and says, "Ya' know Mom, my teacher really wanted to see the tutu finished before the recital.  She said if it wasn't pancaked correctly, that we'd have to rip it out and do it over again."  I gritted my teeth and said, "Oh yeah?  I'd like to see her make me."  Annaleigh then decided to just go read in her room.

Here I am mid-pancake with a look of utter frustration and consternation on my face...

 Right after this picture was taken I burst into tears and shoved the whole stinkin' tutu into a paper shredder.

Not really.  But only because I don't own a paper shredder.

Actually, when all was said and done, somehow I got that stinkin' tutu pancaked.  See....

Annaleigh's look on her face denotes embarrassment over having to pose like this in our front yard when people were driving by and staring....not dissatisfaction over her tutu.  She was actually quite pleased with her tutu, and only said once that her teacher might have me do it over again, to which I again gritted my teeth and said, "I'd like to see her try and make me."

And to think, that a few years ago I used to think this was difficult....

I can now do those buns in my sleep.  I guess in a few years I might be able to pancake a tutu in my sleep as well.  But I kinda hope not.

Finally, here is the tutu in action....

Not bad, if I do say so myself.....and I mean that for the ballerinas and my tutu!

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I am in so much trouble.  Last month this opened up in our small town....

This is not your ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill Target.  Oh no!  This is a SUPER Target!  It flies and wears a cape and has groceries and a Starbucks to boot.  See...

That's Harrison in the cart and Annaleigh and Indiana Mimi down the aisle on the first day they were opened.  It was a soft opening about 4 days before most of the public knew, but I have a friend who got a job there and told me.  I kissed my friend.

Let me tell you, I have been to this Target about 15 times since that opening.  Since it's been open about a month now, that means I average roughly a trip every other day.  Big D thinks I purposefully forget items from my weekly shopping trips so that I can run up there before dinner.  Who told?

The week I had the stomach virus the manager and two cashiers called to see if I was alright and where I had been.  A Starbuck's barista sent flowers.

Not really.

Now, some of you, especially those who live in big cities, are probably wondering What is the big deal?  It's just Target.  Well, first you have to know that I have a flaming love affair with Target.  And, secondly, you must know that our town basically looked like this just a couple of years ago...

Cows.  Lots and lots of cows.  When we moved here 6.5 years ago, there was a two month old Kroger, a McDonald's, a Sonic, a few budding neighborhoods and a video rental place with a tanning bed where the owner kept his cocker spaniel behind the counter.  That's it.  I spent a lot of time driving to the "big" city which was about 25 minutes north to go to the movies, Chuck E. Cheese, and Wal-mart.

Over the last several years many, many more neighborhoods have sprung up, which has caused many, many more businesses to enter.  We now have a Publix, several drug stores, a Home Depot, a Lowe's and several restaurants.

And now we have Target.  Super Target.  I can now buy socks without leaving my town.  Oh, and a Kohl's also opened a week later in that plaza.  In the next few years, we're getting a bookstore, more retail, and a movie theater.  And it's all just five minutes from my doorstep.  My life will never be the same.

(Thank you sooooo much for all your comments and well-wishes over this post.  Your words are very precious to me.  I will be posting soon to answer all of your questions and letting you in on more of the details sometime next week.)

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This past weekend I was sick.  It was the sick-in-the-bed, sleep-all-day, drool-like-there's-no-tomorrow variety.  My body ached.  My head was stopped up.  I was really, really tired.  So on Saturday I slept for like four hours right in the middle of the day.  When I woke up around 6pm, Big D and Harrison were leaving for a birthday party, and Annaleigh was busy with a friend that was sleeping over.  She and her friend had taken over the entire upstairs and part of the downstairs to film some elaborate movie, so I was stuck in my bedroom with the door shut.  I didn't feel like reading because it would take brain power, and I had very little at this point.  We don't have a TV in our room.  So what was one to do? 

With what little brain fumes I had left, I remembered that we have a little portable DVD player that we use on trips.  I hooked that up, propped it up on a pillow, asked Annaleigh to bring down our DVD folder, and I curled up for a little theatrical entertainment.

Now for my breakthrough...

First, I watched Sleepless in Seattle, but when that went off, I was still wide-awake, so I put in an all-time favorite, Braveheart.

(That's for you Crossview!   I remember seeing this little tidbit on your red dirt site!)

Now, I think I've mentioned on here before that I really like war movies.  The problem is that I really can't tolerate very much graphic violence.  So I shut my eyes for those parts.  Well, with a movie like Braveheart, I was missing roughly 45 minutes of the film! 

But on Saturday, I watched every second!  I believe this was able to happen because...A. like I said, my brain was not functioning properly or B.  our DVD's screen is 6 inches, and the violence loses some of its effect in miniature.  I'm leaning toward conclusion B.

It was amazing!  Do you see that sword that Mel is holding above?  Well, let me tell you, he USES that thing!  Tiny English heads were flying all over my little screen.  He also does a mean number on that traitorous noble's head with a wicked looking ball and chain thingy.  I knew he killed him.  I just never knew how.  My eyes would be all scrunched, and I'd be humming.   I don't like the squishing/slicing sounds either.

Well, I was so intrigued with this phenomenon that after sleeping all day on Sunday again, I watched The Patriot, also starring Mel, on my cute little screen.  Lo and behold...same effect!  The next time I have a spare 2.5 hours (ha!) I'm going to watch all of The Gladiator and then Saving Private Ryan.  Big D feels we're finally getting our money's worth on our DVD collection.

Now I'm wondering if this concept will work with other genres of offensive films.  I can't abide a horror movie of any kind, but if the monsters/deranged killers were only three inches high, would they be as menacing?  What about bad language?  Would filthy words offend me coming out of that weak little sound system?  And nudity?  Can you imagine tiny little...er...well...never mind.   Something (like the Holy Spirit) tells me I better just leave my breakthrough at the war violence.

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This kid.  This. kid.

First of all, if you haven't read the post which follows this one, you will need to scroll down and read it.  I'm serious.  It's life or death.  Especially if you are writing your tithe check to your church.  You will need the info that Harrison gave me a few days ago in order to continue all of your faith-based giving.

Yesterday he was still playing the role of apostle apparently.  He read aloud to me the story of Mary and Martha from the above Bible.  After this activity I went downstairs to start making lunch, while he and his sister continued their seat work.  I was just getting started with my preparations, when he appeared in the kitchen, and we had the following conversation...

Me:  Ummm....Harrison, what are you doing down here?  There's no possible way in heaven or on earth that you are finished with your school work.

Harrison:  No, but I have a question.

Me:  OK, go ahead.   (At this point, I was expecting something like what is a 'millimeter' or something like that.)

Harrison:  You know that story about Mary and Martha that I read earlier?

Me:  Yeah...

Harrison:  Well, is that really true?  Did it really happen just like that?

Me:  Of course.  That's  a story about real people that knew Jesus.  They were his friends.  The words they spoke were in a different language, so the words might have been slightly different, but they would have the same meaning.  Why?

Harrison:  Well, because Jesus told Martha that Mary was doing the right thing by spending time with him instead of all the work that Martha was doing.  So, that's true?

Me: (I was totally engrossed at this point in spreading peanut butter on bread, so I was walking right into his trap blindly)  Yes, Harrison.  I already said that story is from the Bible, so it is true.

Harrison:  So, does that mean the next time I have to do my chores or my school work, and I haven't read my Bible yet that I don't have to do them?

Me: {Sigh....}  Harrison, the next time you have to do your chores or your school work, if you haven't read your Bible yet, then you may go read your Bible.  You can also pray.  But then you have to do your chores because the Bible also says to obey your parents.  Does that answer your question, you little twerp?  (Note to readers:  I really didn't call him a twerp.  I just felt like it.)

Harrison:  Yep.

Me:  Good.  Now go finish all of your school work because I know you've already read your Bible and discussed thoroughly its truths with me.

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I do.  I will tell my kids to go make their beds, and at noon I see crumpled sets of sheets on their floors.  I ask Big D to pick up milk on his way home from work, and he calls me from Publix to find out what I need.  I order Harrison a chicken nugget Happy Meal from McDonald's with apple dippers and chocolate milk, and they give me a cheeseburger, fries and Dr. Pepper.  I'm starting to get a complex.

Well, last night I sat down to edit some pictures, and realized that it's not just people.  The animal kingdom, as a whole, has tuned me out too.  See...

"Don't stick your tongue out at me."

"Get off the furniture."

"Stop staring.  You're making me paranoid."

"Please don't rummage through the trash and get a marshmallow stuck on your nail and then make me feel guilty for not trimming them since 2006."

"Quit hitting on me.  I'm a married woman."

"Always ask permission before you borrow my clothes."

Sigh....I feel like Rodney Dangerfield.  "No respect.  No respect at all."

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OK...so I have this friend who the other night was neck-deep in her least favorite household chore of all time:  separating, weighing and wrapping 1 lb. portions of ground beef that she bought in bulk at Costco.  Well, she was kind of in a hurry, and she was daydreaming about which fizzy bath ball she was going to use in her tub later that night, and her dog was annoying her by being as close to her legs as possible in order to snatch up little bits of the ground beef that dropped to the floor, and 3 lbs. into the process she ran completely out of Saran Wrap, and it was a 6 lb. pack.  So she banged a lot of stuff around on her counters in frustration, tripped over the stupid dog, put wax paper over the unweighed meat and stuck it in the fridge.  She frantically made her children get dressed for ballet and taekwondo classes (weird isn't it that my friend's children take the same sports as mine?) because she realizes suddenly that they have to be out the door in 10 minutes.  Alright, now fast-forward with me through one ballet class, one taekwondo class and a confusing trip to Publix, where my friend realizes that her shopping list was in the pocket of the jeans that she changed out of minutes before leaving the house.  She wanders aimlessly just buying things that are on sale or have attractive packaging.  She comes home only to realize that she left the 3 lbs of wrapped ground beef lying on the counter for the past 2.5 hours and that she forgot to buy more Saran Wrap.  So my question....for my friend, of course....are the three lbs. of meat okay to still use or will her family become infected with some mad-cow type of bacteria if they consume it?  I don't know if this matters or not, but the thermostat of my her house is usually kept at about 68, and the packages still felt cool to the touch.  At least that's what she told me.

She also would like to get your opinions on the Wii gaming system.  Her family has never had a gaming system before....like us....but the Wii seems appealing in that you are up and off the sofa playing the games.  My friend is hoping that playing it for 30 minutes a day might count as exercise.  Her husband was recently given some extra responsibilities at work, and his work load is going to quadruple over night, so she was thinking maybe they'd buy the Wii and just let the kids call it "Dad," since my friend, who also homeschools, just cannot entertain her kids past 5pm.  She's just done at that point and in sore need of a soak with a bath fizzy ball that smells like lavender.   So what should I tell her....besides to get a life?

And, finally, my friend is wondering if she should be concerned that she found this in her seven year-old son's room...

I told her it looked like something they make on the prison documentaries that I just recently saw some of on National Geographic channel.  I also told her that her son used more than half a roll of Scotch tape and should be counseled on frugality.  I also think she should find out where he found that jagged piece of plastic.  What do you think?

Thanks for reading my friend's questions.  I'm quite sure she'll appreciate any and all responses.  She needs a lot of help.  A lot of help.

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Can you endure one more Christmas tale?  One more set of family Christmas pictures?  One more glimpse at a family holiday gathering?  Oh, goody...then sit back, relax and enjoy this peek into our visit to South Carolina at Debbles107's house.  I promise it is anything but sane, normal or routine....

First of all, to give credit where it's due, what follows was all his idea...

Before we ever arrived, my nephew Braden, had written and made costumes for a Christmas pageant.  I argued quite a bit over my role as a shepherdess, trying to talk him into letting me be a sheep, but it was to no avail.  He wouldn't budge.

I think we spent more time getting ready for the production than actually performing it.  Indiana Mimi and I had quite a time getting into our shepherdess roles.  At first we went non-traditional, actually putting the sheep hats on our own heads.  We even tucked in a couple of Webkinz for good measure.  I don't know...I think we might be onto something for the shepherding industry.  With your animals tucked into your hats, you have your hands free for bear or lion or wolf wrestling.

We finally just settled on the blanket-tied-to-your-head look and put the sheep hat on Bridget.

Bridget was playing the role of a deaf and blind sheep because she immediately tore the ears off the hat and mostly wore it covering her eyes.  Amazingly she only ran headlong into the Christmas tree once.

Here's a whole bunch of us getting ready.  See my brother-in-law, Brady?  That's how most of us were feeling at this moment.

We found a Bible for the narrator, Big D, and we were all set.  He was thrilled.  I promise.

First, the Holy family made it's way into Bethlehem to pay their taxes.  The Baby Jesus in our play was already 8 months old and chubby to boot, so we had to fore go the birth scene.  Also, please ignore that Mary is wearing glasses, that Joseph is wearing a tee-shirt that says "America 1776" and that Jesus is a red head.  Just try, okay?

In a field nearby there were two shepherdesses watching over their one blind, deaf sheep by night.  "Get down and be still, blind-deaf sheep," they said.

When suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared to them.  She had just showered and her hair was still wet.  She was adorned in a puppy and kitten tee-shirt and pipe-cleaner head gear, and she said, "Fear not, I bring you glad tidings of great joy...."

The shepherdesses were sore afraid.  I'm talking SORE afraid...

Or was that SORE insane?

There were also three magi who followed a star to find the King of the Jews who had just been born.  They stopped playing their new PlayStation long enough to go seek Him.  They were Benjamin Magi, bedecked in his Incredible Hulk shirt...

and Harrison and Braden Magi...

The Harrison Magi really needs a haircut, and Braden Magi decided to bring along his Nonny.

They presented their gifts of gold pirate coins, silver tokens (perhaps from Chuck E. Cheese...?), and some Burt's Bees diaper ointment.  They also let them keep the Styrofoam bowls in which the gifts were carried. Baby Jesus was particularly interested in choking on the gold coins.  Thankfully, Mary and Joseph were good parents and took them away from him.

And then, just like that, we were finished.  Ta-da!

Braden said to me later, "Ya' know, Aunt Cookie, that was a great play, and we didn't even rehearse." 

No, Braden, we surely didn't.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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Politics are not for people who are honest and value integrity.

About a week or so ago, in my desperate plea for your votes, I said that if I didn't win "Funniest Blog" on Homeschool Blog Awards, I would publish a video of me singing "Santa Baby."  Apparently, you were not scared, and apparently I had momentarily lost my senses. But I keep my promises.  I'm posting it.  But you do not have to watch it.  Really, you don't have to.  It's going to be a big disappointment after Big D and his worm.

You don't have to watch this.

It's ridiculous.

Go ahead...leave my blog...now.

Go watch "Lost" re-runs.

Go bake bread.

Go organize your sock drawer.

Go begin that cross-stitch sampler you've always meant to do.

This is one of the silliest things I've ever done....besides once putting my tongue on our sliding glass door in North Chicago in January of 1981.....and going out with that guy named Mike who wore the knee-length Indian moccasin boots and chains up and down his forearms.....and driving without a license and getting in a wreck....and putting Big D's shaving cream in the fridge with all the other groceries.

Seriously, it won't hurt my feelings at all if you just walk away from your computer screen.

DON'T WATCH THIS VIDEO!!!

This is your last chance to do something productive with the next 2.5 minutes of your life.  You could probably dust something in that amount of time....or sort your bills...or take a power nap.

Please, walk away now.  Log off.  Leave this page.  Trust me.

I warned you....

PS-Photobucket has started linking to other videos after this one plays.   I cannot vouch for the integrity of any of those. (Heck....I can't really even vouch for the integrity of mine!)  In other words, only play those at your own risk.  I haven't watched any of them, and I don't know anything about their content.

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Well, folks, this is it.  Only a few more days to vote for your favorite bloggers (pick me! pick me! pick me!).  I am now solidly in 2nd place, which is a good thing.  The bad thing is that 1st place is also solidly in that position.  In other words....HELP ME!!!!

I realized that my last uninspired entry was not funny.  I am apparently un-amusing in how I celebrate Christmas.  Well, there were a few of you who found Big D's gift of a belly dancing kit humorous.  Sadly, I remembered that he gave that to me on Valentine's Day...not Christmas.  Oh well...a bad gift is a bad gift, no matter the holiday.

I am still basically uninspired, so I thought I'd take a walk down memory lane and post links to some of my previously funny, cute, ridiculous or quaint entries.  If you're a visitor here, still deciding how to cast your vote, this will give you a good idea of what this blog is all about, or I could save you some time and just tell you it's 90% mindless drivel.  If you're a regular here, you can read these entries again and be bored to tears and sorry you nominated/voted for me in the first place.  Or you could do something productive like Christmas shopping or window cleaning or watching You Tube or whatever floats your boat.

Way, way back when I first started this blog, I had one of my most hideous school days ever.  It was our second day of school, and it was a doozy.  You can read about it here.  I laugh now, but I cried rivers that day.  (If you're not a "24" fan you or if you find offense that the star of this show is now in prison for drunk-driving, you may want to skip this one.)

Not too long after this, I gave a convincing discourse on why 6 year-olds should not have sleepovers.  Click here to find out why.

If you're a Bears fan, you might smile about my entry when they beat the Cardinals in Monday night football last season.  Re-live the moment here.

Many readers  enjoyed the antics of my dog Bridget and the banana sticker incident.  Go here for this sticky story.

Much hilarity ensued when there were Elvis sightings....everywhere.  See for yourself here.

I describe for you one of the (many) hazards of homeschooling in this entry.  If you don't find urine amusing you may want to pass on this.  If you do find it amusing, click here.

While Big D didn't find this very funny, my post about my educational afternoon watching VH-1 brought a few smiles.  Click here to be educated.

I'm always highly amused remembering the day that my blog was rated a very dicey "R."  Go here to find out why.

Finally, my brief stint as an English teacher, provided lots of humorous subject matter.  Here's one story I shared from back in the day.

Are you laughing yet?  Crying?  Banging your head against a brick wall?  Voting for me?  Well, if you aren't, be forewarned.  If I lose, I plan to post a ridiculous video of me singing "Santa Baby" Madonna-style (minus the pointy bra and burning crosses).  How's that for a campaign promise? So vote, vote, vote people, if you'd like to keep this site pure and Madonna-free!  Thanks!

PS-Please also consider voting for my good blogging friend Arby, who is in a very tight race.  Vote for him here .

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