Finishing The Basement Sounded Like A Good Idea ...

For the eight years that we've lived in our house, it has always been our intention to take the poured concrete walls and floor of our basement and cover them with drywall, paint, and carpet. You know, making the basement less dreary and all homey and stuff.

A lovely idea, right? Yeah, I thought so, too.

Finishing the basement sounded like a good idea until I realized that we have to deal with all the stuff that has accumulated down there since we moved in. Eight years of assorted crap.

Like a three foot tall, light up, animatronic flamingo named Farrah. Yep. She's mine. And I named her Farrah.

And a sunglasses wearing cactus. Who sings. And dances.

And all the stuff you don't quite know what to do with so you open the basement door and whoosh! Send it flying down the stairs to be dealt with later.

Well hons, Saturday was officially 'later' at my house. We cleaned out part of the basement.

I might never recover from the ordeal.

Look. I have photos.

Ironically, those two big tables were brought downstairs to have a nice, large, and clean surface on which to wrap gifts. Instead of wrapping gifts, the family went 'Woo hoo! A place to park our beloved stuff!'

Sad, but true.

Our basement boasts a couch, a love seat, a futon, and a small recliner. I'm not sure why we had places to sit in the basement … perhaps to sit and watch someone else wrap gifts? Somewhere to sit and survey the mountain range of junk? Watch me run on the treadmill, belting out 80s tunes at top volume? I really have no idea, but it's good to know that we have adequate seating for … something.

Shortly after tossing down a couch, love seat (not pictured), and a futon they, too, were covered with stuff, including a lovely collection of empty wrapping paper tubes that I still think could have been used to make something cool.

Like light sabers for the whole family.

Speaking of making something cool for the whole family, some of my crafty stuff is still down in the basement. I'm deep into the process of moving it into my Room O' Funk. I take credit for all the stuff in this section of the basement.

Who else but me would have a jar of flamingo poop sitting right next to a commemorative Elvis lunchbox? Both were gifts, by the way. And they will be making their way up to my Room O' Funk as soon as I get some shelves up. Oh yes. Fine art like flamingo poop and a commemorative Elvis lunchbox belong in a prominent display, not in a basement.

Oh yeah. The treadmill in which I get my ripped and totally buff bod from is in this corner as well. Normally she's not locked and in her fully upright position. That would make for a tricky run, wouldn't it? Now she's just waiting to be moved to a different corner of the basement.

I thought about setting up my video camera to catch all of the basement cleaning activity. I loved the idea of speeding up the video to have the four hours it took us be about a forty-five second video so you all could enjoy my family buzzing around the basement moving stuff.

No one else in my family shared my enthusiasm for a video. Good thing, too. A video would have shown me digging more than one wedgie and accidentally whacking my kid with an empty wrapping paper tube.

Yes, I was pretending the tube was a light saber, complete with sound effects.

Instead of a lovely video on high speed of us cleaning the basement, you'll have to settle for some photos of the basement going from cluttered to naked.

Behold. A naked basement.

Now that the basement is cleared out, I'm on the next stage of this project. It's sure to be the longest phase: picking a paint color. Sigh. I'd better make up with Curtis the paint dude.

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The Finer Things In Life

Pinterest and I have become good buddies. Besties even. Pinterest always has the best ideas on how to spend my time and money. Just this week I made my own tortillas, painted a picture for the master bedroom, and ordered a Mr. T 'I pity the fool' teapot for myself for Mother's Day.

What can I say? I like the finer things in life.

The finer things in life reminded me of a conversation between my husband and myself while we were driving to Florida last month. I don't think I've shared this with you all yet.

It was about twenty minutes into a thirteen hour drive when I whipped out my Wonder Woman Snuggie to combat the frigid air coming out of the Honda's vents. Sometimes I trade rights to control the temperature of the car for Commander of the Radio status. This is one of those times.

Husband (all aghast): What. Is. That?
Me: My Wonder Woman Snuggie. Don't act like you've never met her before.
Husband: But … but … but we're in the car.
Me: So?
Husband: So people can see it.
Me: People? Like who? You and the kids in the backseat? Big woo.
Husband: Like other travelers … and truckers.
Me: Awesome! It'll make their day!
Husband: Seriously, why would you bring that on vacation?
Me: Because I like the finer things in life.

Homeboy does not share my definition of the finer things in life, nor does he share my desire to jazz up the long car ride back home from Florida.

Picture it: We are in the car driving home from Pensacola and about an hour into the drive we reach Alabama. My husband and I aren't speaking to each other any more over what I am calling the Jessie's Girl incident. I'm forbidden from going into specifics, but it involves someone blaring Rick Springfield and singing along at top volume, much to the annoyance of someone else.

Guess which someone I am in that scenario?

To amuse myself, I googled 'Towns named Jennifer'. Lo and behold there is a Jenifer, Alabama. Sweet nibblets we were in Alabama! Twas meant to be. It was as if God himself had agreed that I needed to go to Jenifer, Alabama, and get a picture of myself standing underneath the Jenifer sign.

I stepped out of my comfort zone and used the map app on my phone to see how far away we were from the sprawling metropolis that is Jenifer (one n, not two), Alabama. We were a mere ninety minutes away.

Ninety minutes, people. Ninety minutes. I am so there.

I broke the silence in the car by announcing that we had to do a u-turn in the middle of I65. My husband asked why. I quite excitedly informed him of Jenifer, Alabama, and that we were a scant ninety minute drive away from it.

He did not share my excitement nor did he do a u-turn in the middle of I65. Instead he told me that if you drive ninety minutes out of your way in one direction, you have to drive ninety minutes back, and that makes my quick little side trip three hours out of our way.

He did not see why I would want to tack an additional three hours onto our thirteen hour trip.

I did not see how he could possibly pass up the opportunity to take a picture of his beloved wife (whom I'm sure at this point he was extremely grateful to have married) standing under an official green with white letters Jenifer sign. Lucky breaks like this one do not arise every day, for crying out loud.

He refused to do a u-turn.

I pouted.

Silence ensued.

I didn't get my photo taken underneath the Jenifer (one n, not two) sign, which totally bums me out. It would have looked pretty spiffy hanging up in my Room O' Funk, right in between my picture of Elvie and my Mr. T teapot. What can I say? I like the finer things in life. Pin It Now!

Running With No Distractions

This morning I decided to run on the treadmill without any distractions. As in no iPod. No cheesy 80s music. No vintage 70s stuff. No Elvis.

Just me and my thoughts.

All alone.

Just thinking about stuff.

Totally inside of my own head.

Now there's an interesting place. The inside of my head, I mean. Through this blog I give you glimpses into the admittedly quirky and weird thoughts in my head so it should come as no surprise that I've always pictured my brain as a lovely Ralph Lauren plaid instead of the standard pink color. Don't you agree?

Here's what was inside my head from 9:38 to 10:08 this morning as I ran my little heart out on my treadmill.

1.  Dang I love my new running shoes. They are amazing. Did I blog about falling off the treadmill yesterday morning because I got distracted by my new shoes? True story. Got distracted looking at my new running shoes and totally forgot to move my feet. Shot off the end of the treadmill at 70 miles per hour.

2.  No. Not really. The 70 mph part. Sadly, the rest is true. I did fall off the end of my moving treadmill because I was looking at my own feet. Such. A. Dork. In my defense, my shoes are turquoise with lime green accents and are very eye catching. Obviously.

3.  Is it time to stop running yet? Seriously, it's got to be time to stop. I'll just take a quick check of the time … crap. It's only been two minutes. The lack of music to distract me while running might be my worst idea ever. And that includes my perm in Grade 7 and the time I held onto the four corners of a bed sheet and jumped out of a window hoping to safely parachute to the ground.

4.  I need music in my life at all times. There are a bunch of concerts that I need to see soon. Springsteen. Bon Jovi. The Go Gos. Paul McCartney. Prince. Let's face it. These guys are getting kinda old and they've lived rock stars lives for years. They won't be around forever. I've simply got to sing along to 'Hey Jude' with Sir Paul before he dies. Or quits touring. Same with 'Let's Go Crazy'. Only Prince, not Paul. Don't think Sir Paul does a cover of 'Let's Go Crazy'. He probably doesn't do a cover of any Prince song. Well, that's a shame now, isn't it?

5.  I'll just take a quick peek at the time … yay! Only seven minutes left to go. There may be something to this 'no distractions, just be alone with my thoughts' running time. I can think about concerts I want to see and update my mental grocery list. Milk. And bananas. Oh, and a tub of lard. Going to make homemade tortillas this afternoon. Definitely need lard for that.

6. Lard lasts for years. Seriously. A tub of lard doesn't go bad for a couple of years, which is good because I only use it for pie crusts. And perhaps, depending on how tortilla making goes this afternoon, tortillas. Yep. That tub of lard will last through 2014, no problem.

7.  If lard lasts forever, wonder what it does inside my body? Specifically my arteries? Eww. Bet those bad boys are really jammed up. I eat a lot of oatmeal. That should help. Clogged arteries. Yuck. Better not think about that any more. To grody. Lard sure is tasty though. Know what else is tasty? Butter. Ooo, and ice cream.

8.  Why do my thighs jiggle so?

9.  Is it wrong to think of lard and ice cream while running on the treadmill? Probably, although I don't think it is as wrong as eating a bowl of Breyer's while watching 'The Biggest Loser'. Yep. Eating ice cream and watching 'The Biggest Loser' is definitely worse than thinking about lard while running on the treadmill.

10.  Hey! Time's up! That wasn't as heinous of an experience as I thought it might be. Still would rather have music to distract me from running than relying solely on my thoughts.

What do you guys think about when trying to distract yourself from the task at hand? And what color is your brain?

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Gettin' My Geek On At The Container Store

Friday morning I was dressed and ready to run on my treadmill. My hair was in a ponytail, my new running shoes were on my feet, and I had already selected my 'Cheesy 80s' playlist on my iPod. I was only lacking one thing needed for a successful run: the motivation to get on the darn treadmill.

Instead of just sucking it up and starting my run, I texted my friend, KP (not her real name, but her initials. I always call her KP), for inspiration. She suggested that we ditch the exercise altogether and hit The Container Store in Indianapolis instead.

Did I put up a fight? Heck no. I couldn't agree to the road trip fast enough.

Oh hons, The Container Store is amazing. For those of you not familiar with The Container Store, it is a store dedicated to selling products to organize every area in your home from the kitchen to the closets to the bathrooms. This store appeals to the organizational neat freak in me. The 'a place for everything and everything in it's place' part of my heart sang out with joy. I darn near wept with gratitude when I first walked in the door.

In short, The Container Store soothes my soul. And yes, I took pictures.

Behold.





KP and I were absolutely giddy when we first laid eyes upon the desk storage aisle. I swooned. Isn't it beautiful?

Sigh. I just love those colors.

All the different sizes and shapes of storage boxes were pretty spiffy. I have no idea what kind of stuff I'd put in them, but I'd find something. Or, if I couldn't find some treasure to store, I'd probably just use those boxes as 'art'.

And I fell in love with these metal drawer cabinet thingies. I think I need one in every color.

At some point during the three hours KP and I were in The Container Store, I leaped up and clicked my heels together.

Wow. I had no idea that my heinie was so large. Must be a weird angle or something. Yep, that's it. Clearly it's a weird angle and not all the butter I've been eating lately.

KP felt the need to do a leap o' joy, too.

It was a moment.

I can now say that I'm the proud owner of mustache shaped paper clips.

To be honest, they are page markers, not paper clips. I have no idea how these are going to help me be organized, but they amused me and when something amuses you this much you simply have to make the purchase. It's one of the laws of retail or something.

My favorite photo of the day was this one that KP took with my phone. No idea how it happened.

No, it's not 'art'. It's the parking lot and KP's right foot.

Three hours later, I can confidently say that I saw every aisle, every shelf, and every item up for sale. It's a minor miracle that I only spent forty-five bucks.

I told KP that I'd glimpsed heaven that day and it was in the form of The Container Store.

She agreed.

'Cause it's true.


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Good Morning

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Could've Been Worse. Could've Been A Horse Peeing.

It's been a while since I've posted a photo, mainly because it's been a while since I've snapped a decent photo. Just yesterday, the natural evening light was perfect and I went out to the backyard to get some shots of the horses. The horses always make for interesting subject matter and, of course, they love me. Thinking it would be a piece of cake, I grabbed my camera and headed out. Ha! I got four pictures before I noticed one horse was posing for me, only to discover later that he was peeing.

Good grief.

And, in a rare moment of class and sophistication, I decided not to post that photo here … although I'm not making any promises that it will stay off the blog forever.

Just keeping it real, folks.

Instead of the horse picture, I give you little, tiny pink flowers. Instagrammed, of course. 

The quality of the photo isn't fabulous because I used my iPhone, but I like it anyway. And it's much less grody than a horse taking a whiz.

You're welcome. Pin It Now!

Spazzing Out Over A Spider

I wasn't going to tell you this next story for two reasons. One: it's really long. Two: I come off looking foolish. More foolish than I usually look. However, there is some humor to the story so it's worthy of sharing.

Picture it: Monday I was driving my oldest homette to swim practice. This drive occurs on country roads in which the posted speed limit is fifty miles per hour. I tend to drive a bit north of the posted speed limit, enough above it to feel like I'm sticking it to The Man and getting away with a crime, but not enough above the limit to (if pulled over) be lead away in handcuffs and have to attend mandatory Defensive Driving classes from the clink.

Another piece of information that you need to know to fully appreciate this story: I do not like spiders. I do not like them at all. At all. Not even a little tiny bit. I can't handle it when the spider is safely encased in an old aquarium, like in my friend Banana's classroom (she's a teacher and she thinks a tarantula makes an awesomely sweet classroom pet. I do not share this opinion). Spiders completely weird me out. Not because I'm afraid that one will go all gangster on me, but because they unexpectedly pop up in the most peculiar of places. Like your teacup or your ice cream scoop. Both are true stories.

I tell you this because my oldest child announced on the way to swim practice in a very loud, very shaky voice that there was a very large spider on the back of my headrest. Imagine dropping that bomb on me as I was careening down the road Monday evening.

A. Spider.

Good night Gracie and a barrel full of monkeys, a spider. On my head rest. The horror! The horror!

My oldest daughter freaked out, which in turn, made me freak out and we all know that I am not prone to freak outs … much. Our joint freak out involved lots of shrieking, random arm flapping, and other assorted, undignified, primal sounds. We had calmed down a bit when my oldest hollered something very terrifying and very clear.

'MOM! The spider is almost in your HAIR!'

Oh my gentle Jesus, the spider is headed for my hair! Nothing strikes terror in my being like an arachnid headed for my freshly highlighted locks. I'm not proud of what I did next, but I was operating on sheer adrenaline. My reaction? I slammed on the brakes, pulled the Honda over to the side where I screamed so loud that I threw up in the weeds growing by the side of the road.

Throwing up by the side of the road is not among my proudest moments as a mother. Or even as a human being. After some mouth rinses and deep breathes, I returned to the Honda to commence hunting for that spider so I could squish him with my Nike. Please don't send me angry letters stating that I should have caught the spider and safely deposited him outside where he could run free. I was in a fight or flight situation, people. Well, fight, flight or throw up. I chose to do all three.

My oldest, who by now thought this was the funniest thing she'd seen in years, found the arachnid hanging out on the side of my car seat, just waiting for my return. I grabbed a napkin and smacked the spider. It fell off the side of my seat and ended up … somewhere … inside the car. I had no idea if it were dead or alive. I had no carcass to prove death, but I had no live body either. Ugh.

And I still had to drive the child to swim practice, all the while not knowing if Spidey was going to spring out at me again.

I very shakily drove to practice and then back to my house where I sought consolation and sympathy from my husband. He had neither consoling remarks nor sympathetic gestures and he refused to let me drive his truck while he drove the spider infested Honda.

They say chivalry is dead.

Tuesday, I decided, I would put the spider out of my mind. Since denial and I are great friends, I was pretty successful at pretending not only that the spider was deceased, but that he had also been removed from my car. If the thought that he was still alive and waiting for me, plotting his revenge, ever entered my mind, it was immediately pushed out by more pleasant thoughts. Like butter. This strategy worked well for me.

Until I was in line at the car wash.

When the spider ran across my thigh. Ran across my thigh, people. Ran. As in scurried, scampered, scooted. Across my leg.

I was momentarily paralyzed. I couldn't do my normal freak out because I didn't want the boys at Mike's Car Wash to forever refer to me as 'Crazy Freak Out Lady'. After I allowed myself a mini spazz attack, I pulled myself together to do serious battle with this arachnid.

I grabbed the nearest thing (a sales flier for the local fabric store) and started whacking my thigh with it. I missed the spider every time, but gave myself a lovely bruise. Once again, I had no idea where the spider went, but I knew he was still in the car with me. I had no escape. I was only halfway through the car wash.

After finishing the rinse and hot air drying stages of the car wash, I pulled over by the vacuuming station and got out of the Honda to look for the spider. I found the little bugger hiding out on the side of my seat again, just waiting to make his next move.

I'd like to tell you that this story ends with me finally smooshing and removing a dead spider from my Honda, but it doesn't. Yes, it ends with a dead spider being removed from my car, but I didn't do the killing. That honor belongs to Ed, the guy vacuuming out his Subaru next to where I'd hastily parked my car in order to spider hunt. Ed thinks spider are 'cool' and he volunteered to take care of Spidey. I think Ed is a bit touched in the head, but my Honda is now spider free.

A spider free Honda makes me happy. Pin It Now!

Six Months Until I Turn Forty (gasp!)

Today is April 16. This is a significant date. Why? It is exactly six months until my fortieth birthday.

Let's all let that sink in for a moment, shall we?

Before you stop reading this blog post, I want you to know that I'm not going to whine about turning forty. Actually, I'm pretty okay with the whole idea of being forty. Safely said from age thirty-nine and a half, of course.

Forty is going to be amazing, mainly because I plan on telling people that I'm seventy and then demanding that they tell me I look good for my age.

No, not really. It'd be pretty funny though.

I'm merely bringing my upcoming age up so you have time to get me an awesome present. I know what you are thinking: Doesn't someone with a Wonder Woman Snuggie and a bright red Batphone have it all? Most of the time, you would be correct, but we're talking about me and let's face it. There are some key items missing from my life.

Some ideas to consider:

• The giant pat of butter from Uncle Buck. Seriously. This is number one on my birthday list. Feel free to add it to your birthday list. It's a giant pat of butter for crying out loud. You know you want one too.
• A red Swingline stapler from Office Space. A red Swingline would look amazing in my Room O' Funk now, wouldn't it? To be honest, I'd never actually use the stapler. Psh, it's way too spiffy and cool to staple papers together. Nope, I'd frame it and hang it on the wall somewhere between my Davy Jones autograph and Lego mini Wonder Woman.
• The Jonah Hill Wham!mobile. It simply does not get any more 'me' than a pink Jonah Hill Wham!moblie. I would look so amazing tooling down my lane to the mailbox everyday. Amazing indeed.

In all seriousness, you don't need to look into purchasing any of the above items for me. A Target gift card will be fine. Just kidding. I pretty much have everything that I could ever really want: healthy family and friends, a few cartons of Breyer's ice cream in my freezer, and Pinterest.

Life is good.

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Duh! It's Friday The 13th

I knew it was going to be a weird day when I woke up with the song 'Delta Dawn' in my head. And I haven't heard that song it a loooooong time, but there it was, blaring in my head. And now it's in your head.

You're welcome.

My day got weirder when a turkey ran in front of my car. Seriously. I almost hit a wild turkey with my Honda. My oldest was in the car with me and she thinks my reaction to the turkey is the funniest thing she's ever seen. She may be right.

While outside this morning, I caught myself taking photos of dandelions, which isn't all that weird until I tell you that I was lying down on the semi-moist grass in order to 'get good shots of weeds'.

Oh, and I was still singing 'Delta Dawn', only this time, you know, with feeling.

As I found myself lying in the grass searching for a graceful way to get up, I started thinking about beanbag chairs and how comfy they are. Of course, both lying in the grass and lounging on a beanbag have the same problem: a graceful exit strategy. Seriously, how does one gracefully get up off the lawn or out of a beanbag chair? This problem has plagued me for years.

But I digress, which is weird.

No. Not really. Just seeing if you were paying attention.

It finally hit me whilst running on my treadmill (not listening to 'Delta Dawn' thankyouverymuch, but vintage Springsteen and The Cars) why this has been a weird day. It's Friday the 13th. I have a feeling my day is only going to get weirder because I'm having dinner with T and Banana.

I'd better buckle up. Pin It Now!

My Thoughts On The Godfather

The Godfather was released in theaters in 1972, the year I was born. I think that being an infant is a very valid reason for never having seen this movie, don't you agree? Guess what else was released in 1972? 'American Pie' (the Don McLean ditty, not the Jason Biggs movie). Yep, The Godfather, American Pie and me. We all (gulp) turn forty this year. I like to think all three of us are holding up fairly well.

Want to know why I've never seen The Godfather? Because it breaks one of my cardinal rules of cinema: it is over two hours long (in fact, it's almost three hours long). My threshold for an enjoyable movie watching experience is under the two hour mark. I don't know why, but I've never been able to get into movies that are longer than 120 minutes. It's the main reason I've never seen 'Dances With Wolves', 'Schindler's List', or 'Gone With The Wind', but I digress.

All I knew about The Godfather was that it involved an offer someone couldn't refuse and a severed horse's head ends up in some old dude's bed. Not exactly my kind of movie, but it's on my list and that's an offer I couldn't refuse.

Heh, heh. Just a little Godfather humor there.

Even though I really liked this movie, I found parts of it confusing. Take the word 'Don' for example. For at least an hour and forty-five minutes, I thought Marlon Brando's character's name was Don.

Me: Wait … what? His name is Vito?
Husband: Yeah, what did you think it was?
Me: Duh, Don. Don Corleone. Don. Short for Donald.
Husband: He is a Don. His name's not Don.
Me: I could be a Don. Except I don't like violence and people bugging me for favors. Oh, and I don't have a cool accent.
Husband: Yep, that accent is all that's stopping you from being a Don.
Me: Precisely.

And I keep thinking that I was seeing Cheech Marin.

Me: Is that … Cheech?
Husband: What? Where? That guy? That's not Cheech.
Me: Pretty sure that's Cheech.
Husband: That's not Cheech.
Me: Yep. That's Cheech, in all of his Cheechness.
Husband: That's not Cheech. Are you high?
Me: No, but Cheech probably is.

Behold: Cheech and the guy that played Peter Clemenza in The Godfather:

                      

            


I'm telling you, give Cheech a fedora and a few extra pounds and they could be brothers.

Even though The Godfather is about a crime family and there's some violence, it didn't disturb me. In fact, there is only one scene in which I hid under my Wonder Woman Snuggie.

Husband: Why is your Snuggie over your head? There's nothing going on, he's just walking into the hospital.
Me: It's the music. That's whacking music. If ever I've heard whacking music, that's it. Somebody's gonna get whacked. I'm Snuggie-ing out 'til it's over.

There were some unexpected delights in The Godfather, like the connection to Prince. As you probably know, I just adore Prince. Who doesn't love a little 'Raspberry Beret' or 'Let's Go Crazy' or '1999'? Seriously. The man's a lyrical genius. So … what's the connection to The Godfather? Um, hello? Both The Godfather and Purple Rain had women named Apollonia. I'd like to think that this is no accident and Prince is a huge fan paying homage to the movie. My husband thinks that any connection between Prince and The Godfather is a figment of my imagination.

He could be right. He was right about the whole Cheech business. I'll have to give the subject some more thought.

To recap: Watched The Godfather. Loved it. And I get it. I get why people love this movie and put it on so many Greatest Films of All Time lists. It really is a good story and one of the main characters (nope, not going to tell you which one) changes quite dramatically over the course of the movie. I feel compelled to watch it again, only this time I won't be distracted by Cheech. But I will probably walk around talking like Don Corleone, making random people offers they can't refuse for days. Pin It Now!

The Great Hermit Crab Toss 2012

As I was sitting in front of my computer yesterday, mourning the loss of an Internet connection, I came across some photos from my trip to Pensacola and the story behind them that I forgot to share with you.

The story involves crabs. Specifically hermit crabs.

Hermit crabs live inside of the coolest shells on the beach. Chances are, if you find an excellent shell it has a hermit crab in it. This happened to us several times while on vacation. And it didn't take long for the kids to start catching hermit crabs, run over to me on the beach (I was in a beach chair reading), toss the crab on the sand in my general direction and yell 'Keep an eye on this shell, please. It's got a hermit crab inside of it and it might crawl away'.

Umm … what? Put down my riveting autobiography ('Kris Jenner and All Things Kardashian') and keep an eye on a bunch of crabs? No, thank you. But I will totally fake out you kids by letting you think I'm keeping a close eye on those little critters when, in fact, I'm completely engrossed in the life and times of a Mrs. Bruce Jenner. Hey, I'm a mom. It's what I do.

Somehow even with me, ahem, watching the hermit crabs, we ended up with over fifty of them. Fifty! As in five zero. To quote the Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin, 'Crikey!'. And the general consensus amongst the children was that all fifty were coming home with us. It was the general consensus amongst the parents that all fifty hermit crabs were going to experience freedom when their sand bucket home was 'accidentally' turned on its side, effectively releasing the crabs from captivity.

Instead of merely overturning the bucket to let the hermit crabs go, I decided to make it a contest. A crab race back to the sea. The starting line:

If you look closely (and really, why wouldn't you want to look closely at a bunch of hermit crabs?) you can see legs or claws or tentacles or hooves or whatever emerging from a couple of shells. I picked those crabs to be the early favorites for winner.

I was wrong. Shortly after the legs or claws or tentacles or hooves or whatever emerged, they were retracted. And stayed there, inside the shell. For fifteen minutes we just stared at our starting line of hermit crabs. No amount of jumping up and down, hand clapping, cheering, or coaxing would get those things to come out of their respective shells and scurry towards the sea.

I even tried offering a cash prize, but apparently hermit crabs aren't motivated by a nice shiny quarter.

We didn't feel right just abandoning the crabs at the starting line, so the kids starting tossing them back into the water. And thus, the Great Hermit Crab Toss of 2012 was born.

See the big black splotchy thing on the right side of this next photo, just above the water line? That's not a crab. That's a windsurfer. See the small dot halfway between the windsurfer and my oldest? That's a crab.

I know what you're thinking: Man, those suckers can really fly. You are correct. I felt a little bad about throwing the crabs back into the Gulf, like hitting the water or the sandy bottom might cause them irreputable brain damage so they had to be on permanent disability or something. But then I realized that being tossed into the water really isn't all that much different from being tumbled about naturally by the waves.

Then I realized that being tossed back in to the sea was way better for the crabs than riding in a Honda for thirteen hours on the Interstate with a bunch of other crabs in a bucket filled with sand and sea water.

So I deem the Great Hermit Crab Toss of 2012 a success. Pin It Now!

Internet Connection? What Internet Connection?

Speaking of the Amish, my house has been without Internet access since Thursday afternoon. That's almost five (count 'em FIVE) days without Internet service. Sigh. It's like I really am Amish. Or at least still living in 1988, only with better hair. And better fashion. But I digress.

This is going to be a short post because I don't know when my delightful Internet connection will poop out on me. I love living in the country, but the lack of dependable Internet service is seriously harshing my mellow. Like, totally.

Living in the country has it's advantages: We grow our own fruits and veggies in the summertime. They are delish. We have neighbors, but they live far enough away from us that they don't know when I've pronounced it 80s Day and cranked REO Speedwagon at top volume. And we have a tractor. With cup holders. Boo yah.

Living in the country stinks for exactly two reasons: We don't have a dependable Internet connection and there is not one pizza delivery place that will come out this far. Not. One. Some days a homegirl would kill for an afternoon of pepperoni pizza and a little online gambling. Oh well, we all have our crosses to bear, don't we?

Enjoy your reliable, fast Internet connection, my city dwelling friends. I'm forever envious. Pin It Now!

PBS Is, Like, So Thought Provoking

I had a New Year's-ish goal of firming up my reality show rotted brain by watching more intellectual stuff like PBS. I even picked a show that I would watch: The American Experience.

So far, so good. I've watched every episode that I have on the ol' DVR (except the one on whaling and the second half of the Amish one). And (in my opinion) watching one documentary on a subject, any subject, pretty much makes me an expert on the matter. Currently, I'm an expert on Billy the Kid, Annie Oakly, Jesse James, the first half of Bill Clinton's life (it was a rerun and the second, more … um … more interesting half of his life hasn't been rebroadcast yet), the Freedom Riders, General Custer, and my personal favorite, Tupperware.

The Tupperware episode is far and away my favorite. I don't know if it's because Tupperware is uber cool or because it burps and I kinda dig things that burp.

And Tupperware totally appeals to the inner 1950s housewife I channel on occasion. Yep. I, on occasion, channel an inner 1950s housewife and wear high heels and a strand or two of pearls to serve pot roast to my loving family.

No, not really.

I'm just messing with you.

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Loving The Lighthouse

Lighthouses. They intrigue me. I don't know why I'm so attracted to lighthouses. Perhaps it's because they are so simple, yet can be so elegant, in their design. Perhaps it's because they have their own code with the colors and design of their paint. Perhaps it's because I'm a Midwesterner and as such I have limited access to lighthouses.

You just don't see one very often around here.

Cows, corn, and tractors, yes. Lighthouses, no.

While on vacation in Pensacola last week, I coerced my fellow travelers to indulge me by going to a lighthouse.

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Fun In the Sun … Set

Last week was Spring Break, so in the grand tradition of Midwesterners we packed up the car to head to Florida. Pensacola Beach to be specific. It was divine. We shared a huge condo with some great friends, which meant lots of laughs and good times.

Whether I'm at home or on vacation, my favorite time of the day has to be sunset. It absolutely floors me how different each sunset can be. And while I got some pretty amazing shots …

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