I have the same picture over at my other place. I wanted to share how absolutely beautiful Manhatten was at sunrise.

A request...

Hey! Between the bus eating my children, the truck playing hide and seek in the parking lot, and that hectic first day of school, I’ve thrown my hat in the ring and participated in this:

You would have my undying gratitude and my first born child (no…you’d just bring him back after an hour)if you voted for me. Thanks! I’ll go into more detail about the bus and the parking lot later. )

Just click on the button or here.

Happy Days!

Happy Mother's Day!

You're purrfect just the way you are!

Maddening person that I am, I'm keeping this site to post pictures, and the other place to post journal entries.

Oops. I forgot to post the direct link to my column. Here tis'.

Check it out!

Good morning everyone! If you want a grin, or even a giggle, check out my monthly humorous column at Sanity Central. For a gut-busting belly laugh, indulge yourself by taking a gander at the other wonderfully written stories.

psst

I'M OVER HERE!

This-n-that

When the cat's away, the mouse. . .well. . .this mouse at least, throws herself a pity party the likes of which no one has ever seen. You'd think that after fifteen years of marriage, I'd be used to it when John leaves town for a conference; that my heart wouldn't be ripped to shreds as I stand in the front door, watching him drive away. But it was.

And so, while dear hubby was away last week, I found other ways to amuse myself. I found this link on chelle's site, and entered the Mom Idol singing contest. If you feel brave, and would like to be tortured, please feel free to check out the song I sang. Blogger will not work the way want it to, so here's the link:

I found this meme over at Much More Than A Mom's.

Five Facts About Me

1. When I was fours old, I thought I might have the power to resurrect dead animals. Our cattle dogs would bring wild rabbits they had just killed into the front yard. An animal lover at an early age, I risked life and limb by wrestling the prey away from the hungry dogs. Shedding tears of sorrow over the bunny carcass, I tied one end of a rope to the animal's neck, the other end to my tricycle, got on, and rode up and down the drive, as hard as my chubby legs could pedal, dragging the corpse behind me in the dust. I believed that if I went fast enough, the rabbit would come to life. Mom looked out the kitchen window and saw what I was doing. She screamed, told my dad to make me stop, and well. . .that ended my bunny "lifesaving career." And you thought Stephen King was weird.

2. I might have said this one before, but I brought one of my horses into my mother's house. Several months after Daddy was killed, Mom decided to have the re-modeling of the house completed, so she hired some workers to complete what my dad started. On day, when I was leading a four month old filly past the house, a worker remarked that the horse was very well-trained to the halter, but he bet me that I couldn't get the filly inside the house.

Wordlessly, I led the horse across the porch, through the front door, where she patiently trip-trapped behind me on the particle board to the kitchen. Mom, who was at the sink, told me--as if it was an every day affair--to get the horse out of the house. The worker, redfaced, stuttered as we walked out, said, "I-I didn't think you'd take me literally."

"Don't ever dare me to do anything," was my icy reply.

3. I used to eat Mircle Whip sandwiches when I was little.

4. I stood on the sidelines during an NFL pre-season scrimmage, and got to put a Superbowl ring on my finger. This occurred the very last summer the Dallas Cowboys had their training camp in Austin. I was field security, which meant I had direct contact with the players and special guests. One afternoon, when practice was over, I was introduced to an ex-Cowboy; one who'd played with Dallas the first time they went to the Superbowl.

I'd told him I'd been a fan since I was small, that "Go Cowboys," were among my first words spoken, and how my dream had been to play for them. Laughing, the gentlemen took his Superbowl ring off his finger, placed it in my palm, and said, 'Here sweetheart, wanna try this on?"

My heart pounded in my chest as I gazed at the piece of jewelry. "Go ahead, put it on," the ex-player urged. "You're not gonna hurt it. That thing has been dropped so many times it ain't even funny."

My hands shaking, I tried it on each finger. On each digit, the ring looked like a donut on a stick, until I tried my thumb; it fit then, but barely.

A few days later, I found myself on the sidelines, thousands of people screaming and cheering as the Dallas Cowboys scrimmaged the Oakland Raiders. It was a magical summer, a summer in which dreams came true.

5. I love pickled beets.

Who's influencing who?

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

Having a preschooler again is definitely having an affect on me. We watch Barney—I think we have every DVD—several times a day. I can’t stand that prehistoric creature, but still I find myself pausing in the housework, glued to television so I can see what Barney does next. I know all the lyrics to the Barney songs, and the CD case in my truck—which once boasted the soulful sounds of Luther Vandross or Pink—is now overflowing with titles that include Toddler Tunes and Just 4 Kids.

Can you imagine what it’s like, on a warm spring day, to have the windows in your truck rolled down, and stop beside a bass-thumping car at the red light (who also has their windows down). Not to be outdone, you reach into your CD case, and not looking at the disc selected, pop it into the player. Soon, you’re jamming to the sound of Hickory Dickory Dock or Old McDonald. The sound of laughter reaches your ears as the light turns green and the other car races away, leaving you behind in a cloud of dust and embarrassment. It’s happened to me before, and I must say it’s not a good feeling.

I even count money differently. The other day I was in the checkout line at the store. When it came time to give the cashier my money, grabbing her hand I pressed the coins individually into it and said, “That’s a quarter. . .twenty-five. . .and one more quarter makes fifty—“ I saw the shock in her eyes, and luckily was able to stop myself. Of all days, Robert chose that one to stay at home with his dad.

“Haha. . .I have a preschooler at home,” I said, my face reddening.

“Uh-huh,” the cashier replied, jamming the receipt in my hand, obviously glad that this crazy woman was leaving her line.

I need help; either Robert has a bigger impact on me than I thought, or I’m already regressing into my second childhood. Either way, I’m a mess.

All your comments had me in stitches; you all are hilarious! Thanks for the welcome to Crazyville, I'm glad to be part of the whole wonderful bunch. Since I am a member of the "bunch," does that make me a "Grape-nut" (as in the cereal)?

This past Monday, I received an email from Chicken Soup saying that a story I submitted was under consideration. Nothing is final, there's still a chance it might be rejected; but like last time, they sent a contract for me to sign. Instead of celebrating like I wanted to--a latte and a candlelight soak in the tub--I spent that afternoon and the next two days caring for a flu-stricken husband. Bless him, I've isolated him from all form of life--even the dog--and chased after him with a can of Lysol, spraying everything he comes in contact with.

"Why don't you hire a tanker truck filled with rubbing alcohol and spray down the entire house with that?" John said irritably as I steamed cleaned his favorite spot on the couch today.

"Hey, if you think it'll help--" I replied with fake innocence.

He walked away, shaking his head and mumbling something about "no justice for the ill." Oh well, I may be over-reacting, but his bug is not something I care for the family to share with him.

Back to the story.. . .I'll know Chicken Soup's final decision in a few months; right now I'm just praying and keeping my fingers crossed.

Wanna come?

I've been a bad girl--so bad I can barely stand myself. The truth is . . .it's February and I still have my Christmas tree and decorations up. Some might speculate that after the tree grabbed me and tried to eat me a little over a year ago, I have a deep seeded fear of the artificial giant. I don't use the arm of the love seat as a ladder anymore, teetering precariously on its edge while standing on tip-toe to reach the uppermost branches of the tree; so that's not the reason.

The pure and simple truth is that for the past several weeks, I haven't been home much. This first part of the week, I received some wonderful news. My fax machine is rebelling against me, so, in a few minutes I'll be rushing off to town to fax the paperwork the contact people need.

Pretty soon I'll be going crazy; wanna come?

Canning the Spam

If you're on my blogroll and don't have the Centurytel email address that I refer to in this post, let me know and I'll send it to you.

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. There in my private, unpublished email account’s inbox was spam, loads and loads of it. For months I’d thumbed my nose at spammers by keeping this account secret, giving the address to just a few people I trust, and using it for my freelance work.

Then, one day a lady—it’s no one who reads this blog—broke a cardinal rule I set for her. She has a habit of forwarding multiple emails to people’s inbox every day; some have politely asked her to stop, others ignore her.

When I gave her this address, I asked that she not include it in ANY of her forwarding emails, that if she wanted to forward jokes, send it to my YAHOO account; that was like asking the wind not to blow. A few weeks later, there was a forwarded email from her; a few days later, here came the spam.

I flick “cyber-boogers” at the spammers by blocking them; that doesn’t phase the little darlings. They retaliate by changing their address and sending me twice as much junk the next time.

And so now, I sat there in my squeaking desk chair, peering between my fingers and hoping, by some small miracle, the spam had disappeared on its own. I wasn’t that lucky. It was still there, all twenty-five messages, wanting me to see or do various things.

Disgusted, I rose from the chair and stomped out of the room, leaving my email for later.

I flopped on the living room couch beside John , snuggling against him, enjoying the roughness of his “five o’clock shadow” on my cheek, and the sweet, spicy fragrance of his cologne.

“Should I get my penis enlarged?” I asked mischievously.

“W-What?” John turned his attention from the TV show long enough to study my facial expression. Seeing the humor sparkling in my eyes, he smirked and replied, “I didn’t know you had one, but if it makes you happy. . .”

“That’s news to me too. Maybe I’ll have it done after I get my free prostate exam.” Laughing, I got off the couch and went back to my email.

Like every one else, I’m tired of getting junk emails. Tired of getting messages that read:

“Take a look at this hottie.” I never open them, but just the sight of them makes me feel ill.

I’m seriously thinking of taking a picture of myself before coffee one morning—hair waving everywhere, no makeup, bloodshot eyes—and sending those creeps an email that reads “Take a look at THIS hottie.”

Think they’ll get the same feeling of revulsion I do when I get their emails?

Update

Thanks everyone for your warm wishes and good vibes sent our way. Out of 82 cages--6 were disqualified--my son placed 34 out of 82! That's extremely well considering it's his first time to show.

For the past couple of days, we've spent most of our time at the fairgrounds. The fair is over, and it feels good to relax. We had the livestock action this afternoon--it was an all day thing--and Seth's rabbits were auctioned at $450. Needless to say, he's excited and so am I.

Dragging my weary butt off to bed now. More later.

Excuse me, but your rabbits are showing

The 4H livestock is this week, and for the past several days, things around here have been running full throttle.

Seth is showing a cage of young rabbits, and we’ve been working with them constantly. When I was young, I had to groom my horses for public appearances, but I never knew you had to do the same for rabbits. Each bunny has to be spritzed lightly with water, and then brushed to ensure his or her coats are a sparkling snowy white. Rabbits that scramble all over the platform—looking for an escape route—during judging, will be disqualified.

And so, most of Sunday afternoon was spent watching NFL football, while a young Californian rabbit dozed in my lap.

It soon became obvious she was a Saints fan; she peed on my lap every time the team scored, which unfortunately wasn’t very often. Of course, she was a Saints fan. You wouldn’t expect a rabbit to root for a team called the Bears would you?

Tonight, the three best—physically sound—bunnies will be packed up and taken to the fairgrounds while the other two remain here with their mother. Wish us luck!

Someone please turn off the air conditioner

For the past few days we have been in a deep freeze, hit with freezing rain and snow, and the temp staying just below freezing.

I was once used to this kind of weather. Many years ago, the winters on the Texas plains were I grew up were "bone-chilling" cold, sometimes freezing newborn calves born in the pastures, and ignorant chickens who escaped the warm confines of their coop, and insisted on roosting in the trees.

I remember several occasions when I rode with my dad in the tattered old ranch truck, searching every nook and cranny of the pastures for newborn or sick calves. If some were found, they were carefully loaded into the back of the truck, wrapped in old horse blankets, and taken to the house, where the garage, more blankets, and an old propane heater awaited. Happy to say, we saved more than we lost.

Anyway---

It's been several years since we've had that kind of winter; my body has become accustomed to the balmy 60 degree F. winters we now have, so the freezing weather was a shock to these bones.

The rabbit hutch--where Seth's 4H bunnies live--had a heat lamp installed, and the outside of the hutch was wrapped in tarp. Every day, while we froze our behinds off feeding them, the darling "Bunny Foo-Foo" family basked in their warm home.

My family spent time on the couch, cuddled together, enjoying pots of coffee, bowls of soup, and old movies.
Now, the temp registers a whopping 43 degrees, and we're happy for the heat wave.
---------------------------------------------------------------

When I speak, a twangy, Texas accent--of course--comes out of my mouth. Through the years, it's gotten better; but when I'm tired, it's more pronounced, making it a nightmare for some people to understand some words.

Several years ago, I was a dispatcher for a local sheriff's department. One stormy, winter night, at 3am, I took a call from a distressed woman, who was worried about her new car parked in her drive, and the possibility of hail.
"I don't know that information, but if you'll hold, I'll find out," I promised. "Business" was at a standstill because of the weather, and we were happy to get any sort of call.

Turning to Lisa, my fellow dispatcher for the evening, I asked if she knew about the possibility of hail [ H-A-I-L].
Just having moved from Pennsylvania, she was fairly new to our department, but we had worked together quite often, and functioned well as a team.

"What?" she asked, wrinkling her brow in confusion.

"Is it going to hail?"

"What? I can't understand you."

"Is. . .it. . .going. . .to. . .hail?" I asked, losing patience by the second.

"Are we going to HELL? What kind of call are you taking?"

"No. H...A...I...L. HAIL!"

"Oh, it's your accent," Lisa giggled. "I thought you were saying HELL. No, according to the last teletype, we aren't."

Taking the phone off hold, I apologized to the lady for the wait, and assured her that there was no hail in the forecast. Lisa gave me heck over that incident for months.

Good thing I depend on writing rather than speaking; I'd be in trouble.

Things that lurk in the dark. . .

There aren’t many things that alarm me; after being shot at and later—in an entirely different matter--stalked by a mentally unstable person, my life now seems tame in comparison. The paranormal though, sends me scampering for safety of my bed, where I hid beneath the warm fortress of blankets, quivering like a pile of Jell-O.

And that being said . . .

A few nights ago, I went outside after eight, armed with the MP3 player given to me at Christmas by John. I hadn’t had a lot of time to peruse the Internet and look for songs, so I was content to use the radio function on the player. Big mistake.

There was a chill in the air; the moon had just peeped over the roof of my neighbor’s “Amityville Horror” style house, and was shining through the barren branches of the trees that lined my driveway, casting eerie shadows that stretched across my path.

As I exercised, enjoying my favorite radio station, the advertisement for the new horror flick, Prime Evil, played on the radio. The announcer, in an ominous voice, spoke of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and another Texas killer that was never caught. I quickened my pace, my hands sweating despite the cold, my heart hammering in my chest.

The shadows no longer belong to the tree limbs; they were the arms and hands of the undead, snatching and reaching at me, seeking to drag me down to their home in the festering bowels of Hell.

I almost said it and did it in my pants when something large raced by and hit my legs. Tripping over my own feet, I almost fell into the barbed wire fence in my haste to reach the safety of my house. I recovered, and imagined the newspaper headlines had I not regained my footing:

Woman Found Dead In Own Driveway. Deputies To Investigate Offensive Odor Resonating from Corpse.

The “thing” that brushed past me, stopped a few yards ahead. In the dim light, I saw the feathery, curled tale of my dog. I had to laugh at my crazy imagination.

A couple of days ago, I received a package in the mail from a close and dear writing friend. Among the goodies inside was one of my favorite movies, The Diary of Ellen Rimbaur, another Stephen King masterpiece.

Seth stayed up and watched it with me; afterwards, my teenager asked if he could sleep with a nightlight. I obliged, of course. After all the “chicken” blood that runs in his veins is hereditary.

Oh, by the way. . .I just learned it was "Delurking Week." Please drop me a line just to say "hi." I don't bite, except on Mondays, so you're safe.

Much More than a Mom's post on her blog inspired me to share this. This story was published in Sasee magazine in February 2006, and later on JustforMom.com

Honey, Where’s the Instruction Booklet on this Kid?
by Debbie Roppolo ©2006

When I was a young adult, I thought I had the world by the coattails; there was no task too great, no obstacle I couldn’t overcome. I was also a self-proclaimed authority on childbirth. I had seen horses and cows give birth, and it all seemed very simple.

Reality hit when I became pregnant. Some women radiate beauty when they are expecting; I did not. Countless trips to the bathroom—because of morning sickness—left me with the feeling that I had no toenails remaining. The toilet and I began to know each other on a first name basis.

During a journey to the bathroom during my seventh month of pregnancy, my well-meaning husband, John, intercepted me in the hall. "You’re beautiful, Babe."

I stared stupidly at him through blood-shot eyes. Beautiful? Ha! I thought, glancing in the hallway mirror. My eyes looked like poached eggs, and my bloating midsection convinced me that I was beginning to look like a cow. Okay, either John has become blind, gone insane, or he is the worst liar I’ve ever known, I thought, shuffling down the hall to the bathroom.

After giving birth to my son, I thought parenthood would be a breeze. During my stay in the hospital, pediatric nurses took care my son; I was pampered and treated like a queen. Reality once again reared its ugly head the day we were to leave the hospital.

A smiling nurse brought our precious little bundle into the room as we were packing. "I’m really sorry madam, but I didn’t get a chance to change your son. You might want to change his diaper before you leave."

Change his what? Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead and my heart pounded frantically. I had no clue how to change a diaper. "John, I don’t know how to change a diaper."

"You mean you’ve NEVER changed a diaper?" John asked in disbelief.

"No." I whispered. I gazed at the pale green linoleum tiles on the floor and wished I could melt into its cracks. John held me in his arms while I wept, then patiently "walked" me through the process of changing a diaper.

That was the biggest crisis I experienced until Jonathan reached six months of age; then one day it was obvious that all was not well with Jonathan. My usually good-natured son was crabby and lethargic. John was at work, so I sought the advice of my mama. Between sobs, I described Jonathan’s symptoms to her over the phone.

"Oh honey, he’ll be okay. It sounds like he’s a little constipated."

Always on the verge of being a basket case, I began crying in relief. "Then he’ll be okay? What can I do to help him?" I crossed my fingers and hoped Mama did not suggest a soapy enema.

"Just give him a little prune juice in his bottle."

"That’s all? He…he’ll be fine then?"

"Yes honey. The prune juice is all he needs. That and a little time," she chuckled. Relieved, I slumped into a kitchen chair after I got off the phone with Mama. She was right, she was always right. Jonathan would be fine after he drank the prune juice. Mama forgot, however, to tell me to dilute the prune juice.

I gave my little fuss-box eight ounces of straight prune juice in his bottle, and checked his diaper every few minutes for the results. I thought Mama said this would work, I fumed. Oh well. He loves the stuff, so I’ll give him another bottle full. What could eight more ounces of prune juice hurt?

That same night, John took Jonathan and me out to supper at our favorite Mexican restaurant. On the way to the restaurant, I heard the baby grunting in his car seat. I glanced back at him and saw a tiny face, red with exertion. Hmm. Guess the prune juice worked after all, I thought.

Every female, at least once in her life, has the dream of everyone staring at her when she enters a room. This happened when we entered the restaurant; almost every head turned to look at me as we made our way to a table. I had dressed attractively; I assumed everyone was admiring my beauty.

I walked past a nearby table; a man seated there stared at me with a look of horror and revulsion in his eyes. His wife, calmly eating her food, patted his arm and said "Don’t worry about it dear. She probably doesn’t realize it yet."

Realize what? Horrified, I realized what everyone was staring at. There was a thick layer of disgusting smelling, salsa verde colored goop covering my arm and the front of my shirt. In disbelief, I saw a trail of goop on Jonathan’s back that went from his diaper to the top of his neck. It was Jonathan’s bowel movement.

John, who is well known and liked in our town, was making the rounds of the restaurant, shaking hands with people that he knew. When he arrived at our table, I leaned over and whispered, "John, we have to leave. We have to leave now!" I turned our son around and showed John the mess.

A tense smile plastered on his face, John hissed through clenched teeth, "Let’s get out of here!"

We leapt from the table and headed towards the door. My stomach churning, I held Jonathan at arm’s length as we raced through the restaurant. Everyone who did not see our entrance had the pleasure of seeing Jonathan’s back as we made our hasty retreat.

At the door, we bumped into a young couple that gazed dumbstruck at our son. Always the calm one under pressure, John flashed the couple a winning smile, and said," What ever you do, do not eat the chicken enchiladas!" With that, we fled out the door and into the night.

Any suggestions?

I desperately needed this today; it's pumpkin spice coffee topped off with a squirt of whipped cream and a sprinkling of nutmeg. Sorry about the crappy quality of the picture. I'm still learning this digital camera.

Around midnight this morning, I awakened to a heavy sensation on my right side; I began to panic as I struggled to raise my right arm and couldn't. My right arm was the one injured in the accident several years ago, and I was afraid the nerve damage had somehow returned. Just as I was wondering how I could, emotionally, cope with the loss of my arm, the pressure shifted forward, and I felt small, tender hands caressing my cheek.

"Wake up, I wanna go outside. You can drive me in the golf cart." There, perched on my side like a bird on a wire, was Robert. Yeah right, like I really wanted to parade outside in my pajamas, in 36 degree weather at midnight, and race up and down the drive in open-air vehicle with a squealing toddler.

I'm sure the neighbors would just love to be awakened at that hour, and looking out their window, see me, robe flapping in the breeze, zooming around in the golf cart and looking like Ichobod Crane escaping from the headless horseman. The way my luck runs, I'd hit a tree, the police would be called, and I'd be arrested for indecent exposure.

And so, going outside was not an option; I didn't want to be on the next episode of COPS, not to mention both Robert and I catching a cold.

As I explained the latter to him, Robert, screaming loud enough to wake the dead, hopped off me and raced into the living room, thus beginning the battle of wills. Finally, after singing, warm milk, and rocking, Robert fell asleep at 5 AM.

It was too late for me to go to bed then; breakfast had to be made and the rest of the family awakened, fed, and sent off to work and school.

Here's my question: This is the second night Robert has done this. What methods do you use to keep your children in bed and asleep?

Tastes like chicken?

Last night, after my shower, dressed in the new butterfly-print, blue pajamas my aunt had given me, I plopped myself on the couch between my two best boyfriends, Seth and Robert. Armed with cocoa-flavored Chex Mix (it's a limited edition), and diet root beer, we settled back to watch Animal Planet.

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. Wordlessly, Robert set down his drink, walked across the couch, and standing behind me, bit me on the head. I felt his tiny toddler teeth on my scalp as he attempted to graze on my hair like a cow. Recovering from the shock, I grabbed him, and placing him in "time-out," explained to him that people shouldn't bite each other.

I'm not clear on what influenced his behaviour; perhaps it was the commercial for zombie movies we had seen just a few minutes earlier. Who says television doesn't influence children's behavior? I've got some missing hair that proves differently.


---------------------

Your Power Color Is Blue

Relationships and feelngs are the most important things to you. You are empathetic and accepting - and good at avoiding conflict. If someone close to you is in pain, it makes you hurt as well. You try to heal the ones you love with your kind and open heart.

What's Your Power Color?

Pity Party

I forgot to share this picture of my third little boy.


Happy New Year!



This past week, armed with decongestants and tissues, I waged the war against my children's snots and won. Halfway through the battle, my youngest was sweet enough to share his misery with me by sneezing in my face. Lovely. Traitor.

A few days later, both boys were the picture of health and vitality, while I sat like a lump of forgotten chewing gum on the couch, my only companions a box of tissues and the TV remote control. I couldn't find the latter half the time, and was forced to beg my children to change the channel for me.

Judging from their reactions--especially my oldest--you would have thought I proposed visiting the local 7-11, "Bonnie and Clyde" style. "There," Seth announced firmly, switching the channel to an exercise channel. "You can watch this for a while."

Gee thanks, I thought sourly as I blew my nose for what seemed to be the thousandth time in an hour. I really want to watch people firm their butts while mine is getting mushier by the minute.

I felt like something the dog threw up, my body ached, and both my nostrils were congested. I could only breathe through my mouth, so I wasn't planning on making any phone calls; because of my breathing, I was sure to be mistaken for pervert.

I was a victim of the "poor me syndrome," but I really didn't give a rat's behind. I wanted to be babied, wanted to get back some of the 'TLC" I had given my family in the past. "Baby," I called to Seth, looking as pathetic as I could. "Would you please bring me some hot chocolate?"

"Nope," he replied coolly, glancing at grandfather clock, "I have things to do." With that, both he and Robert disappeared outside, leaving me to brood like a wet hen.

At this stage in his life, I was no longer "cool," not his hero. I felt ancient, my baby was growing up, and the younger one would soon follow. It was a bitter pill swallow, but life must progress. But what the heck is so important he couldn't bring me a cup of hot chocolate? I fumed. Walking to the window. I peeked through the blinds and got my answer. There in the drive, astride a purple mountain bike, was a young girl around Seth's age, her red hair gleaming like a copper penny in the morning sun.

A couple of minutes later, Seth appeared from the garage pushing his bike, Robert behind, as always, pushing his own bike. The girl's face lit up as the boys approached, a dimples appearing as she smiled. I watched as she flipped her hair, her laugh high and musical as she tittered over something Seth apparently said; he, in return, looking like he just won the lottery.

I turned from the window, feeling worse now since I saw that girl, that vixen, working her charms on my little boy. Didn't she realize he had only been out of diapers for twelve years? He was still a baby, my baby. Oh well, it wasn't anything I could stop.

I shuffled off the kitchen, in quest of that cup of cocoa. There, on the top pantry shelf, sat the box; at the moment looking like Incan treasure to my tired, bloodshot eyes. Reaching up I grabbed it and found--nothing. Every envelope was gone. Oh well, I'd have to use the chocolate syrup in the fridge; again nothing.

My remote was lost, there was no chocolate in the whole house, and a girl was flirting with my boy.

Ah well, as Scarlett O'Hara says ". . .tomorrow will be a better day," and it was.

------------------------------
Seth is so unintentionally funny. Here's a few things I found out about this holiday season.

1. He puts his hair in storage until Fall and doesn't eat until there's a holiday--We were playing the PC version of FAMILY FEUD. The question was, "What do you get out of storage in the Fall?"

"My hair!" he yelled out, eager to beat me to the "buzzer."

"And what do you do the rest of the year, go bald?" I giggled, wiping the tears from my eyes.

A few minutes later, the question was "What do you do on the holidays you don't do year around?"

"EAT!" Seth blared.

"So that's not you at the table?" I asked, laughing.

"Guess not," he replied, grinning sheepishly.

My sides were hurting me from laughing by the end of that game.

2. I have a hot dog for a nose.--A few days later, Seth was half asleep, and I was walking by his room, scratching my nose, he asked, "Why are you scratching your hot dog?"

My nose is long, but hot dog length?

3. He wants to know when I'm going to die and who will be on the guest list--He overheard John and I talking about renewing our vows. "What year will you die?" he asked.

"Let me check my calender. Maybe I can pencil in a date." I retorted.

Then he asked who I wanted on the guest list. "For a funeral?" I asked dumbfounded. Then it hit me. He was talking about the renewing of the vows.

Guess my "dingyness" is wearing off on him.