Disney On Ice in the Countryside

Actually it’s Disney on Ice in Millstreet, a little village 45 minutes outside of Cork City.

People, take note: If you plan to see a show in the countryside, be sure you know where it is held:
before booking the last show of the evening.
before reserving accommodations 45 minutes away.
and finally, before realizing, as you travel by train with small children, that public transportation is limited.

We left early on Friday morning after two days of fighting Babydoll’s earache. I had begun my own battle of the ear nose and throat virus, but for Disney lovers across America, and into the far reaching island of Ireland, I pressed onward.

Our accommodation of choice was the Quality Hotel in Killarney. I’d like to say something intelligent like we chose it due to an outstanding recommendation or some incredible rock bottom price, but the truth be told, it was this vision of its pools and its resident dolphins as spotted by the girls online.

I came to know these dolphins well. Cutiepie would not swim freely unless I was standing atop of them while she was in the pool. Though I did my best to convince her that the Dolphins were merely paint on tile, evidently I was more convincing holding them down than I was at explaining them.

In case you haven't noticed, these talented gals here, well, they're the next greatest Irish synchronized swim team to grace the waters.

I meant to say..."next greatest Irish synchronized swim team to lovingly grace the waters."

After a full day of swimming, we sought out Mickey in Millstreet. All my worries for a dramatic journey were dashed as coordinating bus routes were easy enough to navigate and we soon found ourselves at the entrance of a large barn/shed/warehouse compound.

In a life long ago, I worked for Visa U.S.A. The conglomerate whose sole business is to sell a four letter word: V - I – S - A. Now that is branding and marketing! Imagine my astonishment, once we arrived in Millstreet: not a single sign for Disney on Ice. The building and its outposts are atypical Irish background, green, vast and no commercialism, no signage, no branding. It was surreal.

All I could think, was, "What would Walt [Disney] say, if he could see this?

The picture below is the girls and MP outside the arena--no fan fare here folks, oh no.

And yet, don't go turning over in your grave, Walt, cause, inside the Electric Light Parade shone brightly. Skating the rink were the Incredibles alongside the friendly cast of characters from the Magic Kingdom; a spectacular show. The girls ohhhhed and ahhed, and before long, we make the trek back to our hotel.

I'll leave ya all with the highlights for Babydoll and Cutiepie:

Permissable bouncing on the bed. (it's a hotel for goodness sake...and yet, there was Cutiepie: "But, mommy! But, whose beds are they?"--have I taught her good, or what?)

Restaurant meals- three in one day!

Booted out of reserved seats and having to walk through five swaying, bumpy locomotive cars to find new seats; each girl with a suitcase in tow. Builds character, I tell ya!

From the Depths of Our Sea

Mom?
Yes, Babydoll? Deep into sewing, realistically she’s got 10% of my attention.

Mom?
What is it?
I’m hungry!
Honey, when are you not hungry? Please! I’m trying to sew.

Mom? I’m serious, really, I’m hungry.
Well, what do you want?
Can I have some of the seaweed?
Uh? Okay, seaweed? She’s only messing. Back to sewing.

Mommy! Standing firm.
Please, Babydoll! Sitting still.

But I’m hungry. Why can’t I have some of the seaweed?
Babydoll, I have no idea what you want. Seaweed? Please. I can’t find wasabe paste, let alone seaweed, in Ireland!
You know, Daddy’s seaweed?
What seaweed? Now attention has arisen to 50%.
Daddy’s seaweed! Opportunity to pass arises.
Ok, Babydoll, then go ask your Daddy.

Mom? She’s back.
I can’t find Daddy. Can I please have some of his seaweed?
Babydoll, I don’t know what your talking about?
Well, can I go get the seaweed and show it to you?
Yes. Please do that. At full attention now.

Babydoll returns. With a kiwi.

When Sticking to the Plan is not a Reality

Generally the better weather for Ireland occurs in Spring and Summer. And when we say ‘better’ we hope dry. Dry, as in no rain, or at the very least, very little rain.

So when the masses pack up and head out for a sun drenched spring/summer vacation elsewhere, us VerrySherrys sit tight and wish with all our might that sun shines at home too.
Traditionally, we opt for an early or late vacation, when flights are substantially less for us to flee the wet Irish winter for our American homeland.

A killer plan, right? It was until you realize 5 y.o.s swap more than just frubes and cheesesticks on the playground. They swap plans. Oh yes, they talk up who’s going where and when. And once the seed is planted, it has no where to sprout but up Mom and Dad's face: Oh, please, Mom, can we go? A holiday? On a plane? And, ooh, in a hotel? Oh, please, with a pool!!

So while the pennies are banked for a U.S. winter wonderland, we bravely consider a mini-break to tide us over and keep Babydoll’s peer pressure at bay. A quick thinking Mary Poppins alerts me to the Disney on Ice performing in Cork. Hmmm? Far away enough to constitute a holiday to 5 yos but close enough and minimal enough so as not to break the bank.

At the same time, at the opposite end of the age spectrum, DH was getting his own peer pressure from his brothers for a boys’ holiday to Prague for the very same weekend.

Looking back I must have been struck by the magnitude of his gorgeous looks, restrained by my matrimonial tie, and committed (certifiably) by maternal devotion because somewhere, in some parallel universe I spoke the words: “Go ahead, honey. You go to Prague for the weekend with your friends. And I’ll take our daughters on a weekend holiday in the country to see Disney on Ice.”

And I didn’t even have to draw the shorter straw.

Is It Bedtime Yet?

You know it's bad when you want to turn ahead all the clocks in the house so everyone is tricked into thinking it is bedtime already. Oye! Is my bed calling me!

Last night was the 62nd perforation of the eardrum to happen in five years. Poor Babydoll was in serious pain. From 11pm to 4am, not a wink of sleep. Oh, all the screaming and crying! I stopped at 8am when I realized I had to go to work.

Like I told my boss, I was delighted to get out of the house. For there was nothing that could be done. DH, who is also suffering a throat virus, promptly took Babydoll to the doctor's and returned the sick to the makeshift bed on the couch to let the healing begin.

So I've returned home to my sickbugs. And you know what, I'm sick too. Oye!

But before I throw myself in my bed and play dead, I have to show off my latest quilting.

There once was a friend, a much older quilter, who would scold me for not taking my time in my projects. Well, the other night I did: the whole time quilting, undoing, re-quilting this baby quilt. And then! Just when you think you're too tired to take on one more thing, I really gave myself a lesson of patience: I buried all my quilting threads. Yes! I did. And I did it happily ever after.

Here is a peek (before the burying of threads). I'm meandering from my usual meandering quilting and I'm pleased with the results.

The Gift Box

Birthday invites and parties flood our Spring weekends.


“Mom, if I’m invited, I must go to these parties.” For a split second, my daughter morphed into Paris Hilton.

While I rejoice in the fact that we are not the Hiltons, I would love their pocketbook. Nonetheless, Babydoll’s social life dances on.

Surely this clever idea was a seed planted from someone else, possibly even a WFMW post, so I relinquish credit to the first reader who recognizes it as their own.

We have a Gift Box. If I spot a toy, book, or craft priced cheaply, I purchase it and add to our Gift Box. Heck, I’ve even contributed duplicate gifts belonging to the girls to the box. Shhhh, don’t tell them.

Then, when the girls attend a party on short notice (all the time) or not, the girls select a present for gifting from the Gift Box. So often, school kids’ parties and presents whiz by in a blur, and to spend much more than a tener is a financial burden and a waste.

At first, I was afraid the girls would moan and groan to have the gift selection for themselves. Nope. It is amazing how children enjoy the gift of giving.

In fact, I’ve created worse problem: The other day we were out and had no time to retreat home to the Gift Box, and Babydoll was actually bothered; disappointed that we had to go buy a gift at the store!

For more tips, check out Shannon's blog!

Blogtations

Blogtations, my newest love of entertainment is much like the 'greatest hits of the blogs'.

And there is no better time to check it out, but now...as VerrySherry's own sarcasm is making an appearance over there. Thank goodness my girls do not read blogs...yet.

Check out Blogtations now. You'll thank me later.

Stop the Sarcasm

Dear Smart Alec,

Please refrain from using sarcasm while speaking with my daughters. The resounding "Uh?"s are a sure sign that they do not get it. I repeat: They do not get it. Nor do I want them to 'get it'.

There are years ahead of me filled with attitude and sarcasm and, frankly, I plan to procrastinate in this area for as long as possible. There is nothing worse than explaining sarcasm to 3 and 4 yos, except maybe explaining the birds 'n bees. And I don't plan on doing that anytime soon.

Our resident sarcastic voice is Bart Simpson. But even he, I can switch off.

Please? Thank you very much.

Love,
Babydoll & Cutiepie's Mom

Safety in Pins

For Just for a Moment I Thought ...

Next month is our wedding anniversary.

We did the 'honeymoon' years. They were great.

Now we're at the 'real' years.

In all honesty, I can't remember the years that lie between. At least, not enough to give them a name.

Ah, the honeymoon years, when every night was frisky. When my panties and bras still matched. These days just finding clean knickers is a triumph.

The honeymoon years were also the 'wonder' years. Wonder, for wondering, not for wonderful. There was that itsy bitsy insecurity. You know, when you catch that flirtin' tart stilling a glance at your man? Guarding your territory, you quickly shoot a dagger-filled eye her way.

Heck, these nights, if a woman looked DH up and down, I'm likely to walk over, shake her hand and politely ask that she return him before work on Monday. And if there any of you [post-honeymoon] wives that think you wouldn't do the same, drop me a line and I'll personally send you a DVD of the original Stepford Wives. Oh. I kid. Not.

But the thing is we are real. We're real with each other. Any reader of my blog knows I'm a package with more strings than a ball of yarn. And DH, well, he can tie up a few all on his own. I'd say we're nearly meant for each other.

***

On Thursday DH came home clean and looking fresh with newly cut hair. Just a little out of character as his job entails playing in lyme and cement.

On Friday he announced he would be skipping his boys' pint night, rattling something about being busy. I nearly took his temperature.

Saturday morning came and DH announced he was taking the girls for a treat to their beloved "Ol' MacDonalds" for lunch so I could sew. Whaaaa?

That day I began to notice a strong smell of men's cologne.

Saturday afternoon he returned with flowers. I googled. I yahooed. I suspected a player.

Increased attention to his appearance. Check.

Breaks routine for no reason. Check.

Suddenly treating you extra nice. Check.

Brings you flowers for no reason. Check.

hmpf!

My head swirled with suspicion and that manky fragrance. I caught up to DH in the living room.

"Honey, don't you think you're wearing a bit too much cologne?"

"No, it's that damn air freshner you bought." Oh. (Who came up with these frickin' plugin freshners? And what fragrance did I buy anyway? Our's stinks!)

"And by the way," he said sheepishly. "I didn't go for my pint last night and seeing how there's a big football match on tonight, I'm going to the pub. Is that alright with you?"

So that was all it was. Saturday night was family night and the day's TLC was merely to get a pass. Be still my imagination.

Back to reality, I went right to my desk, took my roses and replaced the air freshner in the living room with them.

Quilt for Baby Jessica

Finished! Quilt preferences included:
1. daisy/flower theme
2. bright colors
3. interative (pocket pals, see bunny below)

Again, this design discovered at Pink Chalk Studio who gives its credit to the original Bento Box creator Tracey Brookshier.

May Reality Always Have Gadgets

For those of you living vicariously through this blog, all two of you, life need not be suspended for a day longer without the seam ripper. I DO miss it greatly and it HAS left me in stitches. And seriously? I. Am. Not. Laughing.

But life must go on. Surely there are other gadgets by which we are amused. One in every room, though I'll steer clear of the bedroom. Wouldn't want to scare ya.

In the kitchen is my blessed potato peeler. Or is it a carrot peeler? Or is it a cucumber peeler? Catch my drift? Love it.

Then there is the bathroom, home to the Q-tip. The Irish call it a cotton bud and I find that so much more appropriate--loving, really. I could do a whole blog on 50 ways to use a Q-tip. Don't dare me, I just might. Love 'em.

More than five years ago, I discovered one cherished gadget while eight months pregnant with Babydoll. That was back when I was delusional in thinking having children meant nothing had to change short of giving up alcohol and my dream of wanting to take up smoking. No. Not, really. But I did think I could carry on as if my children might be of the Just Add Water and Watch Them Grow, no-help-needed kind.

And should anyone doubt my stark-raving mad ideas, I kept to all things normal and active until at 42weeks pregnant my doctor grilled me on how I could lose my water two days prior and not know? (In fairness, I HAD never been pregnant before, and well, that late in the biological game, things were always going on that shouldn't be. How WAS I to know?)

So I was active. I golfed. See Exhibit A and B below.

I golfed up to the end. Big deal. The even bigger deal was the gadget. Yes, back to the point. My fabulous gadget. I link to a newer version. My golf-ball-picker-upper varies in that it is a simple suction grip thingy at the end of the club. Oh how I love it. Squat and hiney hoist no more. It was ideal while sporting a basketball Babydoll on my front. And still ideal.

In fact, I used it this evening as DH and I played nine holes of golf under a gorgeous red sky(again, blog for another time).

By the way, it was two months and four therapy sessions later that I began to accept my new lifestyle post children.

Trust me, reality set in. See Exhibit C below.

During my pregnancy with Cutiepie, the only golf ball I saw was rolling aimlessly in the car trunk.

Today

Outside my Window...
our neighboring Fairy Tree standing lone in the field.

I am thinking...
wouldn’t it be nice if the sun continued shining all week?

I am thankful for...
the long evenings of an Irish spring and summer.

From the kitchen...
ice cream, cookies and popcorn.
(Yes, shopping upended today. I was converted by my own post.)

I am creating...
the cutest baby quilts for three March babes.

I am going...
to the cinema on Saturday morning…all by myself. Ah, bliss.

I am reading...
Eat, Love and Pray by Elizabeth Gilbert.

I am hoping...
for a good game of golf with DH tomorrow afternoon.

I am hearing...
Babydoll’s snoring from down the hall. I crave her every breath.

One of my favorite things...
is my seam ripper. I’ve lost mine momentarily and I’m pulling on my hair!

Around the house...
is my seam ripper…somewhere.

A Few Plans For The Rest Of The Week...
school runs on Tuesday and Friday, my work-from-home days.
I am Mommy, hear me roar.

Here is a picture I share with you...
what’s under my needle.

Quick! Check out Peggy’s Giveaway, Simple Woman’s Pampering Gift-Away being held from April 11th through April 18th.

When There's No Opposition to a Coup

Verdict is in and sentencing ordered.
I’ve been banned from grocery shopping. Easy as that. Done. 1-2-3.

Oh, I only wish.

DH has converted Mary Poppins and I hear the conspiring behind my back. It begins as the car is unloaded of its groceries. I hear the murmers, the mumblings and finally the disappointment surfaces with DH’s line of questioning:

Did you buy potato crisps [chips]?
No.
Did you buy any cookies?
No.
Did you buy any chocolate bars?
No.
Did you buy any peanuts?
Nope.
Did you buy popcorn?
Eh, no. I forgot.

Honestly, popcorn I would buy but since it’s found in the snack isle it is unlikely to find its way into my cart.

You see, when I shop for food, I’m on a mission: think lean, for the pocketbook and the bod. Also, if it helps my case any, I curb my spending on general groceries, so I that I might buy the best in the butchers and at the local farmers’ market.
And neither of them sell potato chips, not that I’ve noticed anyway.

Besides, I have reasons for my bland purchasing.

1. If you don’t buy it, you can’t eat it, therefore you can’t end up wearing it on your hips.
Nor my husband’s. Nor the au pair’s. Clearly this is not their concern, though.

2. A junk free house affords me the ability to ply my girls with packets and sweets when the necessity for bribery arises on the road, at the doctors, most of all, when I least feel like dealing.

3. Healthy eating at home, means one can ravish the menu’s cream laden Tiramisu or the Triple Chocolate Fudge Cake on date night.

Fortunately for me, the girls have yet to file a complaint.
It helps that I refuse to take them grocery shopping.

They, or rather, their caloric intake, is on my side by default. You see, the local school’s lunch policy is strict and for that, I’m thankful. No chips. No chocolate. No chocolate anything…don’t even think of sneaking in that chocolate oatcake. No popcorn. Yes, no popcorn. That one threw me until Babydoll explained her teacher doesn’t like to pick up all the scattered popcorn.

And so it happens, the other day I caught DH telling Mary Poppins that I am no longer allowed to do the shopping.

Purrfect. Punish me. Banish me from this chore. Woe is me.

Question is, if I don’t, who will do the shopping?

Looks like I’ll keep that weight off still.

Under the Needle

Finally, nearing the end of this project.

What's under your needle right now?

Confirmed Beauties

Tuesday was my stepdaughter GirlE's confirmation.

As an American with limited knowledge of the Catholic way, I now realize as a mom raising children in Ireland, I need to brush up rather quickly.

For now, I gather what happened on that day is GirlE vowed to accept the Holy Spirit, promised to behave and not drink alcohol.

In turn, we and all her family vowed to enjoy a gorgeous lunch and share some quality time together.

That is, after an exhausting morning of reigning in and minding noisy Babydoll and Cutiepie in church. DH and I now agree it wouldn't hurt us to start attending Mass.
At the very least, our girls might learn to be quiet as church mice.

The pictures below capture the beauty of DH's hometown, Blessington, in Co. Wicklow.

The Blessington Lakes in the background are the largest manmade lakes in Europe. The waters were created when they flooded the original Blessington for a reservoir system around the 1940s. If one were to scuba dive, town remanents such as chimney steeples can be seen underwater.

Cool, uh?

Being a Friend

....Announcing the Birth of BabyD

Oh, how lovely. A friend had just delivered a bouncing baby boy. Something to celebrate.

And, yet, I felt sad.

You see, though my friend and I are close friends, I had had no idea that she had even been pregnant. For more than nine months, there was no email, no call, not a peep from her. In fact, just earlier in the month I sent an inquiring card to see why there’s been no response to my emails in past months. Maybe we’re no longer close friends?

You know, with the increasing time pressures of work and family, our social circles thin out a bit. So I grasp onto what friends I have--even if it is via email, over distance, over time.

First, comes self-examination. Am I being needy? Could it be the whole "living in Ireland without my girlfiends" issue? (Has the makings of a song title, eh?) I speak and email with most of my distant friends more often than when I lived in America. It's sad that it takes distance to make us appreciate the obvious, but I’m darn glad it does.

Last night in my quilt group, while working over a little somethin' for the new arrival, the ladies and I contemplated relationships.

Wondering if some friendships waver into the blue yonder, and if so, when do you let go? And surely if there's been a few bumps in the relationship (who hasn't had a few bumps?), you're wondering all the more if the friendship has set sail in different directions not to cross paths again? Do you steer onward? Do you seek out repair for that friendship?

In our group, everyone shares projects; each doing a quilt for a friend, a sibling, new baby, or for a special purpose. We don't know one another outside of the community hall, but once inside we come together like a huddle of ol' grannies. It’s an equal split of 30-40s gals and 60s gals; usually the elder mentoring the younger. But once in awhile, it's reverse, and we teach an old dog a new trick!

During last night's show and tell, I sought advice for my problem embroidering the name on this quilt. As with all quilts, there is a story and I shared mine. In the interesting feedback was a mixture of reactions. Is the friendship finished? Is your friend telling you something by not telling? Is the quilt a bit too much? Do some friendships exist even though unattended?

Despite even the nurturing cynics (for lack of a better description), I began stitching D on the quilt. The day I received word of BabyD, the quilt was born in my mind and heart. So amid all the philosophy to and fro, I knew the quilt belonged to him long ago. I happily finished stitching his name. The girls in the circle knew I was following my gut despite a seemingly ghostly friendship.

Years earlier I had made quilts for both of Baby D’s brothers and so it was only fair this quilt was for him. I pleaded. To which the mother hen of the group crowed, "you better hope she doesn't have lots more babies!"

Bring 'em on, I say.

****

With this morning came answers. My friend emailed me an apologetic update.

Beyond my own selfish examination, I had also worried there might be troublesome details on her side that prevented her time for me. But worry not. Baby D allowed her a wonderful pregnancy and all is well in her home.

So it was just the sands of time playing on us as they do. Life is just one big distraction.
Oh, yes it is.

Do me a favour? Remember that friend you’ve not written or called in a long while?

Do. Email her. Call her.

You’ll be glad you did.

Potatoes in a Box

What's better than a great gift?

A great gift boxed and tied lovingly with a colorful bow or ribbon.
Boxed. In. A. Box.

Remember when you bought your dad his Christmas shirt at the department store and the cashier included a foldable box?


Nowadays, it's off to the gift wrap isle where a plethora of colorful sacks await you for your gift in a bag.
Bagged? In. A. Bag.

In case you haven't noticed the Gift Bag vs. Gift Box is a battle I fight on most special occasions.

New baby neice? Who wants to gift an adorable pink dress only to have it wrinkled and unveiled upside down with matching booties tumbling to the ground. Oh, to have a box for haven and display!

And what about the surprise element? They may look surprised, but, Internets, there is no lid on that bag...no doubt, peeking was involved!

I love boxes. Cute boxes. Simple boxes. Colorful boxes. They bring meaning to my life, my things, my needs, my gifts. When I see a good box I hoard it. I caress it. I wonder. How, oh how, can we procreate?

Well, tonight, my friends, we are in luck. Many thanks to Kelly who introduced me to EstyLabs, who, in turn, did indeed show me how I could reproduce boxes. I'm cured. Boxes to fit all my neurosis.
Well, probably not. But hey, I can have boxes at a whim! Check it out...

These boxes took me all of two minutes. LOOK! No tape. No glue.
And if you make one box an inch bigger than the other, they can be married and love and live together keeping your things held snuggly.

Not only am I recycling paper, but the boxes are so cute!! Made out of 10Kg Irish potato bags, with these logos I might forgo the wrapping paper. Especially for those care packages going to the States from here (Ireland).

I knew I stumbled onto something when I spent the last 10 minutes listing who's gonna get what. Everyone's keen on love parcels!!

So be kind to your mailman, he just might be bringing potatoes in a box to you soon!!

Living in a Glass House

It was a quiet moment and I flipped the channel to Big Brother. America's Big Brother reality show. Thinking, in my recent blog reading I had not noticed any buzz on this season's Big Brother, I quickly realized why. Unlike the other reality shows, American Idol, Inventor, You Think You Can Dance, this assembly of yanks had no talent. Oh. Other than to keep the American stereotype alive. Ignorant. Loud. Brash.

Makes me chuckle when remembering this scene from In Bruge:

Liam Gleeson to the American: Are you American?

American: Yes. Are you going to hold it against me?

Gleeson: No. ..just try not to be loud and crass.

Stereotypes are just that. And lately a little birdie--alright, a big birdie--whose flightpath includes me as an American in America and an American in Ireland, reminded me stereotypes are best left to their respective owners. First I was, like, he does read my blog! DH reads my blog! Then I was like, uh?

Glass houses. He said. And something about vegetables. And something about wine. Vegetables might be harvested in glass houses and wine poured into glasses, but this was far from his point. You're playing with stereotypes fire. I'm just saying, he said.

Pained, but remorseful, I wanted to defend myself. But my posts poke so much fun at myself, I whined. He replied, better to let your readers see themselves in you than for you to put an image onto your readers. Whoa. Sometimes I forget why I married him!

Lesson learned: leave the stereotypes to the movie producers.

Or to the loud-mouthed Americans baring all in reality TV.
I bet they wouldn't recognize an eggplant.

Teamwork

On or about the eve of this year, DH and I vowed to make extra effort in our lives, to one another, to our children, in our home and outside the home. Four months in and I feel like our team is winning.

Seriously, what comes to mind when I try to describe this process, is teamwork. Daily I feel I'm on a team with DH. We get through things together. They might be hard, they might be fun, they might be mundane, but together we make it happen. If you read this blog regularily you'll recognize our efforts, the Makeover, the Great Job Search of '08, the Party, and so on.

This is why when we suffer a setback, I feel so ill equipped. When DH and I have an argument I feel like a part of me is severed. For a day or two, emotionally I wander aimlessly missing limb and leg. My sleeve and pantleg blowing in the wind, I calculate frantically the time and place for my, his, reattachment. It comes in time. And with each mend, we are stronger.

Below is locker talk, verbatim, between DH and me. I've used yada-yada in descretion, because I am so not about rehashing. But I am about owning up.

This excerpt, my friends, is why I am VerrySherry.

The moment had come. The tensions had cooled and emotions in check. I am woman, therefore I start communication:

Honey, you know the other night, when you yada-yada-yada? I ask in apprehension.

Yeeessssss. He replys in long drawn breath.


I think that was really inappropriate and made me very upset. You behaved like a ten year old and I don't understand how you can think that is helpful? I was really disappointed that our date night was ruined. Whew. There. I said it all.


I know. I'm sorry. I was in bad form. I should not have yada-yada-yada. I am sorry.
Oh, well done!

Oh honey. Thank you for your apology.

And for teamwork, or because I just don't know when to stop, I say more:
I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that you yada-yada-yada and that it affected our evening.

And he says,
So basically, you just said you're sorry I'm a dick head?

Fun in the A.M.

This morning I awoke with Jason, Tim, and Bruce. Oh, yeah!

Then, I turned on the girls: Christina, Gwen and Kelly.

Mind out of the gutters, Internets!!

Me. And. My tunes.

Three months and twenty days later, I'm back walking. In the bright morning dew.
Walking is such good medicine and the tunes are my brandy in the spoon.

I'll leave you with this sneak preview.

Giddy-Up!!