Turning the page on January

 I have to go back to work tomorrow.  I've had a four day weekend, thanks to this snowstorm, which resulted in a four pound weight gain, thanks to this sweet tooth.  A pound a day, but who's counting.   I've stayed cooped up to the point of stir craziness. 

You know the movie Hope Floats?  You know the part where Birdee lays around for a few days depressed after her husband officially leaves her on national TV?  Her mama finally gives her loving motherly advice and says, "Go on.  Get outside.  Get the stink blown off of ya!"   That pretty much sums it up around here too. 

We did make it out yesterday.  Fresh air.  Here's our snowman.  I now have a new appreciation for ice sculpters.

I snapped this picture right after its mouth fell off but right before its nose did. 

The weather is still yuck.  I've never been to California, or I'd be dreaming of it on a winter's day.  47 days till Spring.

*********
J Dub's been working his magic in the kitchen lately. 

This is a puffed pancake or sometimes called a Dutch baby that we had for breakfast this morning.  Add a little syrup and wa-la!

This was last night's supper of ribeye steak, risotto, and veggies.  Yum-O!

Two things I could never brag on myself for: 

1.  cooking
2.  remembering song lyrics
3.  following directions
4.  singing
5.  making a bed with hospital corners
6.  coloring my hair
7.  drinking 8 glasses of water per day

I realize I said two, but I got on a roll. 

*********

February starts tomorrow.  The month of mush.  We are one month into the new year.  How are your resolutions holding up?

Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual. Yesterday, everybody smoked his last cigar, took his last drink, and swore his last oath. To-day, we are a pious and exemplary community. Thirty days from now, we shall have cast our reformation to the winds and gone to cutting our ancient short comings considerably shorter than ever. We shall also reflect pleasantly upon how we did the same old thing last year about this time. However, go in, community. New Year's is a harmless annual institution, of no particular use to anybody save as a scapegoat for promiscuous drunks, and friendly calls, and humbug resolutions, and we wish you to enjoy it with a looseness suited to the greatness of the occasion.

[reprinted in The Works of Mark Twain; Early Tales & Sketches, Vol. 1 1851-1864, (Univ. of California Press, 1979), p. 180.]
Territorial Enterprise, January 1, 1863


January, we bid you farewell.

And take your crappy weather with you.



Till February Folks,

Angel

My Pond

One summer my niece and I went on a pond tour hosted by the local lawn and garden club.  The Pond Tour consists of people who are gifted in all things aquatic and horticultural (Warning:  Big Word Day) to open their back yards, front yards, rock gardens, and water gardens up to the public to tour.  Hence the name:  Pond Tour.  Come on Angel, don't make this harder than it is. 

I was instantly enamored with ponds.  So I had to have one.  My husband, who hates all things aquatic and horticultural, except for wheat and hay and windmill tanks, was not agreeable.  If I recall, the conversation went something like this:

Me:  (sweetly) (batting eyelashes)  Honey, I'd really like to have a pond.  And I've thought about it, and I think it would look really great right here next to the fence.  And I'm going to put some green plants around it, and ivy, and we can have some Koi fish in it, and rocks around it, and lily pads.  All I need you to do is dig it out, lay the liner, run the water lines, and arrange the rocks.  What do you think?

Him:  (not so sweetly)  Are you out of your bleepity, bleep, bleepity, bleeping mind?

Okay, I exaggerated the bleeps.  There were only 3.

Or maybe only 2.
Or really none.  But the truth is he did think I was nuts.

To make a long story short, I don't have a pond.  But much like the wizard who couldn't grant brains and courage but rather diplomas and medals, Jason granted me what he could.

I don't have a pond, but what I do have, is a whiskey barrel (which was extremely hard to acquire and my sister had to bring it all the way from New Mexico, and by the way Jo, your checks in the mail for that, thanks!), a pump, and two goldfish.  It's just as good as a pond, maybe even better.

It's called "a water feature"  Doesn't that sound better than a whiskey barrel?  And it won't be on the pond tour anytime soon.

We started out with four itty bitty goldfish. One died of shock. And one died from being sucked up the pump and spit onto the rocks in tiny bits of fin, scales and eyeballs. So only two remain. Survival of the fittest, that's what it's about. These two survivors must be of the same sex because we've never had any offspring, or if we did they feasted on them.

 Once my bratty sweet nieces commandeered my camera and took quite a few poses.  These were among them.

We've had these little goldfish for a couple of years now. And I'm downright proud of that fact.  We bought them a submersible heater for the winter months.  We remember to feed them everyday.  They've become a part of our lives.  I might even go so far as to call them fishy members of the family.  Well, they were fishy members of the family. 

Right up until this last winter storm came through.

And their heater broke. 

And their whiskey barrel home froze over. 

And anguish filled my soul, fear that my fish friends had froze . So Jason put on his snow boots and treaded out to the walmarts to buy another fish heater.  He broke through the 1/2 inch of ice to put it in.  But was it too late?   Did their little cold-blooded selves freeze to death? 

This morning the great melt down has begun.

  With trepidation, I peered into the whiskey barrel. 

Closer.

A little closer.  That's a leaf on the right, not a belly up fish. 

I dug out some ice and looked a little closer.  

 Lo, what dost appeareth before mine eyes?

Could it be?  A slight movement of a fish?  Why yes, I do believe it is.

Both fish are alive and swimming. 

Survival of the "fishes", that's what I'm talkin about.

"Posme Newborns"

We've had a harsh winter storm crash into our little town.
So you know what that means.  (Other than school getting cancelled, Yippee!!)  It means the outside dogs who are never allowed in the house because they drive me crazy, are now in the house with me.
As I was giving them their potty break earlier, I was reminded of a snowstorm last spring that traumatized me and nearly forced me into counseling.

These are the events that transpired April 2009. 

Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help you God?
I do.

Can you tell us what you witnessed last April Mrs. Wheeler?

It had snowed throughout the night.  The morning was beautiful, still, and crisp.  The sun radiantly shone through the newly budding trees. Sparkles glinted on the snow.  I hesitated letting the dogs out to demolish the glorious canvas left from the springtime snow. 
Rather than clean up their, you know, I memorized the portrait before my eyes and opened the door.

They bounded out, kicking up snow, sticking their noses in, rooting around, and turning it yellow.
It's a dog's life.

When I noticed our big dog Drew taking particular interest in the little wooden porch that we have around an out building.  Ears up, tail wagging, he began sniffing under the porch, peeking under the porch, whimpering, and  running from one end to the other, trying to fit his fat dog butt underneath.  It was obvious there was a little critter hiding.  Aw, he wanted to play.  A squirrel more than likely would run out any minute and scamper up a tree. 
What started as casual curiousity for Drew, soon became a frenzy.  He was relentless.  He would not settle with just knowing there was something under there.  He began to dig like he was on crack cocaine.  Throwing snow and then mud behind him.  I began to scream at him for tearing up the yard.  Because he is the most obedient dog in the world, he completely ignored me and dug faster, deeper, and harder.  Then as quick as a wink, he dove his fat head underneath the wooden porch and pulled this ginormous rat creature out.  He started to thrash his head about, shaking it violently, biting it, as it's long tail hung to the ground. 

Go on.  Take your time.

I panicked.  I was not prepared for this.  I couldn't watch. I covered my eyes.  I retreated to the house.  Fight or flight?  I think I'll take flight thanks.  I was thinking he would surely quit.  But he continued to shake his victim.  It became limp in his mouth.  He would then drop it, then drag it around the yard.  Then pick it up again, biting its fleshy middle.  I watched from the window as blood covered his white neck and mouth and began to mix with the mud and the snow.  Puffs of hot dog breath rose in the cold morning air as he stood over this dead and soon to be mangled possum.  I just couldn't take it any longer.  Enough is enough.  Killing it is one thing, playing with it is entirely another.  And if he started eating it, I was going to throw up. 

Still in pajamas, purple bathrobe, and furry snowboots, I threw the door open, stormed out, grabbed a shovel that was leaning against the house and ran towards him, my shrill screams breaking the silent morning.  I had become the hunter now, and he the hunted.  Seeing the shovel raised, the crazed look in my eyes, and my bed head, he quickly decided his playtime was over.  He dropped the possum and backed off. 

Have you had experiences with possums before?

I must tell you, I'm not a stranger to dead possums.  I've shoveled many a dead possum (never bloody) into the dumpster after my old dog would kill them.  This was not an unfamiliar task for me.

But Drew did not like me shoveling his fresh kill.  He kept trying to take it from me.  He was hampering my progress. I couldn't put him back in the house with his muddy, wet paws and bloody muzzle so I had no choice but to lock him up while I disposed of the varmint.

Were you able to dispose of the corpse?

 I tried, but I couldn't get it on the shovel.  It was like a ragdoll.   A warm ragdoll.  It may have helped if I would have watched what I was doing, but my head was turned and my eyes were squeezed shut the whole time.  I ended up scooting it across the yard 4 or 5 feet leaving a trail of blood.   Defeated, I put a bucket over it and left it for my manly husband. 
 
The pretty snow was no longer.  My backyard was now a battlefield.
Traumatized and scarred, I returned to the house and put it all behind me.  It was over.
Or so I thought.

And then what happened?
  
Days passed.  The snow melted quickly.  Springtime advanced.   Then on Saturday, while playing in the backyard, my niece wandered across two hairless baby possums, yet to open their eyes, lying under a tree almost side by side.  The tree where the possum had lain with a bucket over her.  They each were no bigger than a jalapeno pepper.  Feeling compassionate, and since they didn't require a very deep hole, we gave them a proper burial, unlike their mother who was rotting in the dumpster. Ashlynn made a memorial headstone from a brick and decorated a rock in their honor.

I was disturbed once again by this.  I pondered it, and then I googled it.  I learned a few things that day.  Possums are marsupials.  They have a pouch that their babies stay in.  I pondered more, and am led to believe that on that snowy day in April, those two little babies were  in their mama's pouch during her murder.  Mama possum's only defense was playing dead.  Did she think of her babies in her last moments?  Realizing their mama was dead, the newborns attempted survival by crawling out, only to die later.  Whether by starvation or freezing, we'll never know.  What a cruel, cruel world.

After hearing the testimony and based on the evidence, it leaves me no choice, but to find the defendent guilty as charged, to be sentenced to an undetermined amount of time behind bars. 

May God Have Mercy On Your Soul.

Drew (left) guilty of possum murder, Grace (right) guilty by association.

The defendent, Drew Miller and his accomplice Grace, have since been released for time served and good behavior.  The possum graveyard remains in tact.  Mrs. Wheeler is recovering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and relives this tragic event at every snowfall.

Chasing Antelope

This is some serious fun right here.  Don't believe me?  Just try it next time you're in a pasture and a herd of antelope come to graze.

Jason saw the antelope coming under the fence.  I couldn't even see them they were so far away.  He has an eye for stuff like that.

He decided to get me closer so I could get a better look.

Their flight instinct kicked in. With hearts pounding and accelerated breathing, they took off.

And we decided to pursue.

Oh it was fun!  Bouncing across the pasture on the tails of the antelope.  Thirty miles per hour.

They zigged.

We zigged.

They zagged.

We tried to zag.

Antelope are much more agile than Chevys.

Their feet pounded the ground.  Dust clouds billowed.  I felt like a lion on the savannah.  I pity the slowest prey, the last one.  The one you know is about to be pounced and feasted upon.  Its guts strung out over the prairie grasses.

I think I've watched too much National Geographic in my life.

We followed them for just a short while, giggling the whole time.

Then we stopped.
But not them.  They were getting the heck out of dodge, away from those crazy antelope chasers.





Off into the wide, blue yonder,
safe and sound.

Friday Night Frolic

Sometimes, not real often, Jason and I act fancy. 

We dress up.
He loves that. 
I don't.

We go out.
He loves that.
I don't.

This past weekend we got all spiffied up and went to the big city to eat expensive food.  He had elk, the couple with us had halibut and ribeye steak.  But I chose the lamb chops.   I made the best decision of us all, hands down.  They were not good.  Good doesn't even begin to describe them.  Even delicious is not the right word.  Succulent, delectable, now that's getting close.  Drizzled underneath these lamb chops was a spicy, sweet jalapeno currant glaze.  Oh holy heavens, my mouth is watering.

 Pardon me while I wipe the saliva off my keyboard.

wujeioskluhisfdklp;zojkl

Sorry about that.

I'd never had lamb chops before but I think they have surpassed #2 on my list of favorite foods.

My List of favorite foods before Lamb Chops.
1.  Cereal
2.  Pound cake

My List of favorite foods after my Heavenly Experience of Lamb Chops.
1.  Cereal
2.  Lamb chops
3.  Pound cake

Not much can beat cereal in my book.  I love all kinds.  From Raisin Bran to Fruity Pebbles and all in between.  I've always imagined if I were an inmate on death row, what I'd request for my last meal.  I'm a simple girl.  I'd probably just say, Pour me a bowl of Cap'n Crunch. With whole milk.  But after Friday night, it just might be lamb chops, baby.  I wonder if the penitentiary cook can prepare lamb chops with jalapeno currant glaze?  Doubtful. 

After our fabulous meal, we ventured over to a symphony where we heard an instrument I've never heard of before.  It's called the arumba,  arimba,  rutabaga, marimba.  Being the cultured one that I am, I can only describe it as a big xylophone with pipes. 

It was amazing how a tiny little woman could play this thing.  She used sticks with colored balls on the ends and held two in each hand and manipulated them in ways that was unbelievable.  She had to spread her legs wide to be able to reach both ends. 

It was like watching those girls at the circus who can do all those hula hoops.  Fascinating.  You just sit there and think, Now that takes some talent.

I think I only dozed off twice.  But I told Jason I was closing my eyes to experience the music, to become one with it.  Sshhhhh.  That will be our little secret, okay?


But what I really want to know is, what would you request from the penitentiary cook?

A Child's Perspective

A drawing of my husband,

from my niece,

to my husband.

Don't you love all the cow patties?

She's just telling it like it is.

Listen.

My niece called me.  She left the sweetest, most precious voicemail.

Before you hear more, I must tell you this.

"Mama" in the message works in bail bonds.  They were at the jail to bail someone out. Thankfully, not a member of the family.......this time.

My niece had been prostrate weeping and wailing for hours because her friend Pearla couldn't come over after she had been planning it for a whole entire week.  She was devastated.

And lastly, Jesus is her homeboy.

Click on the play arrow below.  You must.  It'll make you smile, I hope.



Authors Note:  It took me 17 hours, 904 online tutorials, and ten of my own dollars to learn how to post this to my blog.  I have yanked every hair from my head and am now forever changed, not to mention bald.  So it had better make you smile.

If for some highly likely reason, this audio clip does not work, here's a transcription.

Me and my mama went to the jail, and I found a ten dollar bill laying on the floor and I think it's because I was crying because of Pearla, and I think God felt sorry for me, so he laid that ten dollar bill right on the floor for me.  Anyway, thanks for listening.  Bye.

Can you hear the angels singing?

Today. 
It has arrived.
Hallelujah sings my soul.
It is January 21st.
Which means it is the final day of my 21 day Daniel fast.
21 days of only drinking water.
21 days of no meat or sugar or bread or milk or cheese or coffee for crying out loud.
21 days of oil and vinegar and alfalfa sprouts with more oil and vinegar.

It has been unenjoyable.
There has been wailing and gnashing of teeth.
I have longed to thrust my head in a big ole bowl of mashed potatoes with butter, yes butter, lots and lots of butter.

Tonight, oh the anticipation,  I just might set my alarm for 12:01. I just might rise from my sleeping slumber and gorge on chocolate and peanut butter pretzels.  I could if I want to.

But I won't.  Because I desire sleep more than I desire food.  And it would probably give me a tummy ache.

Saturday, as soon as I suck down 2 cups of coffee with french vanilla creamer,  I am baking this, and nobody can stop me.  So don't even try.  It's the Pioneer Woman's Perfect Pound Cake.

Do you know how much I love pound cake?  If you don't, now you do. 
If we are ever on a game show like the Newlywed Game (which would be way weird) and you're asked my favorite food.  Say pound cake. 
Or cereal. 
It's a toss up.

I would love to bake it Friday immediately after work, but we have plans.  We're dressing up, then we are having supper at a ritzy joint and afterwards attending a symphonic presentation.  It's like a date.  Sorta.

I only hope my gastrointestinal system is up for it.

Fire

One day last April Jason stood in a pasture and watched his truck burn plumb up.

His one and only truck.

His one and only brand new truck that he has ever owned in all of his thirty some odd years.

His means of transportation and his form of livelihood.

He had been unrolling a bale of hay.  The pasture was soppy and muddy.  He was pushing the hay bale with the nose of the truck to unroll it when his tires fell into a rut formed from a sprinkler pivot.  He was stuck in a rut.....literally.  He was also high centered on the hay bale.  The catalytic converter got extremely hot, and hay is a highly flammable material.  When he saw the smoke, he grabbed a pitchfork from the bed of the truck and tried frantically to pitch the hay away, but it was all for naught.  The hay ignited and all he could do was stand there in a deserted pasture and watch the flames while he waited for the fire trucks to arrive.

These pictures have been scanned and are not of the greatest quality.

But I think you can understand the devastation he felt.

It was charcoaled.

Jason was fine.  Simply by God's mercy.

Nevertheless, it was a bad day.

He came home and made Creme' Brulee.

Have a bad day? 

Eat Creme' Brulee.

That's our household motto.

We're going to have it cross stiched and framed for the kitchen.

His truck is his office.  He drives in his truck an awful lot.  You should see his fuel bill.  That day in April, he lost everything in that truck, including his chinks.

Chinks are short for the word Chinkaderos.  Basically they mean "half chap".  They are  a shorter version of chaps and stop a bit below the knee, whereas chaps fall all the way to the boot, sometimes covering it.  Other than just looking groovy, they provide protection for the legs when riding the horsies in brushy terrain and stuff like that.

So for the past several months, he's just had to do without.  But it just so happens that Jason has a pretty great friend, and I do mean a pretty awesome dude, who ordered him some new hand-made chinks for Christmas.  They came in day before yesterday.

 

They're pretty sharp.

And they have fringe, how cool is that?

They've got a neat little pocket for, hmmm.....I don't know, gum maybe?  Really I have no idea what cowboys carry in their chink pockets.  I'll ask and get back to you on that.

Shiny conchos add a snazzy touch.

But the finishing touches are these cutesie wootsie little four leaf clovers,

which match his boots.


And believe me, he needs all the good luck he can get.

RTVA---Reality Television Anonymous

Hello.
My name is Angel.
And I'm a reality TV addict.

I'm in recovery now.  I haven't watched a reality TV show for three seasons.  And it's hard.  It's real hard.  Especially when my friends on facebook talk about the American Idol theme song giving them chills and the girl from Tennessee, and the one who rode the Aeroplane.  It's hard. 

Yeah, I've dabbled in them all.  Dancing with the Stars, American Idol, The Biggest Loser, Big Brother, but my show of choice would have to be Survivor.  I was hooked on Survivor for years.  Never missed a show.  Never.  I started pushing my family away because of it.  It was before DVR and I would tell them "Don't call me or come around on Thursday nights from 7:00-8:00".   Nothing, I mean nothing, was more important to me than Tribal Council.

One season, I was watching 3 reality shows at once.  Survivor, DWTS, and AI.  Hours and hours of my life spent living vicariously through other people.

Then I just gave it up.  Went cold turkey.  Something had to give.  With reality TV, my family wasn't getting fed, laundry piled up, windows didn't get scrubbed.  Oh, wait, that doesn't happen still.

(hanging head in shame)  But today, I had a relapse.  I'd been hearing people talking about "Pants on the Ground".  Everybody, all around me, that's all I hear.  I just couldn't take it anymore.  I had to know.  I HAD to experience it for myself.



That's my story.....it's sad, but true.

God Grant Me the Ability
To Refrain from Reality TV Shows
Strength to change the channel
And to Get my Windows Scrubbed.

RTVA, I'm not only a member.
I'm also the President.

Genius

During a math workshop, I learned a couple of facts about Albert Einstein. 
1.  He was divorced.
2.  He had developmental problems and language delays.

My curiosity was piqued with these newly attained tidbits, so I went to the library.  I believe in books you know. 

I checked out a big fat biography on Einstein. I'm going to lap it up and then bore you with my knowledge of relativity and quantum theory (as soon as I find out what that is).

Then I'll use big words like antidisestablishmentarianism.
Maybe I'll hang his portrait in my house.

Just you wait.

Remember that cute little romantic comedy called I.Q.?  Walter Mathau, Tim Robbins and Meg Ryan......great movie.  Walter Mathau plays Einstein.  Go rent it if you haven't seen it.  It's delightful.

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed."

Guess who said that.

Tonight I conclude Day #13 in a 21 day partial fast known as the Daniel Fast.  We're doing it in my church as a way of giving God our first:  the first 21 days of 2010.
It's been a tough day.  I am craving peanut butter and chocolate.  I plan on blogging about it when it is completely over.  And I've decided I look pretty good in sackcloth.

"I'm tired of apples.  Give me pound cake!"

Guess who said that.

Warm hands=singing heart

The first few days of 2010 has been blustery and frigid out here on the Golden Plains. 

I don't know about your particular neck of the woods, but we've been wearing our long johns 'round these parts.

Here's a picture of me getting in my car last week.

But today we said goodbye to the deep freeze.  The temperature climbed into the 40's, and it was a tropical heat wave. We even got to take the school children out on the playground for recess.

Within five minutes, this is what happened. 

Not much else makes my heart sing like a bench full of coats.

May the sun shine on you too.

My Protest

I have a fear.

It's a legitimate fear.

It's not the kind that keeps me up at night, but it's real all the same.

I'm afraid books are going to go away.

In our time of ever advancing technology, is it possible that in my lifetime, there will no longer be books? I shudder.

On my red, rubbermaid tub of a nightstand is a basket full of books that I'm currently reading, want to read, or have started and abandoned.  Here's a sampling:

1.  French Women Don't Get Fat---Mireille Guiliano (a diet book)
2.  Bird by Bird---Anne Lamone (a writing book)
3.  Breaking Free---Beth Moore (a spiritual book)
4.  Best Friends---Martha Moody (a bestselling book)
5.  The Beck Diet Solution---Judith S. Beck (a diet book)
6.  Eat, Pray, Love----Elizabeth Gilbert (a spiritual book)
7.  A Cup of Comfort for Writers---various authors (a writing book)

There's kind of a pattern there.  Eating and writing---two fun things in my life.  Spirituality---a necessity for me.

I've had a couple friends tell me I should get an Amazon Kindle or the Barnes and Noble reader called The Nook.  But I don't want to.  Because I'm an old fashioned girl that's why.  And once upon a time I swore I'd never wear capri pants either, and they're all that's in my spring/summer wardrobe now.  And while we're on the subject of fashion, I don't want to tuck my jeans in my boots. I think it's a fad. That's what I thought about capris too, and now five years later I'm still wearing them.  I hope you other ladies are too, or I suddenly feel really foolish and out of date.  Quick!  Sign me up for What Not To Wear.

I hope Kindles and Nooks are fads too.   I'm afraid they're not.

I adore books. 
I like turning pages of books.
I appreciate the cracking sound of a brand new hardback book when it's first opened.
I savor the smell of a new book.
I relish sitting in my classroom with second graders at my feet and a book in my hand showing the pictures and talking about stories.
I enjoy the sound of Bible pages turning.  Someone, perhaps Beth Moore, once said it's probably the same sound as the angel's wings.

The thought of not having those simple pleasures saddens me.

{somebody please hand me a tissue}

To think that everyone will just be pushing buttons on electronic devices in church someday.  Can you picture that?

It's just wrong. 

Maybe I'll start a crusade.

Maybe I'll protest.

I've secretly always wanted to be a hippie.

Buy more books,
Angel

P.S.  I found these delicious cookies I blogged about here at World Market.  Buy yourself some and let me know if they make you dream of your grandmother.

Little Drummer Man

My husband has a dream.  Not the Martin Luther King Jr. kind either.  His dream is to be a drummer.  He is always banging on something.  The steering wheel, the kitchen counter, my head. 

For Christmas I splurged and got him some Under Armour for those freezing days of feeding cattle.  Or for those freezing nights when it the windchill is -2, like right now.  He's so cute in his long, red underwear with the butt flap that I hated to upgrade, but he requested them, so I complied. 

 As I was heading back home, I passed a music store.  And the thought occurred to me, what if? 
What if I got him some drums? 
I knew they cost a pretty penny, so I pulled in to do a quick price check, just a price check. 

I was greeted by a ditzy college girl and asked how I may be helped.  I mentioned I'd like to price some drums.  She directed me to a dark room in the back where guitars hung from the ceiling and a couple of pierced, tattooed guys sat restringing guitars.  I felt like Shirley Temple in a XXX store.  Timidly, I stated what I'd like look at and began to feel even more out of place when Tattoo asked,   "Are these for yourself?"

Uh.....no.

Tattoo showed me the best drum set for a beginner drummer and informed me of a lay-away plan.  I eagerly signed up. 

I got a catalog, dog-eared the page, and quickly left. When I got home,  I laid the catalog in the box beneath the long-handles and wrapped it up nice.  I could hardly restrain myself from telling Jason as soon as he got home, but it was still  several days until Christmas.

We exchanged gifts a couple of days before Christmas, mostly due to my incessant nagging for my own present. 

Jason was thrilled when he found the catalog

But both of our enthusiasm waned when I had to tell him that they wouldn't be paid for until March.

Jason was able to wait about 2 weeks before he went to the music store and paid the rest of the balance himself to get them sooner.  So now, there are drums in my living room and earplugs in my ears.   Jason has banged on them, watched DVD's, and has had two guys over to tune them and give him some quickie lessons.   I've even sat at the piano and played a couple of songs with him. 
 
The only problem is, I suck.

If you live next door to us, I apologize right now.   But my little drummer man is in hog heaven.

Just to clear things up

I posted this picture on my blog a few days back. This my friends, is a Christmas picture taken with my new camera.

It is an image of my dining room table decor of 3 sequined, pointy trees of varying sizes along with a wreath of holly berries.  It is sorta zoomed in because I was experimenting.

 Personally, I think it's lovely.

I feel the sudden need to explain this because my  Jesus look a-like Dad, called today. 

  Angel, what's that picture of the red stuff? 

I was a tad bit offended that it wasn't obvious to him that it's three sequined, pointy trees along with a wreath of holly berries, sorta zoomed in.

He said it looked like cat afterbirth. 

So, as not to leave any questions lingering,

(mom cover your eyes here)

You can rest assured this is not on my dining room table.

I'll be looking for a photography class first thing Monday morning.