Here we are at the last day of summer. I'm depressed. The kids are excited. I wanted to make it a memorable last day. What fun things would they like to do today?

Watch Phineas and Ferb.

Really?

Really.

Guess I'll go take a long lukewarm shower and find a novel. Maybe some bon-bons.

Oh My Word, Are People Really This Stupid?

Lookie what got through my spam filter today. From a yahoo account no less. I guess the FBI is scaling back. (eyeroll)


URGENT:

I AM SPECIAL AGENT JOHN FROM THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION (FBI) INTELLIGENCE UNIT. WE HAVE JUST INTERCEPTED AND CONFISCATED TWO (2) TRUNK BOXES AT JFK AIRPORT IN NEW YORK, AND ARE ON THE VERGE OF MOVING IT TO OUR BUREAU HEAD QUARTERS.

WE HAVE SCANNED THE SAID BOXES, AND HAVE FOUND IT TO CONTAIN A TOTAL SUM OF 4.1MUSD AND ALSO BACKUP DOCUMENT WHICH BEARS YOUR NAME AS THE RECEIVER OF THE MONEY CONTAINED IN THE BOXES. INVESTIGATIONS CARRIED OUT ON THE DIPLOMAT WHICH ACCOMPANIED THE BOXES INTO THE UNITED STATES HAS IT THAT HE WAS TO DELIVER THIS FUNDS TO YOUR RESIDENCE AS PAYMENT WHICH WAS DUE YOU FROM THE OFFICES IN LONDON AND AFRICA RESPECTIVELY.

WE CROSS-CHECKED ALL LEGAL DOCUMENTATION IN THE BOXES, AND WERE ABOUT TO RELEASE THE CONSIGNMENT TO THE DIPLOMAT, WHEN WE FOUND OUT THAT THE BOXES IS LACKING ONE VERY IMPORTANT DOCUMENTATION WHICH AS A RESULT, THE BOXES HAVE BEEN CONFISCATED.

ACCORDING TO SECTION 229 SUBSECTION 31 OF THE 1991 CONSTITUTION IN TAX PAYMENT, YOUR CONSIGNMENT LACKS TAX CLEARANCE CERTIFICATE FROM JOINT TEAM OF THE IRS AND HOMELAND SECURITIES, AND THERE FOR, YOU MUST CONTACT US FOR DIRECTION ON HOW TO PROCURE THIS CERTIFICATE, SO THAT YOU CAN BE RELIEVED OF THE CHARGES OF EVADING TAX WHICH IS A PUNISHABLE OFFENSE UNDER SECTION 12 SUBSECTION 441 OF CONSTITUTION ON TAX EVASION.

YOU ARE REQUIRED TO CONTACT THIS BUREAU WITHIN 72HOURS, OR YOU WILL BE ARRESTED, INTERROGATED AND PROSECUTED IN THE COURT OF LAW FOR EVADING TAX.

ALSO, YOU MUST NOT CONTACT ANY OTHER BANK FOR ANY PAYMENT, BECAUSE YOUR PAYMENT HAVE BEEN CONFISCATED BY THIS BUREAU.


YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

YOURS IN SERVICE

Agent John Edward
Regional Director
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Intelligence Field Unit
J. Edgar Hoover Building
935 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C.
20535-0001, USA

CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: This communication and its attachments may contain non-public, confidential or legally privileged information. The unlawful interception, use or disclosure of such information is prohibited. If you are not the intended recipient, or have received this communication in error, please notify the sender immediately by reply email and delete all copies of this communication and attachments without reading or saving them.

Just call me wolfman

My house listing just expired. Realtors are calling me every ten minutes wanting me to re-list with them. Those same (curseword) realtors that DIDN'T show my house last month. If they wanted to be convincing that they could sell my house, maybe, MAYBE, they should have drug someone through it last month, or, I DON'T KNOW, shown up for the freaking realtor open house.

Just a thought.

And though I'm NOT hormonal, I may need to be preemptively incarcerated like the wolfman.

Many thanks to Meg for giving me a laugh when I desperately needed it.

Oh, and I'm definitely better at yoga than that lady.;)

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Me, while trying to merge across three lanes and being thwarted by a white Camry: Uuuuuuggggghh! This car!

Charming, with perfect inflection: Oh my gosh! It isn't driving properly!

(Fact aside that he shouldn't be saying "oh, my gosh" for which I must repent...)

Licensed for Trouble

No, I'm not talking about my Beloved. He's not licensed and that IS the trouble.  No, I'm talking about Susan May Warren's latest PJ Sugar novel, Licensed For Trouble....bless her heart....the third installment in the PJ Sugar series. 


If you have already read the first two books of the series--yippee! the next one's out. If you haven't, I suggest you start with book one and progress through them sequentially. (Yippee! You don't have to wait for the next installment!) I've read them all and I still had a little trouble remembering things. Which is WAY better than rehashing. I'm not saying anything related to that. And I know that the books are technically stand alone plots. (Each mystery is solved in each book. Most social issues are resolved in each book. But it's still nice to know the history if you're gonna read a character that does have a backstory written down.)


Anyway, this is a super-fun series without being super fluff. And I think there's a very good chance that each book is better than the one before it. But maybe that's just because you grow to really appreciate the characters and all of their faults. And maybe the realization that you can grow beyond "trouble." (At least I hope so!)


A bit about the book:

Sugar receives shocking news that she's inherited the Kellogg family mansion. Though she has no idea why, the timing is perfect-PJ has clearly worn out her welcome at her sister's house. Unfortunately, the mansion is in shambles, and PJ is short on cash. Rescue comes in the form of Max Smith, a mysterious handyman willing to trade his services for PJ's investigative skills. But PJ already has a full docket with cramming for her PI license and nurturing a growing romance with her boss, Jeremy Kane. Can she take on Max's case without dropping the ball?

Find out more about book one, Nothing But Trouble and book two, Double Trouble.

Enter PJ Sugar's "Sweet" Giveaway

Licensed for Trouble, Susan's brand new PJ Sugar novel, is in stores now! To celebrate the release, we’re giving away a Kindle!! You can enter using Twitter, Facebook, or e-mail using the icons below.

One Grand Prize winner will receive a A SWEET Kindle prize package that includes:

• A brand new Kindle (Free 3G, 6”, Latest Generation)
• The entire PJ Sugar series by Susan May Warren

To enter, simply click on the icons below to fill out the entry form, then tell 5 or more friends about the contest.


Oh, and enter soon! Winner will be announced on September 2nd.

Be sure to check out the blog tour here or purchase a copy of Licensed for Trouble here!

Susan May Warren is the RITA award-winning author of twenty-four novels with Tyndale, Barbour and Steeple Hill. A four-time Christy award finalist, a two-time RITA Finalist, she’s also a multi-winner of the Inspirational Readers Choice award, and the ACFW Book of the Year.

Susan's larger than life characters and layered plots have won her acclaim with readers and reviewers alike. A seasoned women’s events and retreats speaker, she’s a popular writing teacher at conferences around the nation and the author of the beginning writer’s workbook: From the Inside-Out: discover, create and publish the novel in you!. She is also the founder of www.MyBookTherapy.com, a story-crafting service that helps authors discover their voice.

Susan makes her home in northern Minnesota, where she is busy cheering on her two sons in football, and her daughter in local theater productions (and desperately missing her college-age son!) A full listing of her titles, reviews and awards can be found at: www.susanmaywarren.com.

A Word to the Wise

Don't try to get onto a military base with an expired driver's license.

They don't take too kindly to it.

The good news is that Beloved didn't wind up in jail.

Can you believe they wrote me up, too?

We were just trying to see the Buffalo Soldier Memorial.

So much for patriotism.

Yippee.

Terrrrrrrrrrrific!

I awoke this morning mad at myself. Furious. For letting myself fall into a pattern of predictable.

My sister, homeschooling mother of eight, often says she wants to write a book titled, "We Meant to be Normal."

I think I should write a book called, "I Meant to be Extraordinary....." I'm not going to go into my many failures, my wishes, hopes, or dreams that didn't come true. Too much wallowing in the pits of wouldda shouldda couldda just makes a person depressed. I know. I was there yesterday. Just couldn't get my feet under me. Aggravated that I haven't done this or I didn't do that. Aggravated that my house hasn't sold and any number of other things. Aggravated that I couldn't even blame it on hormones.

I flopped down at the table and unloaded on My Beloved (I think there were even tears involved). He's discouraged, too. This isn't what we expected 34 to be, apparently. But My Beloved, he is smart.

"I think we're bored."

Yeah, that sums it up and puts a name tag on it. We are two very busy people. Busy, busy, busy. So much to do. Filling others expectations at the expense of our own desires. Part of that is parenting. Part of it is surviving. Most of it is trying to please people that simply won't be pleased, no matter what we do.

God gave the two of us desires that make absolutely no sense to anybody but us. We can't explain it. We gave up trying years ago. And in the meantime, we go with the flow.

Note to the three of you reading this that think I make waves, lots and lots of waves: If only you knew what kind of waves I'm capable of. Get out your rain coat. A tidal wave's a comin'.

If Nehemiah can rouse the people of Jerusalem to rebuild the wall in 52 days, surely I, with God on my side, can do something extraordinary. Regardless of whether it makes me insane to others.

Going with the flow has never really been my forte.

I used to listen to this guy, Ed Foreman, who did a speech entitled How to Make Every Day a Goooooood Day. I listened to him every day until I could say the whole thing along with him. And I'm pretty certain it is Ed Foreman's voice in my head that tells me ..."Every Day In Every Way, I'm Getting Better!"

I refuse to wallow in mediocrity ONE MORE DAY. I'm sick of it. It does not please my God. It does not please me. It might make me a good drone, but I never wanted to be a drone anyway.

I think it is no small coincidence that immediately after we put a name to our apathy, Beloved and I came up with new and fun ideas that had us laughing well into the night. We didn't sleep well, but, hey, sleep is for the bored.

I choose you

This you gotta see.

Amen and amen. With my own Eldest, of course. Though I'm sure her children are lovely. :)

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

My kids and I have a tradition at the first of August to go on Special Dates. One at a time, they get to go out alone with me and shop for school supplies, clothes, shoes, and a Pick Your Poison treat. Oh, yeah, and a $10 toy that they Don't Have To Pay Back (wow! *gasp*)

I started with Eldest as, well, he's the eldest and that should count for something when you have to start somewhere. We hit Old Navy for their cheap before school sales (in this case polos and jeans). He got into that. Chose his things. Seemed to be surprised that he got more than one or two items. (This, my naked child, because he refuses to focus on clothes.)

Next stop Kohl's, in which I made the mistake of walking directly through on my way to the boy's department, as the direct route passed the toys. It was all over. It was all I could do to force the child to pick some shoes. He tried on ONE pair. Declared them perfect and, unable to curb his excitement One More Second, we checked out and headed to Target for him to get his most favored Battle Gear. Whatever. Couldn't get him to focus on school supplies. Barely got him to choose a backpack. Finally dragged him to the register, paid and fed him a slushy while he played with his new thingie in the back seat.

What was your favorite part, Eldest? THE TOY.

Next stop, Princess. Same routine, except she thoroughly enjoyed her shopping experience at Old Navy. Except for the fact that her style and her mom's do not agree. And she only wants to wear blue. Couldn't believe I'd let her have the glitter shoes. Didn't need to go to Kohl's. Enjoyed Target, but couldn't focus on school supplies. (We're in a bit of denial.) Really, Really, REALLY wanted to go to PetSmart. Got an Icee and walked over. Cruised through. Really, really, really wanted to go to JoAnn's. Loitered until I was certain her daddy would go bonkers. Finally asked if she was trying to find a specific toy or if she was just trying to blow the money because she knew she had it. Agreed, after she answered, that I would buy her a toy on another day when there was actually something she wanted.

What was your favorite part, Princess? besides being alone with you? the Icee.

Finally, Frodo. Having learned my lesson, asked him what he was most looking forward to. Shoe shopping. Went to shoe carnival. Tried on lots of shoes. Chose the first ones he saw when we originally walked through the door. Saw them three days ago with eldest at Kohls. I imagine they were cheaper there. Trying not to think about it. Out to Arbys for one of those Gray Meat Sandwiches. (Another story, another day) Old Navy. Has more expensive taste than his siblings. Got half the stuff for the same money. Still shocked out of his socks that he got as much as he did. Guess that makes it OK. Onward to Target for school supplies. Liked the folders. Wanted a journal. And a rubber band ball. Picked a ruler. Picked pencils. Found the correct notebook paper. Picked spirals. Happily skipped around the cart while I picked up some things for his sibs. When we discovered that the snack bar was closed, joyfully picked out an Orange Crush. Super happy to get a toy. Smiled the whole night.

Frodo, what was your favorite part? Shoe shopping.

Two observations: 1) Always start with their favorite part. They'll participate in the rest more agreeably.
2) Despite the fact that Frodo can exhaust me with his chatter about video games that I care nothing about, I always knew that child had something in him of me. Now we know it. Shoes.

Children are so stinking unique. Same trip. Decidedly different experiences. Love 'em all fiercely.

Charmingisims

Charming loves to go to the firecracker. Cracker for short. Translation: Chiropractor

Charming does not like volocanoes on his pizza. Translation: Jalapenos

I know, right? 

He mispronounces plenty of words, but this mispronunciations were just to apropos to not share.

In the continuing saga that is Princess and reproduction V

Last week, Princess read a children's picture book about My Body that was probably supposed to be appropriate for four year olds in this whacked world, but which she probably shouldn't have read. I caught her too late. Stupid library books.

She pondered for two days before the following question emerged.

"Mom, if the baby grows in the woman....why does she have to be married to have it?"

Me: (pregnant pause) Because it needs part of the daddy. (pregnant pause)

Princess: Nod. (looks away)

It's coming. Oh, joy, it's coming. *groan*

decisions, decisions

Today, shortly after I merged onto the interstate, I decided to quit hating my new, nondescript silver minivan (Stepford, here I come).

It goes like this: I came around the shamrock loop and gunned it as I always do. Long about the time the old, cheap, purple minivan would be hitting 35 and the semi behind me would be slamming his brakes and trying to change lanes so as to not kiss my rear end, my new, nondescript silver minivan (Stepford here I come) was cruising along, shooting past seventy. There's no wind noise to speak of and my kids don't have to yell from the back seat to be heard....even when the radio is on. I don't have to baby it and I don't really fear it konking out on me Any Moment, so I can even venture out of the right lane.

So there you go.

I did lose it tonight in the parking lot at the gym. Thank goodness I parked at the far back edge and there were mostly cars in the general vicinity so I didn't have to embarass myself by trying the locks on several before making it to mine.

Must go buy KU window stickers.

So I'm Shallow....Deal

My darling husband called me out over the weekend. "You take pride in your crap vehicles."

I most certainly do NOT. *humph* 

And then it hit me. I do. Or I take pride in not caring about what I drive. Or something.

It goes a little something like this:

My dad brought home my first car. It was a 1979 AMC Spirit. Silver. The fabric on the ceiling was held on with stick pins. I called that car Flake. My less classy friend called it Smegma. If you really want to know, google it. You will discover you really didn't want to know. Where he came up with these words, I'll never know.

I had wheels. Few of my friends had wheels when I got that car. Didn't matter that it was a piece of junk that only started easily half the mornings (not usually the ones where I was late). It didn't matter that as the years wore on and other people got nicer vehicles (and car payments and jobs) the boys relentlessly teased me about buying my car for $50 and driving it in the demo derby. It was my car. I didn't have to ask. I didn't have to share. I just grabbed they keys and drove.

On my 18th birthday, my dad surprised me with a HUGE step up. A 1980-something Dodge Spirit. White. The ceiling was intact. The interior was red. I was so positively giddy with joy and pride to drive a car that didn't flake paint as I cruised that it didn't really occur to me that I didn't pick it. Or that still no one was envying my wheels.

I got married at 20 and with that marriage, my beloved traded his 'Stang for a Mercury Sable hand-me-down of his father's since we were at KU and I couldn't drive stick on the hills. We sold my little white car. Too many insurance payments with two cars. Especially when you live on campus. And little white didn't like to start on cold mornings. And leaked oil. Or so the new owners told me.

The Christmas after we graduated, I totaled the Sable on the interstate in an ice storm. Missed the semi. Hit first one side rail and then another. Never drove the car again.

Hubs went to a car auction. Replaced the aqua sable with an evergreen Sable with evergreen interior. He didn't pay much. Something like $200 less than we got in collision insurance payout.

When we moved to the city, we decided we needed two cars lest I, the stay-at-home-wife (for the time being) go STARK RAVING MAD while trapped in the townhouse ALONE, knowing NO ONE for DAYS ON END.

Beloved's uncle had just returned from a car auction and had a red Ford Taurus (gray interior) he was willing to give us a good deal on. I'm sure it was a good deal, but I remember gasping at the price of something like $7000. I'm sure it had very few miles on it. Enter our first car payment.

Enter my entry level job as the pregnancy, it wasn't a-happenin'. Double payments as long as I was employed. Enter Eldest. Enter unemployment. For both of us. And a pregnancy miracle with Princess.

Yeah.

Sold the green beast to my father, whom I'm sure payed way too much for it (for that we were very grateful). We ate the proceeds over the next several months.

Enter employment. For both of us. As Princess was now born, I did in home daycare. I do not advise people to do this unless they are exceedingly gifted with Other People's Children. I found that I am not. I was OK as long as I had them. Sending them home killed me on a daily basis. Anyhoo, with the daycare came my first minivan.

Someone picked it up for us at auction (see a trend here?). We bought it sight unseen. I remember being quite relieved that it didn't look as nasty as it was priced. (Thinking $2K?)

Drove that minivan until Dearest decided that it's death was imminent.

Friend offered us their meticulously maintained minivan for $7K (blue book). We declined. Didn't have $7K. Just having come off a steady income of Less Than We Needed To Survive. (Partly because I quit daycare and had Frodo--yet another miracle baby.)

 Friend came back a couple months (weeks?) later and offered it to us for less. Maybe $5K?  We decided to drive it. When we showed up to drive it, he lowered the price to $4,500. While we drove it, someone offered him $3500. Not knowing this, we told him we'd take it at $4500. He's far too scrupulous to let us have it for $4500, even though that was the deal, because he'd just told the other guy that if we didn't want it, he'd give it to him for $3500. So he gave it to us for $3500.

Fast forward nearly seven years and you come to last weekend, when Beloved decided the van would not live ONE MORE WEEK. New van MUST be bought. MUST have less than 50K miles on it. Must seat seven (prefer 8, but that isn't happening at our price point). And my personal must: MUST HAVE CARGO ROOM.

You would not believe the price tag we paid for a boring silver minivan. I cried. All weekend. All night. All day. While driving it. While cleaning out the old one. While paying for the new (to me) one.

It seems like if you are going to pay that much money for something, you ought to like it, ya know? But I decided that for me to find a car that fit my family that I actually liked, I'd have to go up another $10-20K. Which I am SO not willing to do.

So, I'm shallow. I thought I'd at least be able to get a minivan that was a color. Any color. But no. Bells and whistles? None. Cargo, I have. Seven seats, I have. Working transmission, I have. Less than fifty thousand miles, I have. Whoopie. My minivan is silver. Along with all the other minivans in the Target parking lot. I have entered Stepford.

But, I have to give Beloved kudos for calling me out about my crap car pride. I don't have it. Really, I don't. I just never actually picked a car before. They showed up in my drive way. Usually for a bargain basement price. And I could say to myself, "Sure, I drive a minivan, but it isn't like I paid much for it or anything." Or, "It isn't like I picked it or anything." Or any variant on the same. And now, suddenly, I have chosen for myself, among the great number of choices (2), a silver minivan. My other option was a silver minivan. (With a few more bells and whistles that I already have missed but a ride that wasn't nearly as smooth.)

And my pride has taken a hit.

Yes, that makes me shallow. Confession is good for the soul. My sister-in-law told me that God was blessing us. I know in my heart she's right. I'm trying to see that monstrosity sitting in my drive way as a blessing. I wanted a Durango or a Yukon or a Suburban. In RED. For less than we paid for the silver minivan.

STOP YER LAUGHIN'!

It's pretty nice that it starts. And goes.

I'm blessed.

Even if it isn't red.

cry me a river

So I was sitting on the couch moping about buying (yet another) minivan when the commercial comes on that begins "I used to cry myself to sleep at night at the thought of driving a minivan..."

*sob*

No, really. That wasn't drama. I LOST IT. The ugle cry. Right there in front people it shouldn't have happened in front of.

(I will be grateful. I WILL be grateful.)

There's more to this story....another day.

Beware the Evening VBS

You'd think that a week of immersion into the Bible would make my children strive to be better people. Quite the contrary. I've seen/heard so many fights and tears in the last three days that if I weren't working VBS, my children would NOT be attending. I have a good mind to leave them at home anyway.

I don't think it's VBS. I think it's the timing of VBS. 6:30-8:30 IN THEORY. I don't think they've gotten out before 8:40 yet, and by the time all the parents finally get to the nursery (where I am) to pick up their kiddos, and I get out to retrieve my kiddos, it's 9:00. By the time we get them home and into bed and asleep, it's 10:00.

I do understand that many, many families function in this time zone in the summer. We do not. As evidenced by all the great weeping and gnashing of teeth that takes place around here by my over-tired children who WILL NOT SLEEP IN.

In the school year I praise God for my early risers, but this week, I just wish they would sleep until nine once.

(I should throw on an afterword that goes something like this: the theological discussions in our van have been delightful. (I should probably not say "in between the fights and tears") And: my kids LOVE VBS and clean up their act when I threaten them that if they don't they won't be going. VBS is a good thing. I know this. Evening VBS can even be necessary for some families. This is a good service to provide for someone, I'm certain. I am trying to get over myself. Go easy on me. I'm a little stressed.)

if you don't have anything nice to say...

I should have something to say. Yet, I don't. I'm cranky. My house is on the market with no lookers. My children watch TV all day and i can't cook the foods I love because i can't make the house smell like anything but vanilla. All assuming that someone at some point will want to see the house at a moment's notice. I yell a lot. I cry a lot. I drop into bed exhausted and can't sleep. Good times. Good times. I'm sure you wish I would write more, dontcha?

Shades of Morning by Marlo Schalesky

Hey, anyone up for an other-worldly story of redemption?

Marnie didn't know much about miracles. 
Mistakes maybe. Accidents. And monstrous mess-ups.
She knew a lot about those.
Bit miracles? Those were for other people.


Marnie Wittier has life just where she wants it. Quiet. Peaceful. No drama. A long way from her past. In the privacy of her home, she fills a box with slips of paper, scribbled with her regrets, sins, and sorrows. But that's nobody else's business. Her bookstore/coffee shop patrons, her employees, her friends from church--they all think she's the very model of compassion and kindness.


Then Marnie's past creeps into her present when her estranged sister dies and makes Marnie guardian of her fifteen-year-old son--a boy Marnie never knew existed. And when Emmit arrives, she discovers he has Down syndrome--and that she's woefully unprepared to care for him. What's worse, she has to deal with Taylor Cole, her sister's attorney, a man Marnie once loved--and abandoned.


As Emmit and Taylor work their way into her heart, Marnie begins to heal. But when pieces of her dismal past surface again, she must as last face the pieces of paper in her box, all the regrets and sorrows. Can she do it? Or will she run again?

This is one of those books that will grip you from page one, but leave you puzzled until the very end, which actually leaves me conflicted about how I feel about the book as a whole. Now that I've finished it, I love the story. Reading it? Grr. I don't like predictable, but a little more hurry out of the confusion would have been nice. (but, frankly, I've been insanely stressed and that could factor into my feelings)

One thing I do know is that, other than an overall satisfying story, you never know what kind of book you'll get when you pick up a Marlo Schalesky. Was this my favorite? No. Was this my least favorite? No. It hovers somewhere in the middle. But I'd still give it an 8.7 out of 10. (As Veil of Fire was a solid 9.8, that's what I expect, and that's a lot to expect from a writer. I know that. I'm trying to mature. ;P )

So, as I said, you like other-worldly, mysterious, time leaping reads, here's a book for you.

Have a good book-filled weekend, peeps!

COTM - Dad Life

In the continuing saga that is Princess and reproduction IV

Yesterday, while reading a complex book about butterflies, Princess hollers from across the house, "WHAT'S SEX?" (Mind you, this was about the third word she didn't understand among others like pheromones, etc.)

I, being of sound mind, yelled back, "Gender. Like being male or female." (Please, God. Deep breath.) "Well, depends on how it's used." Walks upstairs. Reads book. "Yeah, it means how they determine if it's a boy or girl."

I'm going to HAVE to have a talk with her whether she's ready or not. Because she is quite possibly going to public school next year and will need to not be the class idiot that doesn't know what EVERYBODY knows at that age. Gah.

I'm gonna miss our little Christian school.

(Oh, wait, you all don't know about all this yet, do ya? We're moving home. Finally. Details soon. I promise.)

Charming

Charming: Mom, what kind of a day is it?
Mom: A sunny day!
Charming: Oh! A sunny day! I want to kiss it! Can I kiss the sunny day?
Mom: Yes, kiss the sunny day.
Charming: *kisses window* I wuv a sunny day!

Would that we could all approach new days with this enthusiasm.