Conversation--Southern Style

When I moved to the South, I was never quite sure if Southerners were gushing compliments or insults. Or both. Here's a typical overheard conversation at a ubiquitous backyard barbeque:

Southern lady #1: Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but, bless her heart, I just don't know what she's thinkin' wearin' that top with those britches. She must be blind in one eye and can't see out of the other. (Loudly, while waving) That shirt is so colorful, Eula May. Where in the world did ya buy it? 

Southern lady #2 (shaking her head sympathetically): I know. That shirt fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. But her shoes are just darlin'.

Southern lady #1: Oh, my! Look at Sally Ann givin' corn bread to that squirrel. She's just precious, but doesn't have the sense God gave a billy goat. She'd do CPR on roadkill. (Loudly, while waving) Good to see you, Sally Ann! Aren't you just the sweetest thing feedin' that li'l ole squirrel?

Southern lady #2: Oh, sugar! I just spilled my sweet tea. This table is all cattywampus. 

Southern lady #1: It's as tipsy as a rat swimmin' in moonshine. Just like Billy Bob over there. (Loudly) How ya doin', Billy Bob? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. Ya look gooder than grits!

Billy Bob: You ladies are fine as frog hair!

Southern lady #1: He's one sandwich short of a picnic, but he can roast a pork butt that'll make ya wanna slap your momma.

Southern lady #2: (Craning her neck) I can't see the band. Is that Zeke and Willa's son singin'? I haven't seen him since he was knee high to a bullfrog.

Southern lady #1: Ya call that singin'? You know I'm not one to criticize anybody, but he sounds like he's up there callin' hogs. But he's a nice boy. Even if he does have his daddy's ears.

Southern lady #2: At least he doesn't have his momma's nose, bless his little pea-pickin' heart. I still can't see the band.

Southern lady #1: I can't either. Lula Jean makes a better door than a window. (Loudly) Lula Jean, could ya move over a bit, darlin'? We can't see through you, sweetie pete.

Southern lady #2: Oh, good; she's gettin' up for more vittles. She's sure got a healthy appetite, bless her heart. 

Southern lady #1: Not like Betty Lou. That girl'd blow over if someone sneezed. She's a dear, but she can't cook a lick. If a wolf came to her house, he'd have to pack a lunch.

Southern lady #2: Speakin' of food, did you taste this Shoofly Pie? Miss Mary Dean made it.

Southern lady #1: Well, how wonderful of her to pitch in. (Generously) And it's almost good! (Loudly, while waving her fork) Mary Dean, you just have to give me this recipe. I've never tasted a pie quite like this in all my born days! 

Southern lady #2: You know I just love her to pieces, but her tryin' to bake is like a pig in a hen house tryin' to lay an egg. 

Southern lady #1 and #2 (in unison): Bless her heart.

Verse of the day: (Colossians 4:6) "Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt."

For more stories about my experiences in the Deep South, click on Preplanned Packing; Bald Peanuts; Ready Set... Ready Again, Set Again; The Mysterious 'Poke Lawn'; Going Postal (Southern Style); and Dastardly Directions (Southern Style).

Men Can't Tell Time

Jay tried to tell me that when a woman says, "I'll be ready in five minutes" that she really means a half an hour. I informed him that my time is estimated according to his leadership. He thought I was kidding until I reminded him of this conversation early in our marriage:

He: I'm going to Home Depot. I'll be back in half an hour.

Me (with faint skepticism): Did you just say a half an hour?

He (grabbing his keys): Yep.

Me (innocently): I'm new to the area, so I keep forgetting, how long does it take to get there?

He (a little distracted, looking for his wallet): About 20 minutes.

Me: And how long does it take to get home?

He (pausing to look at me as if I'm a little slow): Like I said, about 20 minutes.

Me (raising an eyebrow): OK, then by my math, the soonest you could possibly get back is 40 minutes.

He: Fine. I'll be back in 40 minutes.

Me (sounding a bit confused): So, you don't plan to get out of the car? I'm sure you have your reasons, but I don't understand why you'd go all that way just to gaze at the store as you drive past it through the parking lot on your way home.

He (rolling his eyes): Okay, okay. I'll be about 45 minutes.

Me: Well, that takes care of walking to and from the store. Weren't you planning to buy anything? Or are you just going poke your head in the door, wave at the salespeople, and sprint back to the car?

He: Fine. Add another 5 minutes for shopping.

Me: Oh, pah-leeze! I've been to Home Depot with you. You'll be in there at least 45 minutes.

He (offended): I'm just going in to get some 3" nails. That will take me 5 minutes tops.

Me (snickering): So, you're not going to stop at all to look at lawnmower attachments, power tools, culled wood, shop vacs, survival magazines, saw blades, sandpaper, handheld multi-tools...

He (reluctantly agreeing): Okay, I might get a little distracted if I see something on sale. Or if I get there and remember something else I need. Or if I see something I could use.

Me: No kidding. And have you added time to get through the checkout line? Unless you're planning to shoplift. Because if you are, let me know in advance so I can get some cash ready to pay your bail.

He: Funny.

Me: Why don't we just say that you're going to Home Depot and you'll be back in about two hours?

He (sheepishly): Maybe three. I think they have a new line of outdoor grills. 

Verse of the day: (Psalm 90:12) "Teach us to make the most of our time so that we may grow in wisdom."

For another "shoe on the other foot" story, click here.

You Can't Trust Men

...when they're in a hurry.

Jay was trying to quickly pack (perhaps he should have done his famous "preplanning") before leaving on a weekend trip. I'd cut a few layers into my long hair the night before, but I couldn't reach the back. 
 

My hair's normal length

So although he was running late, I thought he could spare 30 seconds to trim the ends about an inch. He's done it before. In fact, he has trimmed the back of my hair every few months since we got married. It's not difficult. One little cut, straight across. 

But he was in a hurry. He grabbed the scissors, I heard a snip, and off dropped about two inches of cut hair. Startled, I remarked, "That looks like more than an inch." But the deed was already done, so I wasn't going to make a big deal about it.

Then he said, "Wait--it's not quite even," and cut again. I assumed he was just trimming a few straggly hairs, but in his hand he held about three more inches of my severed locks.

I gasped, "What are you doing? You just cut like five inches off!"

He looked at the pile of hair and said, "I don't know. I wasn't thinking. I just was trying to get it straight."

His eyes widened as he absorbed the extent of the damage. He hid the scissors, which was a smart move since he'd just cut off five inches of his wife's hair. 

I looked in the mirror in shock. My curls, suddenly freed from the weight for the first time since I was in Junior High, poofed out.

I resembled Bozo, the legendary clown.

Just call me Bozela

At that point, Jay said, "I'm so sorry! Um, I need to leave," grabbed his luggage, and bolted. Which was another smart move since he'd just cut off five inches of his wife's hair. 

I tried straightening my hair, but it kept curling under. I looked like the late Joan Rivers. Brunette version.

Photo of Joan from PopSugar.com

I called my mother for consolation. She soothed me with, "You always look beautiful, honey. I'm sure you're cute with short hair."

So, I sent her a photo.

She called back.

"What did he do to you?" she gasped. "It's awful!" 

I emailed the photo to a friend. She responded, "It's not bad. But it makes you look older." Great. Facebook already thinks I'm over 50 and looking for "older men" (for that story, click here.).

I tried pulling my hair back to see if it made me look younger, but then I looked like Becky Conner from Roseanne reruns.

Photo by Ron Galella/WireImage

Photo by Nastase Nuttiness

The next day I washed my hair and let it air dry after gobbing on gel to tame my unruly, clown curls. The styling product helped quite a bit. But I still had a triangle-head hairdo.

It gave me flashbacks to the 1980s. (I know you think I was a mere infant in the 1980s, but let's just say that I was old enough to walk and leave it there.) I totally had an overwhelming urge to throw on jellies and totally run to the mall for an Orange Julius. Like in a ripped sweatshirt, acid washed jeans, and totally rad legwarmers. Totally. 

For some reason, I just wanted to Dance With Somebody (with somebody who loves me. Oh, yeah. Uh huh. Woo!). I wondered if Walk(ing) Like an Egyptian would help my pyramid hair make more sense.

I don't often look at myself, so I kept forgetting that half my hair was missing. Every time I walked past a mirror, I shrieked thinking there was an intruder in the house.

Jay called several times during his trip to apologize to me. 

I told him that it was just hair.

And it would grow back.

And I love him more than my brownie-locks.
 
He was thankful since he knows that most women would be furious if their husbands butchered their tresses.

Yet I'm an example to all of a heart of forgiveness. 

And godly mercy.

And grace.

I also plan to give him a Mohawk while he's sleeping.

Verse of the day: (Judges 16:19) "Delilah lulled Samson to sleep with his head in her lap, and then she called in a man to shave off the seven locks of his hair. In this way she began to bring him down, and his strength left him." On a second thought, I need Jay to do heavy lifting and yard maintenance, so I may leave his hair unshaved. This time.

Bonus verse of the day contributed by Jay: (2 Samuel 18:9) "He tried to escape on his mule, but as he rode beneath the thick branches of a great tree, his hair got caught in the tree. His mule kept going and left him dangling in the air." At least I made sure that if Pamela is ever escaping through a forest on a mule, long hair won't slow her down. Knowing her, something like that could actually happen. #SilverLining

To read why I thought better about asking Jay, "What did I ever do to you?" click here for "Our Trip was the Bomb."

To read another story to prove I can't depend on Jay listening to me, click here for "She Said, He Heard."

To read about Jay's bizarre concept of "preplanning," click here.  

To read why Facebook thinks I'm over 50 and balding, click here. 


Followup: It was six days before I found the scissors. My hair-genius friend Amy made a house call and modernized the style of my unintentional bob, so Jay felt safe enough to return home. This time.

Post from Jay--Mount Vesuvius (with Kefir Recipe)

Pamela is still on her blogcation while she's getting hyperbaric oxygen treatment, so I'm filling in for her.

The other night I was comfortably lying in bed when Pamela called from the kitchen, "Um, honey. I might need a teeny bit of help in here."

She hadn't screamed and I didn't hear anything crash, but I know her "I was just an innocent bystander when..." tone of voice well enough to get there quickly.

Pamela makes her own water kefir (a fizzy drink made from fermenting kefir grains). Feeling the need for a shot of probiotics before bed, she went into the kitchen to get some, even though she suspected that had she let the most recent batch ferment for a day or two too long. 

When Pamela uncorked the bottle, the kefir shot up like Mount Vesuvius. The entire contents hit the ceiling and rained down. She stood, holding the empty bottle, with caramel-colored kefir dripping off her face and hair, and casually explained her reason for calling me: "I can't reach the ceiling, and you won't let me climb on the counters." 

I grabbed some towels to sop up the sticky mess muttering, "Well, this is a blog post."

She brightened and said, "I'll get my camera!" 

"I'm kidding!"

She wiped up the floor and counter, but most of the spewed liquid was out of her reach, so she helpfully followed me around cheerfully pointing out things like, "Look! Some even got on top of the refrigerator!" and "Hey, it's even dripping down the inside of the cupboard doors!" until I shooed her away.

When I finally finished cleaning, I suggested she put a Post-It note on each new batch of water kefir with the date on it. She looked at me, puzzled, and said, "Why would I do that? I like it fizzy."

Verse of the day: "What are you waiting for? Get up and be baptized. Have your sins washed away by calling on the name of the Lord" (Acts 22:16). By the way, the Bible recommends baptism in water, not in a kefir geyser. 

Note from Pamela: On the plus side, our kitchen ceiling hasn't been this clean and sparkly in years!

To read why Jay flatly refuses to let Pamela climb on the counters, click here.  (This is the blog's most-read post, so we know we're not the only ones who can relate.)

To read about how Pamela started fermenting, click here. 

Pamela's directions on how to make water kefir:
 
1. Obtain water kefir grains (they're different from milk kefir grains.). You can get them from a friend (like me) or order them here. If you order them, you'll have to rehydrate them for a few days. Use plastic--don't let your grains touch metal. Put your grains aside.

2. Dissolve an equal amount of sugar (preferably organic cane sugar or sucanant, do not use honey) as you have kefir grains (1/4 cup of kefir to 1/4 cup of sugar) in a couple of cups of filtered water (tap water has chlorine that will damage your grains).

This is sucanant, a raw sugar

We have well water, so we have happy kefir. It grows like dandelions in the spring. Well, a little differently, but I couldn't think of a good analogy. Multiplies like tiny, rubbery bunnies? If you don't have well water or are using distilled water, then add liquid minerals. You'll have healthier grains if you add them, and happy grains give you tons of probiotics.Which is why you're making kefir in the first place. Unless you're just trying to be hipster.

I mix the sugar in a bit of hot water to speed up the dissolving process. When the sugar is dissolved, then I add cold water (because you don't want to cook your little kefir grains).

3. Pour your sugar water into a glass jar. Add more water until you have about 4-6 cups of liquid (depending on how strong you want your kefir).
 
4. Make sure your water is cool (again, so you don't cook your kefir grains) and then add the kefir grains.
 
5. Cover the jar with a coffee filter and rubber band and let it sit in a dark, warmish (70-75 degrees) place (a pantry or cupboard is recommended. A shelf in your husband's closet is not recommended because he might accidentally knock it over. Not saying I know anything about that--just guessing.).

My water is brownish because I used tan sugar. If you use white sugar (please use unbleached), then your water should look more clear (if it's not, then you need to call a plumber because something scary is growing in your water pipes.).
 
6. After 3 days (no more or you'll starve your poor grains), strain out the kefir grains with a non-metal strainer (don't let your grains touch metal). Make sure your kefir juice is in a plastic or glass container (because you don't want to kill your pro-biotics).

My grains are brownish from the brown sugar. Normally they're clearish. I think mine look better with a little tan. As do I.
 
7. Rinse off your grains. Everyone needs a shower now and then.

Remeasure the grains so you know how much sugar to use in your new batch. They should double in number each time you use them. If you have more than you want, put the extra grains in your compost pile where they will greatly benefit your soil.

8. Make a new batch of sugar water. Add about 1/4 cup of your strained kefir juice to the new sugar water as a starter. Your probiotics will grow better in the new sugar water if they have some kefir juice to encourage them. Like new kids feel better if they have someone to play with who already knows their way around. 

9. Put your strained kefir juice in a glass or plastic jar with a plastic lid (you don't want a metal lid to accidentally touch your kefir juice and kill the probiotics.). You can drink the kefir juice just as it is. Start with a few tablespoons at first to see how your body reacts to it. It might clean out your innards a bit if you drink too much at first. I drink like a cup of it a day, but I need a lot of probiotics with my digestion issues.

Or you can add some fruit juice to your kefir juice to make it tastier. I like it in equal parts. And I only like pear or apple juice. Pineapple, orange, and pomegranate juice tasted weird to me. So did coconut water. But you might like it. If you're weird.

If you juice your own apples and pears, then strain the juice or you'll get bits of pulp floating around. That puts people off. On a plus side, you won't have to share your kefir juice. Just say, "What's that floating in the juice? Odd. Oh, well. Do you want to try some?" It works until they catch on that you're hoarding your kefir.

10. If you want fizzy kefir, then put it in a bottle with an air-tight lid. I think the blue ones are prettiest. They come in 16 oz. or 32 oz. sizes.

Let it sit in a pantry or cupboard for another day or so. Sometimes it doesn't get fizzy if your cupboard isn't warm enough. 

Warning! Don't let it sit in the cupboard for 4 days even if you think your house is really cold (unless it's really cold--our house was at 68 degrees) or it will erupt when you open it (see above story.). But that's kind of fun, so I advise you to try it at least once. 

If you need a break from making kefir, put your grains in a new jar of sugar water and put it in the refrigerator. The cold slows the fermentation process. Your grains will hibernate like bears in Yellowstone Park in the winter. Not that I've ever been to Yellowstone Park in the winter, but that's what I learned from watching Yogi Bear. He might sneak picnic baskets, but he'd never lie about hibernation.

Jay's Post--My Funny Felon Bride

Jay here. I'm filling in for Pamela while she's getting hyperbaric oxygen treatments.

Last week was our 12th anniversary. I did better this year, but, then again, I had nowhere to go but up (to read about that fiasco, click here). This year I sent her roses and chocolate-covered strawberries. 

Pamela (in shock): Honey! I can't believe you did this!

Me: I wanted to make up for all the times I didn't get you anything.

Pamela (narrowing her eyes): Does this have anything to do with the fact that now I'm writing a blog?

Me (ignoring her question and shoving a strawberry in her mouth): Here, baby. Aren't these good?

Pamela (with her mouth full): Dothemritabus.

Me: Sure. Whatever you said. I love you, too.

Pamela (distracted from her blog question by chocolate): You are so incredibly sweet!

Me (modestly): Yeah.

Pamela (squinching up her face): Great. After years of following your lead into marital complacency, now I have to come up with something to give you.

I grinned and assured her that she didn't need to get me anything. But a little later... 

Pamela:  Sweetie, at least I can give you an anniversary card.

Me: Just a minute. I need to get your card.

Pamela: Okay.

Me (digging through piles of papers in the office): I can't find the card I got you!

Pamela: You can give it to me later.

Me: No, I want to find it. 

Pamela (holding out a card): Just read your card. You can give me my card whenever you find it.

Me (frustrated): I know it's here. I just had it!

Pamela (glancing at the card she was about to give me with a look of realization): Oh. Wait. Um, is this the card you're looking for?

Me: Are you saying that you stole the card that I bought you so you had a card to give to me?
 
I'm shaking my head but laughing. I'm not sure that's what Proverbs 31 was referring to when it says a virtuous wife resourceful, but Pamela would argue differently.

Verse of the day: "He who finds a wife finds a treasure and has favor from the Lord" (Proverbs 18:22). 

Follow-up from Pamela: There was a lot of stuff lying around the office. How was I supposed to remember who bought that particular card? Besides, if he bought it, then it's guaranteed that I'm giving him a card he would like. He should appreciate that. Especially since I proved a couple of posts ago (click here) that he's impossible to buy for. And if we're "one flesh," like it says in the Bible, then if he buys a card, it's the same as me buying the card. Right? That's simple, Biblical logic.

Follow-up from Jay: She stole my card. Then tried to give it to me for our anniversary. Enough said.

Baby, Light My Fire

The night before our anniversary a few years ago, Jay filled in for a captain at a fire station near our friend Cheryl's house, so he dropped me off before he left for work so I could spend the night at her house. Since his shift wouldn't end until 8 AM, I playfully told him, "I should prank call the fire department at midnight to get them to send your truck to this area so I'll get to see you the minute our anniversary starts." (I was kidding.)

Cheryl and I are both night owls, so we were watching a movie in the wee hours of the morning when we saw flashing lights pass the front window. We looked out to investigate. Her next door neighbor had put something flammable in his garbage bin before putting it by the curb for morning pick up. Somehow it ignited, and there was a flaming pile of plastic and garbage at the end of his driveway.

I recognized the gorgeous captain swinging off the fire truck, so I excitedly threw my fluffy, pink robe over my jammies and ran outside to see my husband. 

The crew knew what to do, so Jay left them and walked across the lawn to see me. As he approached the porch, I squealed, "It's after midnight; Happy Anniversary, honey!" I mean, what were the odds that I'd get to see him so soon?

He grinned, grabbed me in a big bear hug, and kissed me. It was cold, so he kept his arms wrapped snugly around me and rubbed my back as he murmured into my hair, "Happy Anniversary, baby!"

I glanced past his shoulder and saw his crew staring at us in utter shock. It was then that I realized that they didn't know anything about Jay. They thought their substitute captain just walked up to a random woman (wearing a robe, no less) at a fire scene and started making out with her!

The rookie dutifully held the hose over the flames, but his eyes were completely locked on us. His open-mouthed look of awe said, "I heard stuff like this happens, but I thought they were kidding. I've got to take that Captain's Test!"



Verse of the day: "(He) must be a man whose life is above reproach. He must be faithful to his wife. He must exercise self-control, live wisely, and have a good reputation" (I Timothy 3:2).

For another anniversary story, click here.
To read why Jay is terrified I will take "Come on, baby, light my fire" literally, click here. Oh, wait, there's another fire one here. Maybe now would be a good time to mention that I did not light the neighbor's trash bin on fire to see Jay as soon as our anniversary started.

Alone and Happy on Thanksgiving!

Jay left at 7 AM this morning for his 24-hour shift at the fire station, and, because of health issues, I'm not physically up to going to anyone's house. Which means that I'm alone on Thanksgiving.

Someone asked if that makes me sad.

Nope! Not one bit.

Why?

Because it's not a day to indulge in self-pity. I can feel sorry for myself the day before or the day after, but I certainly can't do it on a day dedicated to thanks!

It's not "Give Thanks if Things the Way You Want Them Day" or "Give Thanks if You're with Friends and Family Eating Turkey and Pumpkin Pie Day."

It's an entire day, morning to night, dedicated to thankfulness.

No matter what my circumstances.

So, I woke up this morning thankful for my warm, soft bed. And pajamas. And clean water in a clean glass on my nightstand. And slippers. And indoor plumbing. And toilet paper (leaves are too crunchy this time of year to work well, I'd imagine). And a house with central heat. And fresh bread. And a toaster. (Now you know how my mornings start.)

Even our animals are filled with gratitude.

The chickens are thankful that I gave them extra meal worms.

Caleb is thankful that after a week, Blanche opened her wounded eye. It's only half open, but progress is wonderful!

I'd been hoping she wouldn't be blind in that eye, because she's been walking around with her head cocked sideways for a week, and I didn't want to have to find a chicken chiropractor.

Zoe is thankful that I allow her to massacre toys in our front room. She gets immense joy from disemboweling stuffed animals.

I'm thankful that she's so easy to entertain.
 

She's also thankful she gets to pose for photos since it's one of her favorite things (for whatever weird reason).

I may not be eating turkey today, but I'm thankful that I have a turkey cookie! (It's not turkey-flavored, just to be clear, only turkey-decorated.)

And I'd argue that a cookie might be even be better than turkey.

I'm thankful that I have a variety of wholesome food. But even if I only had porridge to eat (I still have no idea what that is, but poor Goldilocks had to be desperate to try it), I'd be thankful that I had bowl and a spoon to eat it with.

(Just wondering, why would you make dinner, put it on the table, and then take a long walk without eating it? Is that just a bear-thing? If so, I'm thankful I'm not a bear.)

I'm thankful I have a telephone so I could call Jay (and hear him answer with his mouth full of fire house Thanksgiving dinner) and remind him that I'm thankful for him. His response was, "Yeah, yeah, I'm thankful for you, too, honey, and I'll call you back when we're done eating." Rub it in, darling (eye roll).

But I know this day isn't about the food I'm not eating, but about giving thanks for what I do have. (I had cheesy eggs and a homemade biscuit, and they were quite yummy.)

I'm thankful that I can sit on massive mounds of oak leaves with our pets and feel the sun on my face.

Facebook is filled with photos of my friends and relatives getting together with their friends and relatives, and I'm thankful they welcome me into their lives long-distance. It makes me smile to see their pictures. And knowing them is another reason for gratitude.

I'm thankful that I can focus on giving thanks to God all day without human (or culinary) distractions. I'm alone with Him, so He gets all of my attention today.

That's why some of my best holidays are when Jay is working, and I have to focus on the real reason for the celebration. 'Jesus and me' is enough.

I'm extremely thankful that I'm not named Habakkuk. (Imagine that nickname. Habby? Kukky? BakBak?)

But even Habakkuk was thankful:

Verse of the day: (Habakkuk 3:17-18) "Even though the fig trees have no blossoms, and there are no grapes on the vines; even though the olive crop fails, and the fields lie empty and barren; even though the flocks die in the fields, and the cattle barns are empty, yet I will rejoice in the Lord! I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!"  And that is why I am having a happy Thanksgiving.

It's Impossible to Buy for Men

It's impossible to buy gifts for men. Jay rarely wears ties and has plenty of socks (my standard gifts for my dad when I was growing up), and whenever I've asked what I can get him for a present, he's shrugged and replied, "Nothing. When I want something, I buy it myself." 

I love giving gifts, so his attitude has not deterred me. It has just made me try harder.

For example, when Jay goes camping, he often complains about the cold, so I came up with several amazing solutions. But Jay objected to every, single one. Here are a few things that he assured me that, upon receiving, he would set ablaze at the fire department for fire suppression training. Proving that he is a difficult, difficult man.

Not only would he be warm and cozy, but this practical gift would render him invisible to forest predators. And the added bonus is that it would keep bugs from flying up his nose!

And if he wanted to hide in a puddle, he could wear this one!

Jay, to my disgust, shot both options down.

But being the persistent and wonderful wife that I am, I persevered.

I thought more color might appeal to him. I even discovered a matching option for me!

photo from Wild Flower Dyes on etsy.com

photo from Wild Flower Dyes on etsy.com

 

 

See how happy these two people look? We could look like them, too!

 

Well, except that I don't camp.

Or frolic in the woods in long johns.

Or get high.

But if I did, then I am utterly convinced that this would be the thing to wear!

But Jay, otherwise known as Captain Picky Pants (don't tell him I called him that.), flatly refused to even consider my selection.

Finally, after hours of desperate searching, I discovered the preeminent gift.

The incomparable gift.

The inimitable gift.

True perfection in giving.

Undeniably the BEST GIFT EVER!

A knit onesie. In sage green, to match his eyes and the woodland beauty of the forest.

 



 

To my utter surprise, he had such a negative reaction that I won't even describe it (especially since this is a family blog).

Ingrate. 

From now on, I'm only buying him socks and ties.

I can't wait to see his beaming face full of joyful gratitude when he rips the wrapping paper off of his gifts to find these beauties:

 

 







Verse of the day: (Colossians 2:7) "Let your roots grow down into Him and let your lives be built on Him. Then your faith will grow strong in the truth you were taught, and you will overflow with thankfulness." I read this verse to Jay and he pointed to the man in the knit onesie and remarked, "That guy is hiding his face and clenching both of his fists. 'Overflow with thankfulness' that you have enough sense to not buy that thing for me."

 

 

Camo unisuits can be purchased at www.amazon.com
Knit onsie can be purchased (at your own risk) at http://www.trendhunter.com/trends/full-body-sweater

Sponge Bob bow tie can be purchased at www.etsy.com

 

Who Does Facebook Think You Are?

I don't mind Facebook putting ads on the side of the screen since they don't charge for using their service. However, I'm a bit confused about the ads they choose for me.

In the beginning they posted "Older men looking for sexy women over 50." I'm not near 50, let alone over 50! How many wrinkles do I look like I have in my photos? And why would I be lured by the thought of "older men" finding me sexy? Is Facebook convinced that I'm unappealing to men my own age?

The ad column eventually added "Medical Miracle Cures for Obesity!" and "How to Lose Belly Fat with One Weird Trick." So, they not only think I look older than I really am, but they also are of the opinion that I desperately need to lose weight.

If my advanced age and considerable size weren't enough to fret about, the other day I was shown ads for "Facial Hair Grooming Kits" and "The Art of Shaving."

How Facebook sees me

How I see myself













Apparently they also believe my hairline is receding because then I was sent cures for baldness and helpful hints on how to hide extreme hair loss.

Those were followed by "Sexy Club Dresses--$10!"

And then "How to Cope with a Loss of Bladder Control."

Well, now I know why Facebook advises me to go for older men. Only men with limited faculties would find a balding, bearded, urine-soaked woman in a cheap, hoochie dress remotely sexy.


It could be worse. 

I have a girlfriend who gets ads for prostate health.


Verse of the day: (Matthew 16:15-16) “'But what about you?' (Jesus) asked. 'Who do you say I am?' Simon Peter answered, 'You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.'” Peter got the answer perfectly right. 

Happy Chicken Lady Day (Yes, It's a Real Holiday)

When Jay first told me that he wanted backyard chickens, I thought it was a phase and hoped that if I ignored it, he'd move on to something else. However, he persisted. Finally, I told him, "Honey, I don't like birds and I don't like eggs, but I really like you, so I won't protest if you get them."

If you've read my post Daylight Nightlight, then you know that one of the conditions of getting hens was that we would do whatever we could to make their life enjoyable (which led to the heat lamp fiasco). 

You also know from my post Hidden Hen Hazards, that I can occasionally take things too far.  

At various times in a chicken's life, she moults. This means the old feathers fall off and are replaced with new feathers. The birds usually look half-naked and, since feathers are made of protein, they stop laying eggs as they grow new feathers. Our chickens have a large yard in which to find plenty of protein-rich worms and bugs, so they grew feathers back as quickly as they lost them and never stopped laying.

This past winter, however, we had more snow than usual, so the bugs were few and the worms were deep in the hard ground. Our girls began to look a little scraggly, so I decided to supplement their diet with meal worms.

In the beginning, I was freaked green looking at all the photos of dried, freeze-dried, and live worms on-line as I shopped for the best prices, but out of love of our sweet biddies, I persevered. 

It was rather late when I read the blog of a man who raises his own meal worms.

Me: Jay, listen to this. He keeps them in his living room! Ewww!

Jay (half asleep): That's nice.

Me (still reading): Oh, he keeps them indoors because they need a temperature of least 70 degrees. How warm is our shed in the winter?

Jay (yawning): Not nearly that warm. It's not insulated.

Me (perusing further): He keeps them in a plastic bin with wheat bran for food and apple slices for moisture. He says they're an incredibly cheap source of protein for chickens.

Then I actually asked: Do we have an empty plastic bin somewhere?

Seriously! Someone help me!

If we don't have $7.99 for a bag of freeze dried meal worms, then our chickens will just have to run around half-naked until their feathers fill in.

Because I'm not one of those crazy people who would breed meal worms in her living room for her chickens!



But I am one of those people who would consider knitting them little sweaters until their feathers grow back...

Photo credit: happyvalleycrafters.com

Photo credit: lorainestevens.co.uk

Come on, aren't they cute? Or have I gone off the deep end again? I've lost my ability to tell.

Verse of the day: (Proverbs 12:10a) The righteous care about the needs of their animals..." Jay protests otherwise, but clearly chicken sweaters fall under the category of animal "needs." Which makes me, obviously, more righteous than Jay. Please pray for him to be enlightened.

For two other chicken stories, see "Hidden Hen Hazards" and "Daylight Nightlight." 

Since writing the above post, I've been made aware that a wonderful and magical place called Circle A Hardware (who knew a hardware could be magical?) is selling chicken harnesses! 

Don't have their website, but their # is 225-567-5453

Can you imagine Jay taking a walk with two dogs and four chickens on leashes? I can! 

He says he can't. He has no imagination. 

Which means I really, really need to buy the harnesses. 

To assist his underactive imagination. 

Because I'm helpful.

Helping those who are lacking is a good thing.

Right?