Happy Late Rebellion Day

Coulda sworn there was something I was going to write about today. Huh. Oh well.

Hey, do you read Epbot.com? You remember Cake Wrecks(.com), right? The creator, Jen, decided to start a personal blog for her personal thoughts on her not-so-personal website, epbot.com (epbot being a combination of Epcot--and if you don't know the Epcot reference, you don't read Cake Wrecks enough--and robot, something she's into). It's cute. Anyway, if you read that already then you've seen this. If not, then here it is.

As she said in her post, it gets a little odd at the end, but I can't stop watching it. It's just so well done. And I realize it's a little late, being that it's well after the Fourth of July at this point, but I wasn't in town on the 4th so here it is now (oh yeah! That's what I was going to write about! Well, later.).

I dare you not to watch this more than once. I DARE YOU!

Perhaps it's just me in a patriotic mood, or perhaps it was the entire "John Adams" series the Husband and I saw. (John Adams turns out to be one of the most influential founding fathers we had, but the history books were never kind to him and rarely gave him his rightful dues.) At any rate, I've been in the mood for Revolutionary War-era things lately and this fun video fit in nicely with that. Also, feel free to research the era on your own; it's a fascinating time period.

Happy late Independence Day, America. You rock.

It's Not Easy Being Green

So while we're blabbing about Peawhistle, I figured I'd talk about her views on the supernatural. Now, I'm not a big fan of terrifying my children unnecessarily. Other people's kid, yeah, but not my own. I have to live with them after all. I still recall the many weeks when PW started getting out of bed at night because she was scared giants were going to come crashing through her window. It took many explanations to get her to believe that giants (as those in her imagination) do not exist outside storybooks. This is also why I've very strenuously asserted that things like ghosts, witches, vampires, etc. do not exist. I'm not prepared to get into a discussion about Wicca or modern-day vampire wanna-bes with a six-year-old, so I've just decided to make things simple by telling her they're all make-believe. She's on board with this and often remarks about how none of these things exist, hence why she thinks they're funny.

Not long after St. Patrick's Day, PW informed me that she thinks St. Patrick's Day is a stupid holiday. I asked why (before it was because she wanted a holiday named after her instead) and she said it's because she thinks St. Patrick was a leprechaun and she doesn't believe in leprechauns. This, coming from the kid who is all about living the Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy lie. I explained who St. Patrick was, that he did indeed exist, and why the Irish/Catholics felt it necessary to give him a holiday. She was only vaguely satisfied with this, but she still clearly resents the whole affair.

PW just recently told me that she does not believe in elves. Not the wood-sprite kinda elves, but Santa's elves. Remember, she is an ardent supporter of Santa himself, but his elves? Screw them. They're not real. I asked her where the toys come from and she said they came from a factory, with a "Duh!" look on her face. You know, Santa's Factory, where Canadian minimum-wage workers crank out her favorite toys in between smoke breaks and quittin' time.

So let's review:

Santa Claus: real

elves: fake

Easter Bunny: real

Tooth Fairy: real

ghosts: fake

witches: fake

vampires: fake

leprechauns: fake

giants: ?

Saint Patrick: fake

So...anybody who willingly forks over toys, candy, or cash has to be the real thing. Everybody else can just go to hell. Fair enough.

I Should Have Had a Model in a Sequined Dress

The results from the Post-it Note NieNie Free Book Prize Drawing are in and there are TWO winners! Yes, two winners! Why? Because I'm saintly. Also, because I decided that Heidi deserved a book no matter what, because within two hours of my quiz posting she had coughed up all of the answers, every whit correct on each and every one. She made me happy. It was also proved to me that the Fates wanted her to have one because I put her name in the drawing for laughs anyway and hers was the first name I drew out. So congratulations to Heidi! As soon as I get the books in the mail yours will be out the door to you.

And the second winner in the drawing was....Stephanie! Congratulations, Stephanie! She answered everything more or less correctly and got it in within the deadline I gave to her since my original deadline was before she even came home from vacation. So she got another day to get them in. Good job to her and to everyone who took the time to take the quiz and trip down memory lane with me in hopes of free prizes.

And now, for your edification, here are the answers:

1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis? Annapolis. Or more accurately, "the blasted city of Annapolis" as Stephanie, one of our winners you recall, answered.

2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous? There's a photo of it up on Cake Wrecks with my poopy Rudolph cake on top of it.

3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert? Janis Ian. Remember, that's just one of the time when I got lost in Annapolis. You see how it all links together with me?

4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you? Jerome Morris. Yes, that Mainer artist extraordinaire who indeed read my blog post about him and never spoke another word to me. I don't think he was nearly as amused as I was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the theme of my blog is "It's funny when it's not you." On a related note, if you or your wealthy parents would like to pester Mr. Morris during a lovely and relaxing vacation to the coast of Maine, we rent our beautiful family cottage (it sleeps 6! Or 7 1/2 if you like couches!) out for the summer. Email me. We'll talk prices.

5) What is Michael Phelps's real name? Bob Carol. Oh, like he wouldn't be just as good at swimming with a name like that? Please.

6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF? Barbie dolls. A non-collection that has grown since I last wrote about it, by the way.

7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me. DNC, NSA, FBI, Smithsonian . I'd tell them to give it up, but I fear I'm just too addictive.

8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs? He is a former USAF intelligence officer trained in the art of being masterly sneaky. Or as Heidi, our first winner, put it, "Because he was a career USAF officer with Jason Bourne-like skills at hiding documents from the KGB-impersonating counterintelligence guys." Right on, Heidi.

9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they? Celtic Thunder/Celtic Man. To quote Gwennifer, "I didn't realize it was possible to feel physically assaulted by a singing group, but I now know the feeling." So do the rest of us. So do the rest of us.

10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants? The ever-endearing, overly self-confident, and always entertaining Dr. Combat. Did I mention healthgrades.com tells you where your doctors work? And that it told me Dr. Combat is alive and still in the Army torturing others at yet another Army hospital? It's nice to know he hasn't been stripped of his natural environment.

Many thanks again to everyone who participated. I wish I was rich enough to give books to everyone who submitted answers because you all deserve it. For everyone but Heidi and Stephanie, go buy the book! If you buy the digital copy all proceeds go to the NieNie Fund; the hardcopy version gives all proceeds minus $8 printing costs. Hurry! Buy it! Be famous by association! And do something nice for a nice couple with four nice kids who suffered unmeasurable tragedy. Go. Buy. Help. And feel good about yourselves afterward.

Rudolph the Poop-torsoed Reindeer

Huh. Forgot about my blog. And so did everyone else, so no one missed much. Hooray!

I just wanted to share our joy with you. "Our" refers to "my kitchen linoleum and I." We are thrilled because we're quasi-famous over on the Cake Wrecks site! Woohoo! The hideous Rudolph Christmas cake I bought from the grocery store down the road was featured on Christmas day (among other wrecks). I had to buy it because I was afraid it wouldn't be there when I came back with my camera. It came with a red plastic bow on top of the cover, supposedly either to distract your attention away from the cake itself, or apologize in advance for what you were about to see. Go see the wreck in all its glory here (it's about halfway down).

FYI, we did indeed eat the cake (it was chocolate). We saved the piece containing the poop-like head with creepy smile just for Peawhistle. She loved it. Then she ate it.

Question: what is all that crap in Rudolph's antlers? Anybody? Anybody?

Merry Christmas! II

You know that email that goes around every year showing those photos of kids on Santa's lap, screaming in terror? I love that. Here's my favorite photo in that whole group, mostly because it's exactly what I would have done:

So classic.

We almost had a classic photo like that this year. Peanut wouldn't look at the camera, so Santa's "Helper" started with the incredibly loud doggy squeaky toy to grab his attention. The toy freaked him out. He started to get upset. She squeaked it some more, hoping that he would do a 180 and suddenly love the sound it made. Instead, he cried louder. Genius squeaked it more furiously, Peanut wailed more furiously. During all of this I am shouting over the din at this rocket scientist, "I think the toy is scaring him. Perhaps you should stop." Again with the squeaking, again with the crying, again with the shouting. We only got one photo of Peanut with Santa where he wasn't crying like the world was ending:

No, you can't see his face, but it's the best we've got. Just double what you see there and you've got it. You also can see PW's bruised lip from when she fell on the pavement outside Arlington National Cemetery on our jaunt to D.C. to see Stephen. And for some reason she has some weird lazy-eye action going on there. It's not normally there, so I'll assume it's the photographer's fault. Anyway. Merry Christmas and may your holidays be full of sugar cookies (friggin' jerks....).

I'm Waaaaaaiting....

Apparently you've all forgotten, because I'm noticing the same issue this year. You have five days to prove me wrong. FIVE DAYS.

The Christmas Spirit

Here's my favorite rendition of "O Holy Night," introduced to me by Leslie. It puts me in the Christmas spirit every year, especially the second half of the song. Enjoy.

Don't Say I Never Did Nothin' For Ya

In case you've forgotten, I don't like doing these things. As I've said before, I already volunteer WAY WAY WAY too much information on here as it is. However, I love Gwennifer with the intensity of a thousand medium-sized suns so I will finally get to the thingy she tagged me for on her blog. I would like to point out at this time that I suspect I was one of the eight people tagged for this because Gwennifer only knows eight people who have blogs. So really, it's not so much of an honor as it is an attempt to irritate everyone she knows. Regardless, I will appease the little twirp. That being said, I cannot guarantee I can think of eight things for every category. OK, here we roll.

8 favorite TV shows:
*Simpsons
*Family Guy
*The Daily Show
*The Colbert Report
*Hogan's Heroes
*Criminal Minds
*The Office
*Whatever my neighbors are watching

2 favorite restaurants (pick one):
*The Palace Arms at the Brown Palace Hotel
*Arby's

8 things I did yesterday:
*Went to church
*Played the piano (please see comments section for a full disclosure of events)
*Made halos for the Christmas party nativity play
*Made dinner
*Watched the movie "Battle of Britain"
*Didn't crash the car
*Didn't murder anyone
*Didn't rob any banks

3 things I look forward to:
*Christmas
*Going to bed
*Eating dinner, followed by going to bed

3 things I love about fall:
*Hellish summer is finally over
*Almost winter!
*Those horrible children are finally back in school and not in my frontyard

8 things on my wishlist:
*Those horrible children will get off my lawn
*Jon Stewart will start stalking me
*Stephen Colbert will apologize to me
*Random passersby will give me money
*I won't ever have to cook again
*My car will fly
*The FDA's newest food pyramid recommending 6-8 servings of brownies per day
*A License to Kill

The Very Bowels of Hell: Take Two

I was stuck behind an old people shuttle bus today. On the back it said "Dept. of Aging." We have a Department of Aging? Since when? And why does my Coke taste like eggnog? It's disturbing.

Anyway. Have I ever mentioned that I hate Annapolis? I have? Have I ever told you exactly how much I hate Annapolis? I have? Have I told you lately? No? Then allow me to update you: I FRICKING HATE ANNAPOLIS AND THE WHOLE CITY CAN GO TO HELL. OH WAIT, IT ALREADY IS HELL. NEVERMIND. Consider yourselves appropriately caught up.

Several months ago a friend mentioned some Christmasy show for kids that some kid-based theatrical company puts on every year and it's so cute, yada yada yada. I figured Peawhistle would get a kick out of it, plus it included breakfast, so I signed us up. I noted well at the time that it was in Annapolis--and mind you, not the good part of Annapolis, the part you can actually escape from, but the really bad part that won't let you out. The heart of the evil if you will. I assumed that over the course of three months I could come up with some scheme that would allow me to avoid getting myself stuck in there alone. I tried everything, which is to say I emailed another woman who was going and tried to con her into carpooling, but she would have none of it. Foiled! So I printed off as many directions and maps as I possibly could before trekking into our virtual perpetual graves. I bid a loving final farewell to the Husband and Peanut; PW and I made our way out the door to our demise.

As soon as I approached The Evil's epicenter, I could sense something was wrong. My map showed two roundabouts (a traffic device with which the state of Maryland has a special love affair if you recall) near and around the capitol building--one of which would lead me to my destination, and the other to my doom. It's like I was living a storybook maze. I missed the turnoff to the roundabout that I actually wanted (why? Because Annapolis doesn't believe in properly marking its streets, remember?) and headed for the Hateful Roundabout instead. I began to swear profusely and did not cease doing so for the better part of an hour. We circled the capitol hoping to come upon the exit we needed, never once seeing it. We went up streets and down streets, not having any clue which led where. We got back on the roundabout (SAME DANG ROUNDABOUT MIND YOU) only to discover that some of the streets had changed, while others had not. I came to realize that there were not two roundabouts as promised by Mapquest, but only one mystical and possessed roundabout that constantly shifted depending upon the city's cursed whims.

The street I wanted, which I could see clearly from Lucifer's Roundabout, I could not access as it only led into the roundabout but not from it. I kept trying to drive onto various streets near to it, hoping to find a sidestreet (all of them one way streets) that would allow me to head in its direction, only to find that upon finally finding one that led the correct way it led me no where near it. I finally drove around long enough that I found my sidestreet, parked nearly right next to the Roundabout From Hell, and ran as fast as I could while dragging a four-year-old the entire length of this road to get to this breakfast fiasco. And we made it 15 minutes before they stopped serving breakfast (it having started 45 minutes before) and before they started their idiotic program, what with the kicking and the dancing and the gyrating and the Christmas Bear (?) and Christmas elves and Christmas Rat (?) and whatever.

Tangent Time. I fell asleep watching TV the other night only to waken at 4am to a standup comic talking about how much white people suck at dancing. I started gaining consciousness right around the time he said it's not so much that white people can't dance, it's just that they confuse various dancing moves and put them all together. He then proceeded with an imitation of White People Dancing (I'm assuming anyway; my eyes were still closed). Then he said, "There is one song that no white person can resist dancing to. They hear it and they immediately get up and begin dancing to it; they just can't help it." In my half-awake state I said, "YMCA." And then he said, "YMCA." (Speaking of the Village People, when the Husband was in the Navy lo these many years ago, he had a ship's captain who insisted on departing for every six-month deployment to the tune of the Village People's "In the Navy." That is, until someone told him what it was actually about. He stopped requesting it after that.) Indeed, we do love our "YMCA." Probably because you have to be a total moron to screw it up. [Fun fact: the Village People never spelled YMCA with their arms in their video. Musta been some white kid who couldn't dance who did it.] For the record, I can resist dancing to any song you care to play. Any song at all. Try it and watch me sit with my arms folded as I stare at you.

Back to our story. They had open dance time halfway through the show in which the kids could come down to the performace floor and get down and boogie with it. They played several Christmas songs. Finally they ran out of those and pulled out the non-Christmas songs. Guess which song they played first? And guess which song every fricking person in the place went wild over? And guess which song PW and I both managed to resist dancing to? And guess which song the only black guy in the entire room walked out on?

So the Christmas Show nightmare finally ended and they unchained the doors, unbarred the windows, and allowed us to finally leave. Freedom never tasted so sweet. Until I remembered we still had to get out of the city. We got in the car and headed very quietly (I think PW could instictually sense the need for silence. Especially after I threatened her if she made a sound) towards the Roundabout of Death, so as to sneak up on it and not alarm it as to our approach. We proceeded cautiously, but purposefully, through and out the other side where it told us we should go (remember, following the signs it gives you to follow are its first trick against you). But then we pulled a fast one on it and took a left shortly thereafter leading us straight to the highway! Mind you, the fact that you must turn down this street to escape is never once advertised anywhere in the city. If you were to believe its signs, you would have proceeded down the first street and immediately found yourself in The Parking Lot of Despair. You remember The Parking Lot of Despair, don't you? Of course you do.

As we were leaving with the city of horror well in our rearview mirror, a fire engine roared past us and into the heart of the city. Poor sucker, I thought. Someone finally got desperate and crashed their car just to escape. May he find himself without the confines of the Ninth Circle of Hell very soon.

Just try and resist it.

Surprise! You Have No Friends!!

A most joyous and happy birthday goes out to my lovely friend, Stephanie, who is old today. For her birthday present, she is making me a birthday cake (what with my own, more special and joyous birthday looming on the horizon). The birthday cake will be a Princess Aurora doll cake, per my mother's instructions to her. Yea, verily I am giddy with anticipation. Forsooth.

I was talking to a friend on Sunday--we'll call her "L. Bowman" for anonymity's sake--about birthdays. I don't recall how we came to the subject of bad birthdays, but apparently she's had a few. Most of these bad birthdays occurred in her childhood. It's here that I would normally throw in a "that explains a lot" crack, but she's bad off enough as it is without me rubbing it in.

Shortly after she relayed the tale of her worst birthday to date, I informed her most seriously that she would be reading about it on my blog. She demanded to hear my version at that very moment but was disappointed to learn that I am hardly as articulate in reality as I am when I write. In fact, my version went something like, "Uh...your birthday sucked and your parents don't love you?" So this entry is specifically for Mrs. Bowman and no one else. The rest of you can go about your business.

Mrs. B. was about nine years old when the following horror was inflicted upon her. She (and the rest of her family I'm assuming; I'm hoping they didn't regularly force her out and make her move on her own) had recently moved to a new neighborhood where she had yet to acquire any new friends. Her birthday had arrived. Her mind only hinted at suspicious activity when her sister became anxiously engaged in keeping her occupied in the family van whilst her parents went inside the house and fiddled around. Finally Mrs. B was permitted inside and was met with any birthday girl's dream: a surprise birthday party! With absolutely no attendees! Well, that's not entirely accurate. In lieu of the friends she should have had, her parents summoned her stuffed animal collection and gathered them around the living room for the "surprise" part of the party. Said animals neither hinted at being surprised for her nor even happy to see her on this most special of personal holidays.

It is my understanding that surprise parties are usually considered a surprise in large part because the well wishers typically do not live in your house and have made considerable effort to not only be there for your happy moment, but have also gone to great lengths to keep their coming attendance a secret from you. It is also my understanding, which was also explained repeatedly by Mrs. B. in a most frustrated tone, that only three-year-olds would be both surprised and impressed that their stuffed animals had both kept the party a secret and bothered to make the arduous trek from her room to the actual party locale two rooms away. A nine-year-old is not nearly as impressed by such tight-lipped effort on the part of inanimate objects she likely no longer associates with on a regular basis; such really only reinforces the reminder that no living persons could be rounded up to attend her very real birthday party. "Surprise honey! You have no friends!"

Personally, I've only had one surprise birthday party in my life and my friends threw it for me as I was turning 16 (not precicely as I was turning 16, but around that time). I probably should have suspected something was up when I heard my parents arguing about something, culminating in my mother yelling, "JUST GET HER OUT OF THE HOUSE ALREADY." And so my dad took me to the mall. Now, as I said, I should have suspected something was up if only that were the first time someone was desperate to get me out of the general area of where he or she was. That the person was my mother was also not a surprise as in my teen years neither of us was much fond of the other's company in large doses. So her assertion that I be removed from her presence immediately didn't shock me in the least. Fortunately, when I returned I was greeted by many friends with many gifts and one birthday cake (made by the mother who wanted me out of the house). It was lovely. Now, you see how a surprise birthday party is supposed to happen, L. Bowman? We'll have to throw one for you one day. I'll be sure and invite the lawn furniture.

Is It That Time of Year Already?

I tend to plan out Halloween outfits for Peawhistle pretty far in advance. Her first year she wore a onesie that announced it was her first Halloween. Then she went to bed. The next year she was a bat for her first year of trick-or-treating (actual Peawhistle not pictured):

The following year she was a sheep of my own making (translation, a gray sweatsuit with ears and a tail sewed on; no, I don't have a photo. You'll just have to trust me).

And the year after that, she was a sailorette, and an incredibly cute one at that (again, that's not PW; I'm too lazy to find an actual photo of her to upload).

This year I'm leaning towards two outfits: a pirate princess or a mailman. Both are fabulous.

Although PW has expressed an interest in being a farmer when she grows up, I cannot find a good costume for one. Of the two pictured here, she says she prefers the postman outfit, and I have to agree with her. It's fantastic. Although that pirate princess is pretty adorable, too. Thoughts?

Pâques: Deux

So after much trial and error, several flights on as many airlines, and one rental car ride from NYC, my father finally made it here the night before Easter at 11 p.m. Apparently other people like to travel for Easter, too. Or it could have been that whole Spring Break thing. Anyway, he barely made it. And all in time for my requested/demanded Easter Egg Hunt! He was more than a good sport about it, and even seemed pretty pleased to get to do it again.

Dad hid Peawhistle's 10 eggs first. We had warned him beforehand about her inability to find anything not in plain sight, and he planted the items accordingly with minimal deception. Walking into the single room to be used, one could spot at least seven of them immediately. I filmed PW's madness as she raced around the room apparently astounded that she was so good at this endeavour. We laughed at her enthusiasm muchly. You've never seen a happier egg hunter.

After the chillins were in bed, it was my turn. Dad had hid them as I was putting Peanut to sleep; the Husband, my mom, and PW observed the process in the mean time. PW was put to bed and I started out, basket in hand, timer running. It didn't help that my dad had no clue as to how many total eggs he hid; however, he was most helpful in telling me when I had failed to find a minimum number of eggs in a room (my hunt took place on the entire main floor, minus the bathroom--ew--china cabinet and coat closet). When he would forget if I had any remaining in a room, the Husband and Mom were instrumental in reminding him. It was also in the midst of this that I was told that PW--the kid who couldn't find several of her eggs until multiple people pointed at them--found some of MY eggs and deviously resituated them, their current whereabounts unknown at that time. Man, she picked that trick up quick. Fortunately I think I found all of those, too. I found eggs in the fridge, cookie jar, fish bowl, curio cabinet, pantry, rotisserie oven, sink drain, and a pair of gloves, among other places of course. I found 19 eggs in a dizzying 45 minutes: a personal record. Congratulations on a job well done were spread all around.

The next morning (Monday), Dad informed me that I had missed one egg in the living room that he had forgotten about. He confirmed that it was indeed still there. Crap. Fortunately, I had an inkling. I walked in and noted that the cat toy under the sofa had indeed been moved ever-so slightly since Easter evening. I had picked it up the previous night searching for two objects inside the track (one being an egg, the other the ball); finding only one, I put it back. Never underestimate the craftiness of my dad. He had replaced the yellow track ball with a yellow plastic egg, keeping the ball hidden in his pocket as he knew two objects encased within the toy would naturally make it suspect. Kudos to him. This brought my total to 20 eggs in 14+ hours. Horrible time--a personal worst.

But I still had a blast. It had been at least 10 years since I'd been home for Easter to have an egg hunt. While my hunting skills have improved with time, I still thought my dad did an excellent job, especially taking into account that, as an infrequent visitor, he doesn't know my house nearly as well as I do. I doubt I would have gotten another opportunity to do this with him again and I'm glad I asked, and I'm also glad to those who encouraged me to do so, including my mother.

Next year maybe I can get Peawhistle to hide my Easter eggs, 'cause dang, she's pretty good.

Operation: Peter Cottontail

My dad was a career USAF intelligence officer. He did many different jobs within that specialty, but he was mainly a HUMINT officer. He would tell us fantastic stories of his days of training when he was taught valuable things like how to cross a river without being detected and how best to quickly burn paper documents: you know, stuff we can all use. While in Vietnam he interrogated POWs; his friends got more fun assignments like training the South Vietnamese how to do dead drops and other similarly hilarious trades:

USAF Officer: OK, now where are you going to hide your note for your handler?
S.Vietnamese: I'm going to put it under that coconut.
Officer: Fine. And what if a policeman comes and asks you what you're doing? What's going to be your story?
S.V.: Oh, he wouldn't do that.
Officer: Well, pretend that he did. What will you say?
S.V.: No policeman's ever done that to me. He won't ask me.
Officer: Just because it hasn't happened before doesn't mean it won't ever, so you need an excuse. What's it gonna be?
S.V.: It wouldn't happen.
Officer: LOOK. JUST PRETEND WITH ME....

Ad nauseam.

Dad also told us about some training he went through where several groups of guys had to pretend they were operatives in a foreign country trying to evade groups like the KGB, and an altogether different group of counterintelligence guys were going to practice hunting spies by tracking them down and catching them red-handed. My dad is still immensely proud that he was the only operative in his group that was never caught. He not only covered his tracks well, establishing a solid alibi, but he also listened to his instructors who warned them to never hide any documents in their rooms. The CI guys tore their rooms apart inch by inch and every one of them were revealed--except dad, as I said. He could hide anything from anybody.

This is the man who hid our Easter eggs every year.

Easter egg hunts in our house were an event that every kid in our family, regardless of how old, not only participated in, but also looked forward to all year. As the years progressed, the hunt for these dastardly plastic candy-filled shapes only became even more challenging as dad would up the ante on where he hid the little suckers depending on your age and relative ability to match wits with him. The hunt was confined to the living room, dining room, and the hallway. If you found an egg that wasn't your assigned color, you put it back and kept going. It took us hours. As it approached bedtime, he would begin to give out the old "colder/warmer/red-hot" clues until the last egg was finally uncovered. You would be honestly shocked, as we frequently were, by learning where a plastic egg will fit. I'm still amazed he stuffed one into the tiny drawer of an antique coffee grinder. I doubted even ground coffee would fit in there, let alone an entire egg. The last few years we did the hunt (before most of us moved away) the event became especially challenging as dad progressed in his years. The old joke about being so old you could hide your own Easter eggs actually applied in my dad's case. We'd go to him for hints and instead of providing a knowing answer, he'd usually reply with, "Uh...your guess is as good as mine at this point. Did you try in that? No luck? Huh. How about over there? No? Hm. Then I guess you're SOL. Keep looking."

My dad is flying in for Easter. He will be the designated egg-hider for Peawhistle's first egg hunt at home. Considering PW is barely four and is seemingly incapable of locating anything that is not within her direct line of sight, this should be an interesting showdown. I kinda wish he'd hide eggs for the Husband and me, too, as I think it would be even more fun to do that, but I feel like an idiot asking. I don't even want candy-filled ones. I just want to find them. Do you suppose there comes an age when you can't ask the Old Spook to hide stuff like eggs so you can spend hours of your life looking for them? I hope not, because them's the good times.

Merry Christmas!

As I can't imagine I'll be here tomorrow, I'll leave you with my Christmas wishes now. May all your Christmases be full of thoughts and gratitude for our Lord and Savior.

And may you all remember to give me sugar cookies next year, because I'm noticing a distinct lack of said cookies here in my possession. Write yourselves a note right now.