So-o-o Over The Hump

Yup!  You read me right.  O-V-E-R it.  And in my present circumstances, that could mean ju-u-ust about anything.

The endless OCD planning and preparations for my daughter's graduation (I'm sure everyone is over THAT particular hump): if I never address 100 envelopes for announcements or cards again in this lifetime, it will be too soon.  Photo books and slideshows which required poring through 20,000 digitized images AND scanning a hundred or so 35mm images into said digital state.  Renting a rather costly party tent to ensure a comfortable venue for the guests.  Ummm . . . mmmmmm, taste-testing six gourmet cakes prepared to my exacting standards by Valesca Paiva of ViBella Chocolates and Cakes for sampling was NOT a hardship nor a hump -- sign me up for seconds.  Most especially that moist and flavorful strawberry cake with the delicious South American cream in between layers.  Did I mention those six generously-sized mini-cakes made their way back to my home as part of the deal?  In the famous phraseology of Sarah, "OH, YEAH!"

The party tent: OOH, AAH!

The Personalized "Charm Cake"

Our graduate is back row, second from left, all the HAIR!

The cans of Sherwin-Williams 'Moody Blue' and unnamed handsome soft brown emptied in the painting of the stairwell and hallway AND the formal dining room (a space utilized primarily for the informal folding of endless laundry of which I'm ALSO over).  Including that viscous paint which spilled forth from atop the high ladder where sister-in-law Shelley stood and onto the carpeted stairs, my head, and several painted surfaces not within the scope of the project.  Though, it's safe to say that my now sainted mother-in-law (she'll undoubtedly have to be canonized for selfless acts of domestic labor after this visit) would be the painter in need of a vacation from this unintentional vocation!  It must be stated that the end result DOES rest most easily on the eyes and my from-red-to-blue dining room walls still my antsy self into, GASP, a state of veritable relaxation.

Blue By You

Stairy-Eyed!

My lists upon lists which I taped to the kitchen cabinet doors for my unsuspecting out-of-town family company-sous chefs (if it wasn't for Starbucks and surreptitious cocktails, they may have staged a coup).
FOR EXAMPLE, in no particular order:

The Listmaker

1.  Ice for coolers: watermelon/packaged drinks/for cups
2.  Final decorations in place: fill helium balloons; set balloons in cake table corner  
3.  Music CD to play in garage
4.  Candies in colored dishes (Swedish Fish/Red Vines/Twizzlers/Sour Patch Kids); set on each table
5.  Salty snacks emptied in large serving bowls
6.  Cake delivery/pay Valesca
7.  Green chili
8.  Grill meats: chicken and tri-tip/wrap in foil, settle/slice
9.  Make simple salsa/serve with ranch on tortilla sandwiches
10. Mix iced tea/Tang
11. Grate cheese/cut lettuce
12. Plates/silverware/napkins
13. White Queso dip -- Sarah's FAVE!
14. HAVE FUN!  (This directive was intended more for me than anyone else, as they'd all been enjoying themselves since they got off the plane.) 

Such handsome prep cooks!

"Bubble, bubble! Toil and boil!" 

What about roofing contractors who enter the premises with enormous grins plastered on their faces as they reassure you that they'll take care of everything, but WHO is your insurance carrier and what does the paperwork say they'll cover?  Is there NO ONE capable of simply taking a thorough look-see at the roof and leaving a bid of the damages they detect without attempting to swindle us poor homeowners in the process?!  Oh, and the various tree experts who wax philosophical about giant cranes versus compact climbers and tricky access upping cost and which arboreal ancients they recently brought down for such-n-such county via their singular expertise.  (How does $3,600 without boring out the stump sound?!)  I'm most definitely NOT over mourning the loss of my elm tree as she departs from her century-old roots limb by limb, dying leaf by dying leaf (how many folks ever experience both spring AND fall on their deciduous trees in their back yard, I ask you?)

The cardinal ALSO mourns the dying old elm

One of the better tree experts in action at a neighbor's house

Without a doubt, 90 degree-plus days spent in out-of-town venues watching game after game of baseball as played by 15 year-old boys, regardless of the breathtaking catches and earsplitting bat cracks as singles explode into assisted runs across home plate, sits high on the list of #1 over-the-hump contenders.  No amount of Gatorade, Vitamin Water, purified water, watermelon, Frogg Toggs cooling chilly pad towels, or sudden late-spring downpours can validate the quantities of pure unadulterated SWEAT which emanates from every single pore, those obvious and visible and those NOT so visible but all the more obvious.  Ugh.  UGH.  DOUBLE UGH!  The only thing more I can say about that subject is thank the Lord for inexpensive patterned cotton summer dresses and SPF 50!

Zach laying down a nice bunt!

His third crossing of home plate in today's AM game!

But -- and this is a BIG 'but' here (not to be confused with full-sized rumps of which I am the bearer of one such physical accoutrement) -- the single most annoying hump . . . the hump which has me soaring above it with king-sized O-V-E-R letters trailing behind me in stardust . . . involves Hank the Wonder Pup.

I don't mind bagging pile after pile of his often cicada-laden defecatory waste.  I don't mind the endless repetitions of SIT and STAY and LAY and STAND and COME, Hank, COME.  I don't even mind cleaning up the shocking number of short white hairs which leave his body in droves at any given moment in the day.  What I DO mind is the alarming regularity with which I find myself barking with as much authority and alpha-dog dignity as is possible in this particular situation, "Hank! NO HUMPING, HANK!  No humping your bed, puppy!  Step AWAY from the doggie bed."  Yes, folks, Hank the Wonder Pup has discovered the joy of displaying his emerging puppy power by dominating his poor unassuming beanbag bed.  And it's IN THE KITCHEN where he spends a majority of his indoor time right now.  The last time I used the word 'hump' with such vigor and concentration, I was still in pigtails and bell bottoms and missing a baby tooth or two!  My hope centers upon the little surgical procedure he'll undergo in about two months.  Perhaps this will alleviate his urge to express his affection and prowess in so publicly visible a manner?

Approved Inoffensive Bed Use #1

Approved Inoffensive Bed Use #2

Approved Inoffensive Bed Use #3

Otherwise, Hank's mommy may apply her good ol' American ingenuity to discovering new and creative uses for the ever-popular shock collar.  Because I'm certain that MY personal allotment for uttering "NO HUMPING, Hank!" ran over, that's O-V-E-R, about a week ago.    

Barracuda Ringers and Sundry Goods

I feel it wouldn't be prudent to allow an entire month to elapse between blog entries, so here I am, hopping back on board the Internet for something other than purchases, e-mail and Facebook quickies (get your mind out of the gutter and check your dictionary, people!).  And yet again, I find myself in that same late-night quandary (no, not the "should I tune-in to Jay Leno or  re-runs of Law & Order: Criminal Intent" debate): go for the much-needed sleep, cuddled against the warm body of my deeply slumbering husband, OR follow my  heart to Blogger for a rendezvous with words and readers?

Though I've been away, my thoughts have not strayed far from this forum.  In fact, a healthy chunk of my everyday mental time is spent composing sentences and paragraphs about my hours, days and weeks, crystallizing events in my mind and breathing written life into them for you folks out there on the other side of this here screen.  Unfortunately, these brilliant and witty compositions don't always get the outlet they deserve.  Lately, 24-hours have not been enough to house all that I must do and all that I desire to do; unearthing that elusive 25th hour remains the impossible dream.  Every now and again, I believe I've managed to grasp it . . . hanging by my fingertips on the hour hand . . . only to be rudely awakened by my bobbing head when my neck muscles follow the lead of my droopy eyes.  Like NOW, for instance!  Ugh.

One of my last entries involved a tornado event which hit our town relatively lightly -- mainly tree damage and roof issues -- in comparison to the same-day monster twisters which wreaked total havoc in states like Alabama.  Well, life itself has been a series of mini-tornadoes in the Valdez Household within the past month.  Hank the Wonder Pup has evolved into, perhaps, the most long-term and demanding of these gale-force life storms!  How could I have managed to disregard teething, whereby one's new cuddly puppy begins to resemble a gangly toddler with disarmingly endearing floppy ears and barracuda-like pearly whites?  It takes a half-hour just to toss all those chewy toys, ropes and squeaker and sticks, into the doggie 'toy box.'  Or so it seems.  While Hank is partial to the section of rope attached to a cushy purple squeaking box, his owner -- if she was a canine instead of a human -- would relish sinking her sore choppers into the heavy black rubber mini-tire I came across at PetSmart last week.

I miss my loyal band of readers.  Though you are small in numbers, you are mighty in your curiosity, loyalty, and reliability.  Please, don't fail me now!  YOU tell ME what should come next in the blogs.  Do you want an update on Baby Brother Gary?  Are you salivating at the mere mention Sarah's graduation cake and all the elements of party, family, food and fun which accompanied it?  Are you wondering about the invasion of the 13-year cicada and the anxiety they have caused within my eldest child?  Or, perhaps, JUST perhaps, my mother's health is of interest to you?  Or the spilled paint caper in our carpeted stairwell?  Or my husband's new job?  My musings on military families?  Well?  Let me know.  Sooner than later.  I'll get started on connecting those dots and coloring the pictures.

While I'm anxiously awaiting your input, it would be best for me to get on with the bedtime snuggling.  My head is bobbing more than fishing line with a biter below the water's surface!  There!  Did you see that?  Chin-jerking to music that even I can't hear.

Sauced

10:30 at night on what turned out to be a hectic day.  And instead of hitting my keyboard, I should be penning those final 30 or so graduation announcements.  Or slapping on the rest of the sample-color paint on the dining room wall . . . 'Interesting Aqua' from Sherwin-Williams.  With my mother-in-law here just weeks before my daughter's high school graduation and party, it is wise to harness her energy, coupled with her enthusiastic offers to execute any decorating and home projects I might have on my list, and get a few major chores out of the way.  Brighten up our abode.

Instead, sandwiched in-between my pondering of the turn of significant events in the lives of two very good friends which have shaped these past almost 24-hours, my train of thought returns again and again to the spaghetti sauce I simmered up with whatever I could find in the pantry, fridge, and contained within the terra cotta pots on my back porch.  My niece practically inhaled a hearty serving of the stuff ladled over penne pasta and pronounced that though she did not care for such sauces most of the time, mine was both delicious AND the best she had ever had in her 17 years.  Everyone else was also suitably respectful of its flavor as was evidenced by the empty plates which witnessed two servings cross their surfaces.

My habit is to invent and create in the kitchen; my other habit is to neglect copying the successes for future use!  To avoid that tragedy today, I thought posting it into perpetuity would ensure that it endured for a good long while?!

HEARTY MEAT AND RED WINE SAUCE


BROWN 1 LB. OF LAURA'S LEAN GROUND BEEF OR SIMILAR, DRAINING FAT.
SPRINKLE WITH 1/2 TSP OF GARLIC POWDER/SALT/ONION POWDER.  SET ASIDE.

IN A 3-QUART SAUCE PAN, SAUTE OVER MEDIUM HEAT:
2-3 TBSP OLIVE OIL
1/2 MEDIUM WHITE ONION, FINELY CHOPPED
4-7 MEDIUM CLOVES OF FRESH GARLIC
1/2 TSP. THYME

COOK UNTIL ALMOST TRANSLUCENT, ADDING GARLIC JUST BEFORE ONION APPEARS DONE.  TO THIS, ADD THE FOLLOWING:

1 15 OUNCE CAN TOMATO PUREE
2 SMALL CANS OF TOMATO SAUCE
1 SMALL CAN OF TOMATO PASTE
1 15 1/2OZ CAN OF MINI-DICED TOMATOES
1-2 TSP DRIED OREGANO
1/4 CUP CHOPPED FRESH BASIL
1/2 CUP CHOPPED FRESH ITALIAN PARSLEY
1 MINI-BOTTLE OF SHIRAZ RED WINE
1 8 OZ. CARTON OF CHICKEN STOCK

STIR AND SIMMER ON LOW HEAT.  PILE IN THE HAMBURGER, MIXING WELL. TASTE IT PERIODICALLY, SHARING CAREFUL SPOONFULS WITH THE CHILDREN OR, DIPPING THE 'TEST BREAD' FOR A VISCOSITY CHECK.

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE SERVING OVER PENNE PASTA OR SPAGHETTI OR WHATEVER, ADD 3/4 LARGE CAN OF LARGE RIPE OLIVES, SLICED, TO THE SIMMERING SAUCE.

THEN, ENJOY.  THE FLAVOR DEEPENS AND INTENSIFIES WHEN LEFT OVER NIGHT.

Winded . . .

It has been a rather strange day, from start to finish.  Early this morning, my kids and I awoke to a tornado warning that required us to cram into our pantry with the two dogs, an array of canned goods, and miscellaneous items I spent most of the night collecting and cramming into shelves.  Items including, but certainly not limited to, personal records, water, duct tape, batteries, scissors, letters from my brother, the laptop, an external hard drive of digital photos, and clothing we might need on the other side of things.  For the next twenty minutes, fear and acceptance took their turns with us.  We prayed.  Noted when the power went out.  Heard the sudden roar which seemed to inhabit the space around us and held our breath when just as suddenly all sound eerily ceased.  My children growled at me for taking pictures of us huddled tightly together under the cold light of the Magna-Lite flashlight.  My son cursed the squeaky fish toy which the pup chewed to appease himself.  Panda, comfortable next to her human pack and ignorant in her half-deaf state, fell into a gently snoring slumber.   The warning ended with a completely uprooted weeping willow in the front yard and a sea of sizable elm branches in the back yard.  All persons and pets safely accounted for.

SETTING THE SCENE



Seven years ago I spent a backbreaking day digging and picking through chunks of clay and rock to plant that lovely willow in the southeast corner of our front lawn; this spring it was the prettiest testament to natural beauty on our entire property.  Just glorious!  Hank the Wonder Pup loved to run up under it and sit; Fabio the Princely Cat enjoyed climbing up and down it's length.  I'd always envisioned my own weeping willow dancing in the wind, whipping to and fro in stronger gusts, but, alas, it whipped a bit too fro this time.  And the hundred-year-plus lady of an elm behind our house is the entire reason I felt compelled to tell my husband about the place: she was able to calm my country-loving heart enough to entertain the possibilities of living in such a suburban neighborhood as ours.  Each year, I've joked that if SHE GOES, I GO.  Her spreading canopy has provided shade for the neighbors behind us (2/3 of her bulk actually resides on their legal property, hence the stately grand dame truly belongs to them, but she fully stands within our fence line where I love her like a beloved great auntie), a high rise apartment complex for the myriad bird species which roost therein, and an oasis for the flowers and hydrangea bushes in the southwest corner of our back yard.  Unfortunately, though her great trunk is intact, roughly half of her enormous branches now rest heavily across my once lovely white arbor, our patio with its furniture and grill, the damaged roof-line all along the back side of our home, and much of the lawn.  Clean-up will be a vigorous adventure.



WEEPING FOR MY WILLOW



Now, to bring you up to speed, let me remind you of the terrible tornado event which hit Murfreesboro on Good Friday of 2009, which wounded our neighborhood and decimated homes all around us, ending in the death of a mother and infant in once heartbreaking instance.  That left its mark on all of us.  The entire city.  But it also grew us.  Further shaped our character.  Encouraged a deeper generosity.  Perhaps even reminded us of the constant reality checks that are beyond our power to control.  And then last year at the same time as this year's weather event -- for today has been a wearily eventful -- the great flooding in Nashville and surrounding towns had its way with us.  People are still recovering from these natural disasters, and yet here we go . . . again!  Ironically, one of the main stories in the local newspaper this morning was a piece on the poor husband and father who survived the two aforementioned deaths: his back was broken when he was thrown like a rag doll after trying to huddle over his family to shield them from the approaching tornado.  He has recently remarried and recounts his harrowing tragedy, the unimaginable loss, and his remarkable recovery.




THE ELM FROM BEHIND AND A BLOCK OVER



The other irony concerns my husband of 22 years.  He missed the tornado of 2009.  And he missed this tornado, or wind system, or whatever the talking heads deem it to be, too.  Only this year, he landed himself at a work-related seminar in Birmingham, Alabama.  Alabama was bashed and bruised, beyond recognition in some places, by an enormous mile-wide wedge tornado which hit Tuscaloosa with all of the uncontrolled fury of a maddened nest of hornets, before heading on to the heart of the town in which my husband was holed up in a hotel.  25 people died in Alabama as a result of this massive storm system.  That makes my trees look like mere play things.  And though I mourn their loss because of my affection for their shape, sway, and size, I'd much rather suffer their absence than that of the children in the pantry with me or the handsome guy hiding out in a staircase 3 1/2 hours from me.

There were other tornado warnings which sent us scurrying back into the pantry.  The dogs were always there ahead of us, canine ESP, perhaps.  I almost wish I could leave the pantry floor empty because my old Panda Girl likes to sleep in there; in fact, that's where she is tonight.  My daughter, Sarah, and I, took a quick half-hour trip to Woodbury to deliver my mom's pain medication and had the pleasure of hanging out in the central hallway with the venerable elder ladies of Holiday House through not one, but TWO, tornado warnings.  When the next lull in the spring shower activity opened up, we hopped in the truck and headed back home to the 'Boro where our yard instantly reminded us that everything we thought had happened on that day had actually happened.

SARAH, GRANDMA SHARON, AND

A WALKER FOR OWNER AND POOCH



THE BEAUTY OF MENACING SKIES

Somewhere in there, an overwhelming urge to be clean, both in person and in home, struck me.  I wasn't about to touch that mess outside before the rains ceased and sunshine permeated the dark corners.  We all pitched in to wash dishes, make beds, put away laundry, do a minor reorganize of the pantry . . . and I washed my greasy hat hair and performed a bird bath on my more pungent parts.  Might as well look and smell decent for the next go-round.  If a funnel-shaped cloud saw fit to carry it all away, at least there was that one last look at the way the homestead was.  And if no mighty whoosh came in those laborious minutes spent hunkered down with Cream of Chicken Soup and black beans, then we were slightly ahead of the game.
It's night now.  A quick trip outside for a potty run with Hank earlier revealed skies where the most disturbing sound was an airplane flying overhead against an almost cloudless ebony backdrop.  Tree- and bull-frogs sang their distinctive refrains.  And there were even stars to behold!  Earlier, in a moment almost as strange to me as the those of the morning, we found ourselves watching a "Repo Game Show" on the one television we left plugged-in while under a continued tornado watch (which ends in roughly 25 minutes at midnight).  A real car repossession man surprises delinquent non-paying owners, practically whips them into a violent frenzy with his spiel, before revealing to them that he has the power to pay off their automobile if they answer 3 out of 5 questions correctly.  You've guessed the reciprocal by now, I'm sure: if they DON'T answer those 3 questions, the car/truck/motorcycle goes bye-bye.  Though I couldn't tear my eyes away, it was all kind of funky in a mildly disturbing way.  Thank goodness it ended and my weary children passed out.

Tomorrow, school and work are back on the schedule.  My hubby is done with suffering through violent weather without his family; he's heading back home after a good night's sleep.  And I will bury my trees as I uncover my property and reveal what lies beneath.  I'll also flit from room to room in our house, plugging in all of those electrical cords I yanked from the wall so as to avoid possible electrical surges cooking our Mac, musical equipment, televisions, video games, small appliances, and the like.  My mother-in-law arrives at 11PM from Colorado.  One of her favorite activities at our home is to wake up and head for the rocking chair on the back porch, where she sits and listens to the birds and admires the elm tree and everything under it's survey.  Won't SHE be in for a rude awakening!  Chainsaw, anyone?  ANY . . . one . . . ???

THIS DOVE WAS LIVING IN THE VINE COVERING THE ARBOR

I'm grateful for my life and the lives of my family and pets. I'm grateful for breakfast with my neighbor and her boys after our drive through town trying to find an establishment with electricity; her oldest son vomited his pancake breakfast all over the booth, excited and recovering from a bug. Now, THAT'S memorable. I'm grateful for my eldest daughter's boyfriend, John, who thought to look for tarp and roofing nails to cover the bowling-ball sized hole and spots with missing shingles brought into being by aggressive branches. Thanks for Zachary for assisting in the mending job.

 May I put in a request for an UNeventful day now?






DOWNED TRAFFIC LIGHT



Goosed by Guilt!

In the spirit of Earth Day, I have to come clean about a sin against nature in which I played accomplice to the murder of a Canada goose.  The incident still rankles this moderate tree-hugger.  Anyone who knows much about me, or has seen a random selection of my photos, understands I'm a bit of a bird lover.  Birds are absolutely delightful, lovely and eyeballable creatures.  I feed them and provide fresh drinking water for them for Pete's sake!  So, it doesn't make sense to me that when a young fowl-hunting friend of mine asked during a recent phone call if I was in the mood for a goose because a pair just happened to be wandering his property, my immediate thoughts concerned myself and NOT the mated-for-life pair of handsome geese.

Woodpecker outside my mom's window.

Male cardinal on my arbor.

Female cardinal gathering nesting supplies.

A wandering baby robin on my neighbor's porch.

Granted, the total off-the-cuff suggestion caught me off guard.  Nowhere in the purpose of our call was there a natural opening for a field-to-table killing.  His simple logic dictated that since my car would soon be headed in his direction to pick something else up, he could shoot and dress the bird and have it ready for me.  No worries.  Somehow, the random stars had swiftly lined up within a few short minutes!  All in a short late afternoon's work.  I toyed with the idea, what with Easter drawing near, and me with my holiday food desires left perpetually unsatisfied each year where visions of duck, goose and lamb dance in my hungry head.  The palates around me find traditional meats more to their liking.  They feel no need to branch out into more delectable, less common main course fare.

A lucky live pair in the local soccer field.

"Well-l, that turkey breast you gave me last time was so lean that I roasted it into inedible toughness.  How would I do any better this time?"  The eager teen sportsman assured me that practice would make perfect, "I have my license.  Don't worry."  In the end, I relented, though reluctantly.  Let me remind you that at that decision point, I was still inhaling stale tour bus air on the the final leg of our recent five-day Florida vacation.  Almost 9 hours had elapsed.  I was tired and wired.  Not firing 100% on all mental cylinders!  My eagerness to be reunited with Hank the Wonder Pup had top billing in what gray matter remained aware enough to function at all.  And he doesn't qualify as wild game.

Always blame it on the bus!

But let me tell you that THE VERY MOMENT our decidedly non-Earth friendly Yukon (not my choice) rounded the curve of my personal bird slayer's driveway only to be met with a desperately honking lone goose wandering aimlessly across the hilly meadow spreading out before me, doubtless crying for his missing mate, the mistress of his heart who was at that very moment headless, gutted and plucked, resting on a plain white collapsible table on the driveway just up yonder, awaiting my freezer back in suburbia, I felt the sharp sting of my thoughtlessness.  

Goosed!

What in the bloody heck had I been thinking?!!  Surely a 41 year-old woman knows better than a 'smart but yet on the young side of his 20's' man the selfish folly of executing such a majestic bird simply because it would be nice to practice roasting it!  I mean, what was I gonna do?  Have him knock off a goose once a week or once a month until I got it just right and figured out the best sides to accompany it?  What about the leftovers I'd most certainly discard when the first one, or two or six, turned out dry and unpalatable?  And then there's the matter of all those feathered spouses flying dejectedly from one pond or meadow to another in a constant state of mourning?!  Would my insurance cover their grief counseling?  Imagine the co-pays!  Oh, and let's not forget the wee thing about an actual hunting SEASON for a species.  It turned out that it wasn't even the time for shooting Canada geese on Tennessee soil!  Great!  Now I'd also broken the law.  (When the youth's parents learned of his illicit kill, they had a nice talk with him about propriety and such.)  Cuff me, game warden!

My quandary now is how I'm ever going to be able to look that frozen carcass in the, er, face, and actually consume it with a bit of gravy and green beans.  But to NOT eat her, after the inexcusable fate to which I subjected her, would be reproachful.  Wasteful.  Terrible.  My punishment, it seems, for this lapse in judgement, will be harsh.  And I deserve it.  And the irony is that she'll actually be GOOD for me . . . as nourishing in death as she was in life.  Forgive me, gorgeous winged lady, for my transgression.  I pray your loving male finds a new mate with your blessing.  

P.S.  I'm sorry my pup made chew toys out of your feathers.  Three of them, very well formed I might add, made their way back to my house for a scrap album.  You'll not soon be forgotten.

Wasting Vacation Time on My Blog

Wake up in Tennessee.  Fall asleep in Florida.  That's how the Valdez Bunch is rollin' this month, courtesy of my hard-working husband and well-deserved recognition from his company.  In fact, the Water Color Resort here on Santa Rosa Beach has become a mini-vacation paradise for several families from EmDeon: men and women on select teams who labored above and beyond the call of duty during the demanding process of transferring hardware and data from the old building to the new hub over the past year.  It couldn't have happened to a nicer, and exhausted, group of folks.

We had the option of either paying for our own gas in the guzzling Yukon and arriving uneventfully in a timely manner, OR riding in a comfy tour bus, waiting 40 minutes past the 'enforced' departure time for a tardy traveler, enjoying naps and free food along with a dad who wasn't navigating, finding ourselves on an unexpected detour when one of the bus drivers took a wrong exit, suffering through not just ONE but TWO showings of "Beverly Hills Chihuahua," witnessing a horrible horse-trailer accident where the emergency personnel were busy trying to lift out a dead horse, and pulling into the resort two hours late and listening to the woman who created half of the LATE situation complain that we were late while we stood in a long winding registration line as smiling hostesses offered up lovely rare tuna and crab cake appetizers.  Monty, we choose what's behind curtain B!  So much more story-worthy . . .

THE EAGER-TO-VACATION VALDEZ WOMEN

PASSING CARS UP HIGH

BUS RIDERS

MY BOY IN A GRINNING MOMENT

NOTHING SAYS RELAXED LIKE THE CLASSIC YAWN,
HERE CHARMINGLY MODELED BY ASHLEY

SLUMBERING SARAH -- SLEEP IS HER CRAFT

Though I began missing my wonder pup, Hank, Hankerdoodle, or as Ashley calls him -- Love Bug, the moment his dog sitter whisked him away to a canine paradise of wide open grassy fields on the outer edge of town, I knew he would be in more than capable hands in my absence.

HOW COULD I NOT MISS THIS MUG?

SAYING FAREWELL FOR THE WEEK TO MY BABY BOY!

NO, HE DOESN'T HAVE A LINGERIE FETISH,
YOUNG MICHAEL IS DELIVERING LEMON CURD
AND HOMEMADE SCONES FROM ME TO HIS MOTHER.

MICHAEL CLARK, PUPPY WHISPERER

I DO BELIEVE THE MY WILLOW TREE HAS WAITED FOR YEARS
TO SHADE YOUNG HANK THE WONDER PUP!

But my train of thought is wrecked . . . my first morning in Florida is up and at 'em . . . the chit'luns are finally awake.  And they're begging their mama to head for the beach.  The hubby is out early, swinging metal and wood clubs at little white balls with his co-workers; the boy already had himself a bike ride with the boss' sons; I've exercised my mildly OCD ways with a flurry of activity about the condo: organized the luggage, created a recycling station in the kitchen, and opened the balcony doors to usher in the cool sea air.  An extended wandering walk of discovery awaits me on the other end of a shower and granola with flax meal.  My eating on this trip has thus far been greatly influenced by my PMS state; based on the Pringles, pizza, popcorn, Raisinets, grapes, 1 1/2 sandwiches, cheese crackers, jelly beans, seafood hors d'oeuvres, raspberry scones, and lemon-lavender biscotti of yesterday, I'd say those unexplained lost pounds of this past month, whereby all my clothing falls loosely at my hips, may soon find their way back to me!

ZACHARY LIVING IT UP, ALREADY

A BLOGGER'S VIEW

MY CUTE EARLY AM GOLFER

MY FABULOUS NEW BEACH HAT, WITH TAG!

And with that, I bid you adieu.  The air is rife with fun and frivolity yet to be had.