Hark! The Angel's Name Is Not Harold

The angel's name is either Steve or Chelsea. Just ask my son.

We spent an unhealthy amount of time in the car over the Thanksgiving weekend, and we tried listening to Christmas music to brighten the mood.
In case you were wondering, listening to Christmas music turns a long car ride into a long car ride with Christmas music.
One of our choices was Josh Groban's Christmas CD. Have mercy can that man sing.
I have a friend who forbids her children from singing along when Groban is on. She calls it sacrilege. I think she's onto something.

In the chorus of Angels we Have Heard on High, I hear this from the backseat:

"Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ria, Steve and Chelsea say-o!
Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ria, Steve and Chelsea say-o!"

Now the boy is a smart little cookie. Very smart. He also knows lots of songs and lyrics, so I turned around and laughed.... thinking he was joking.
He wasn't.

My argument was futile.
I said,
"That is NOT what he's singing. He's saying in excelsis Deo."
The boy said,
"He is saying STEVE AND CHELSEA, MOM."

So he kept singing about Steve and Chelsea. He even asked me if it was "Steve and Chelsea say-o" or "Steve and Chelsea hey-o"
He is, apparently, concerned about getting it right.
He gets that from me.
My mom loves to tell the story about how I SWORE the old Crystal Gayle song "Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue?" was actually "Don't It Make My Brownies Good?"

A song about brownies must have made more sense to me than a song about eye color.
(Still does.)

So if you hear angels singing on high, it just may be Steve and Chelsea.

I Suppose That's Why They're Called "Slippers"

I took an unofficial poll of our families over Thanksgiving, and I asked them how they all felt about the crazy Target lady. I got mixed reviews. She is, apparently, very polarizing. Either you love her or hate her.
Me? I want to be her.
Those commercials crack me up. My favorite is the one where she's "training" for Black Friday... in her red workout suit and high heels. Cracks me up.
I think she's onto something with those shoes, because I discovered that "comfortable" shoes may not the best option for me.

My Facebook status from last night:

"A house isn't a home until momma falls down the stairs."

We spent our long Thanksgiving weekend with both families, eating until we could eat no more, and we drove home yesterday. 8 hours in pouring rain. I was happy to get some laundry started and to put on my bedroom slippers. The boy and I ate dinner in front of the TV; Dan/Daddy needed to go into work for a bit.

When he returned home, I heard the garage go up. My phone rang, and it was him... calling me from the garage. I answered the phone, but he didn't reply. I heard the garage go down. Then my phone rang again... and again it was him. I answered again and got no response.

At this point, I'm thinking several things:
1. My husband's sitting on his phone and it's calling me.
2. The downstairs door is locked and he can't get in.
3. The neighborhood cat has wandered into our garage again, and I need to help get him out.
4. My husband better not be prank calling me from the garage.

So I got up from my cozy spot and hurried to see what was going on.
The "hurrying" and the "slippers" did not make a good combination.
I made the first flight just fine, but then I rounded the corner and hit the top step of the 2nd flight.
The top step was all I ever saw. My feet - in their cozy slippers - flew right out in front of me, and I bounced the rest of the way down on my backside.
Every time I hit a step and bounced up again, I said a not-so-nice word.
3 or 4 bounces and bad words later, I landed at the bottom, Dan/Daddy came running in from the garage and the boy came down right behind me on the stairs.

I mumbled something about being ok, and the boy asked if he could laugh.
Dan/Daddy started fussing at me about being more careful and not wearing ratty bedroom slippers.
Can't you just feel the love?

They really were worried about me, but once they knew I was somewhat ok, they relaxed. Even I laughed. The boy reenacted the whole thing about 21 times.

In case you were wondering, it was #1. I rushed down the stairs and bruised my elbow, my left calf, my right butt cheek and my tailbone (again)...
All because my husband was sitting on his phone.

I may never answer his phone calls again, and he better buy me new slippers for Christmas.
I'll bet the crazy Target lady never falls down her steps.

Happy Food Memories To All

I was composing this post in my head as I grated 12 cups of cheddar cheese.
OK, it was more like 3 cups, but my arm felt like it was 12.
I'm not cooking a turkey, and I am not hosting 23 people, but I am providing an important part of the meal... an appetizer. You know, because we won't have enough food at lunch.
A cheese ball with crackers to be specific. A homemade cheese ball. Don't get all impressed... it's so simple.
Which got me to thinking.
A younger cousin of Dan/Daddy requested the cheese ball. Requested that I make it. I love her to pieces, and I am happy to oblige, but anyone could have made it. Her mom has the recipe; her aunt (my mom-in-law) makes them, too. But she requested mine.
I know for a fact, that my cream cheese/cheddar cheese/spices concoction tastes no better than theirs would.
There's something about a person contributing part of the meal that makes a memory.

I have vivid associations of food with certain people. And I know I'm not alone.

My mom makes the very same cheese ball at Christmas, and it doesn't feel like Christmas without it.
My Mamaw's macaroni and cheese... no family meal is complete without it.
I remember my cousins requesting my mom's hot Velveeta dip every New Year's Eve.
I remember craving my aunt's layered Mexican dip.
No one can make a hash brown casserole taste as good as my Granny could.
Any one of us can make those things, but there's something special about the same person making it.

I have always known food and memory were connected, but I never really thought about how certain foods tie us to memories of certain people.

Now I understand why my cousins begged for my mom to make the same dip.
So, Rachel, the cheese ball is in the fridge.
I'm honored you ask me to make it.

I hope you are all with the people you love over the next few days.

Have a blessed Thanksgiving.

Roll Tide and Rainy Headaches

Two very important things happened over the weekend:
1. The boy went to his first Alabama football game.



2. I'm getting a job at the Weather Channel predicting (with 82% accuracy) when rain is coming.

Just kidding. I'm not getting a job at the Weather Channel. I can, however, predict the rain. Actually, it's my head that predicts it. Actually it's my raging headache that predicts it.
It started Saturday afternoon, but I blamed it on the screaming and cheering at the game. By 4:00 a.m.-ish Sunday morning, I was ready to chop off my noggin to relieve the pain. By midnight-ish last night, I was hearing thunder and rain. I had an "ah ha" moment lying there in my bed. The headache always comes before the rain.
That sounds like something you could put on a t-shirt. Or a mug.

Anywho...
The football game was a roaring good time. Dan's parents were able to get the tickets for us all, so we met them there. I believe, at one point, the boy leaned in and said, "This is better than Christmas."

This boy LOVES Alabama football.



We lived in Alabama for about 12 years, but we never swore any allegiance to either of the two big rivals.... Alabama or Auburn.
We had church members who insisted we make a choice (Alabama or Auburn) or we couldn't partake in Communion. Well, it wasn't quite that bad. But, it's not far from it.
We were always able to take the neutral road. Dan/Daddy was a Florida State fan, and I was a Clemson fan. Easy.
When the boy came along, another football fanatic was born, but he didn't really have a favorite team.
Until... while we were living in California, he said,
"If I was born in Alabama, that will be my favorite team."
So the logical love of all things Crimson Tide began. When they won the National Championship a few years after that, he was a goner.
It also gives Dan/Daddy and me a chance to join forces, and we all root for the team that represents the state we love so much.
The boy would have filled out an application on Saturday if we had allowed it.



PS... I made sure he saw the soccer fields while we were there.

Making Cats Everywhere Happy

My Wednesday night conversation with the boy:

Me: Please come in here and feed Subway. (our cat)

The Boy: OK... (getting cat food out of the pantry)
What if cat food bags had tiny cat prizes in it like some cereal does?

Me: Hmmm. That sounds like a good idea. Cats would be picking out their food just for the prize.
Why don't you invent that and make your momma rich?

The Boy: Nope. Me and Subway will keep all the money.

It's a win/win situation for cats everywhere.
Remember, you saw it here first.

I'd Rather Be The Po-Po

I was about to title this post: Local Yokels
When I looked up the definition of "local yokel" on a few websites, I realized I am not...

local yokel:
1. Trucker slang for city police officer as in
"That town up ahead is crawling with local yokels."

(By the way, I call them the po-po.)

The definition I was looking for was:

local yokel:
2. a naive or gullible inhabitant of a rural area or small town

We've lived here 4 months now, and it still fells like we're settling in.
In an attempt to feel more like folks who know what's going on, we have been "touring" and "visiting" parts of the area.
I don't want to be a naive local.

We went hiking at a cave and park; it has been a beautiful Fall here in these parts...






On the day we were at the park, I made a decision to become a nature photographer. Not because I think my photographs are amazing, but because nature cannot talk back to me or complain.
Taking pictures of my people has become such a chore, a burden, and a pain in the patootie. And I only have two people! You brave souls out there with 4+ kids? You are in my picture-prayers.

The biggest complainer, sadly, happens to be the cutest person in the family. So I take a nerve pill and keep taking his picture.


We also took a short road trip to "Land Between The Lakes." It's a large national recreation area that covers parts of Tennessee and Kentucky. It is THE place to go for boating, camping, hunting, fishing, and summertime activities. Did you get that?
SUMMERtime activities.
This place shuts down from November to March.
Meaning we were the only people there besides two 88 year-old tour guides. And a sleepy park ranger. And a cook and a waitress at the ONLY place in town to eat.

They have a bison and elk prairie that is part of a project to reintroduce those species and their habitat back into the area. So cool. You pay $5 per car to drive through.
The sign that greets you at the entrance got me all excited...


Another sign said the current population was Elk:45, Bison:47
We saw absolutely nothing.
Not. One. Single. Thing.
Almost one hundred bison and elk were hiding. 2000 pound and 800 pound animals... hiding.
At least the views were nice.


As we were leaving the park area, we saw one more bison pasture, so we slowed way down and strained our eyes, and...
There they were.
Lounging around on a hill where I could see them for free.


So we three yokels are a little more local.
I would still rather be the po-po.

Chalkboard Confessions IV

First and foremost... a big shout out Happy Birthday to my mom!!!
She is someone I am so very thankful for every day. Enjoy your birthday, Mom!

Now.
You've heard that old saying...
"When the cat's away, the mice will play."
In our house, when the cat's away, the mice take his turn at 30 Days of Thankful.



So far, we are thankful for:
Food (written by the consumer of groceries)
The Cross
Coffee (written by the consumer of coffee)
Salvation
The time change (written by the tired me)
A great son and wife (not written by the dad/husband)

Dan/Daddy is out of town and the boy decided to fill in for him on his turn.
Apparently, we are great.