Toto, This is Why I Don’t Live in Kansas

It all started with a text from my mom.  It was this past Thursday evening, and I’d had a quick dinner with David and the girls before he ran out to a scrimmage with his softball team.  I was planning to give the girls a nice, long bath, put them to bed, then finish writing a post for this blog that was almost all set to publish.  It was one of those moments when I had it all under control. “Man, I hope it doesn’t rain,” David mentioned, checking the sky as he headed out the door.  I wiped off the girls’s faces, then let them loose to play on the living room floor while I cleared the table.  On my way past the kitchen island, I picked up my phone, and when I saw the text I had to read it twice.  It was from my mom, and it said we were under a tornado warning–one was marching its slow, menacing way up the interstate that runs past Mom’s town and, a further on up the road, past ours.  Huge thunderstorms were escorting this tornado–and…

Yard, We Will Conquer Thee!

I’ve mentioned before (do you remember that post? Just in case you forgot, oh dear and loyal reader, click here) that David and I are attempting to throw a landscaping coup: get rid of the old leader, Dictator Daylily McWeedsalot, and establish a new, kindler, gentler establishment for the asesthetic betterment of our family. As I may have also previously implied, this endeavor is sort of like deciding to go hot air-ballooning only to realize once you’re already up in the air that a) you’re terrified of heights, b) if you fall, there’s nothing but a desert full of hard sand and prickly cactus waiting to ruin your fun, and c) it’s a much better idea if somebody else captains the large pocket of hot air that keeps you alive and just allows you to enjoy the view.  Which is how it went for us when we did go ballooning many moons ago, but that’s not we’re talking about today. No, today we’re giddy about… …gardening! If the past few weeks are any indication, it looks like our summer’s…

Honey, You’re 18: Thighs Don’t Matter

David had to meet up with some work people tonight, so after dinner (take-out, because it’s Saturday and because I just didn’t feel like it), I took SK and the Mighty Quinn to get some ice cream.  We were sitting on a bench when I noticed two high school girls giggling by the shop’s front window. My eye caught them because one girl was wearing a “Seniors 2011” shirt, and I was trying to figure out which high school she attended, and the other had her skirt hiked so far up her torso that at first I thought it was a second shirt. (Now, you know that skirt wasn’t that high before she left her parents at the house…I hope.) As I watched, another small herd of girls approached them. They must’ve been friends, but this is the coversation that played out in front of us: Girl A, approaching:  “Stop looking at my thighs! You’re looking at my thighs!” Girl B, texting: “Yeah, I’m looking at your thighs!” Girl A, laughing: “Stop looking at my thighs…