What's the Rule?

Nana, I don't want to ride in the cart. Can I walk, if I obey?

Yes, you may. What's the rule?

What?

What's the rule?

What?

What's the rule?

What's the rule?

Ohhhh, don't touch.

Don't touch. Okay.

Whew!

Our first destination was the ladies room. In very tight quarters, I did my best to pull up the Sugarplum's wonderwears and had grasped the waistband of her little bitty capris, when I heard, "Wedgie. Gotta wedgie. Gotta wedgie!"

"Okay, okay. I'll fix it. Sorry." *mopping Nanabrow*

We'd no sooner exited the room -- all clothing adjusted to the Plum's satisfaction -- when she spied a huge display of riding toys in large, colorful boxes and scampered ahead of me. "Look, Nana!"

"I see. Those look wonderful. That little boy on the box looks like he's having fun."

"Yeah!"

I watched her incline her body ever so slightly. Then she lifted her foot and gingerly placed her toe on the front of the box.

"SugarPlum, what are you doing?"

"I didn't touch. That was my foot. I didn't touch it with my hands."

The bad Nana laughed first. Then she amended the rule: "SugarPlum, don't touch with your feet, either."

Later, she suddenly began walking with her head hanging almost to her left shoulder, which appeared to make it a bit difficult for her to keep her balance. "What are you doing, SugarPlum?"

"I'm watchin' my head, Nana."

"You're watching your head?"

"Yeah, I don't wanna bump it into anything."

To the little kid's credit, she made it through 90% of the shopping trip, before she was assigned a position in the cart. ºÜº Good job, Plum!


And he brought forth his people with joy, and his chosen with gladness. ~Psalm 105:43

Coyote Door

I'm not a furniture rearranger. Boredom is quelled in other ways, because if another arrangement of the furniture would look or serve better, I'd have put the stuff "there" in the first place. Nevertheless, I was forced into the move by my own hatched plan to reinstall the woodstove we removed from the den last year. I was just sure there would be a way to squeeze that monstrosity (read: eyesore) into the living room, where one end was appointed for living, the other for dining.

When a 20% off sale at the builders' supply store shoved a through-the-wall kit and chimney pieces first into the truck, then throughout the house, it was time to tackle the project, because the reinstalled woodstove would be far less decoratively intrusive than the acquired bits and pieces strewn about our living space: "This stuff ain't workin' for me here."

The living space was on the south end of the room.

I'm married to a very short man?
No, wait. He's kneeling.

Now it's on the north. And the rest of the sofa wraps nearly to the wall. Cozy. Never say crowded, or people will think you don't have a lick of decorative sense. It's cozy. Don't be gettin' all nervous or critical about the entry door smacking into the sofa, either, because that's just a piggledy photo perspective. That quilt had to come off the rack in favor of another, because one of the greens in it refused to marry the sofa. They got along fine when they were neighbors. Marriage was a no. The media armoire had been stuffed, as were the 4 bookcases. When you plant a bookcase, pour cement around its roots, because if you don't, you may decide to move it, and you'll have book and film towers all over your whole house for several hours. Ugly. Overwhelming.

So we enjoyed a lovely evening in the new living room. The living area was cozy, the dining area was roomy, and I sort of wondered if "this" was how things should have been all along.

The woodstove. Mmm. It and every power tool known to mankind were dragged into my lovely, new dining area the next morning. We lost our heads, as we discussed whether or not the chimney could be nestled behind the wall between two windows. Unfortunately, guessing left us with a hole for the stovepipe and a coyote door.


Shall I speak again of how much we don't like to do sheetrock patches?

Those coyotes are out there every night and sometimes during the day. With winter coming on, their fur (aka pelts) will soon be thick and fluffy. I say we keep the coyote door and make a few extra, easy bucks: Here boy. C'mere, boy. Want cookies?


The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter. ~Psalm 74:16, 17

Continuous Editing

I've long known and used the words download and upload. Unfortunately, I decided for myself their definitions and usages. Of course I'm uploading photos. Gotta get 'em out of that little camera and up there into that tower. NOT. I think it was some chatter by Neil Cavuto a couple of days ago, which set me straight. I don't normally watch Cavuto, don't understand high finance one whit (other than the WE'RE TOAST part), and my memory bytes flew the coop a few years ago, so I can't tell you today what Neil said two days ago. I can only remember it was the moving mouth on his face, which in the context of his usage, alerted me to the definitions of download and upload. And it was my face which would have portrayed chagrin, had that wee camera been nearby to capture the look. I found the byte in my brain for the most recent time I'd misused the word upload and decided I better fix it in at least that post.

Neither do I understand blog following and feeds, so I wonder if anyone is being hammered with "new posts" which are old posts being edited. And edited. And edited.

Many weeks after mentioning in a post a gift horse, Loo said, "Oh yeah, I keep meaning to tell you the adage is, 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,'" then she proceeded to explain its meaning, about which I'd queried in my blather. For cryin' in a bucket, if I'd remembered it was mouth, instead of face, I'd have figured out the meaning on my own. I'm a pretty old horse, myself.

Have Gas, Won't Travel: That would be the post which was supposed to point one to the fact that the only oil shortage in the U.S. is a meticulously contrived one, since there's enough oil in Prudhoe Bay, alone, to supply the U.S. with oil for 200 years. The find was immediately capped -- rather than routed to us -- and they've been spending a gazillion dollars to pump the natural gas back into the ground daily...the past twenty-some years now. I learned just the other day that particular post was so confusing that my own children didn't know what they'd read. We can't have that, so editing is going to mean rewriting the whole thing. At least one person understood the thrust of my composition, because I received an email smackdown for exposing the facts, my being all unAmerican for mentioning them. I live in America, and reality and honesty are p.r.e.t.t.y high on my priority list. If reality and honesty aren't American attributes, maybe I am unAmerican. And don't get me started on the lame, misapplied, and wearying use of the word theory. Facts. Just the facts, please. Theories are birthed by people who have more think-time on their hands than I.

I try to edit my mouth. People laugh when I say pharaoh, horse, enchilada, chocolate, or root beer. I'm working on most of those. I can't seem to do a thing about horse.

Most importantly, though, I hope God is continuously editing me; my all of me. God would be YHWH. I usually avoid using His real name, because that makes even some Christians nervous. Apparently there are Christians (purported or actual) with unBiblical beliefs and who do use God's real name. I don't know them, and I don't know about them. I only know they exist, because someone got a little fuzzed-up over me calling God by His real name and suggesting that might be a good practice, since there are people who believe YHWH and false gods (with other names) are one and the same. "Are you one of those people who believe ____?" I am not, although I can‘t remember now what was in the blank. I do desire that YHWH edit me -- continuously. He's really keen on reality and truth. I want to be more pleasing to Him, as He refines me.

Edit me, Lord. I need it.


And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you. For many shall come in my name, saying, I am Christ; and shall deceive many. And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places. All these are the beginning of sorrows. Then shall they deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated of all nations for my name's sake. And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another. And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many. And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold. But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved. And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come. ~Matthew 24:4-14

24

I know that, because I stood in the kitchen doing the math, while we waited for Son2's family to arrive. "Twenty-four. Pup's twenty-four, right?" With a confirmation, I continued, "That means Loo is about to turn twenty-seven. I thought she was already twenty-seven." (Ah, she's gonna love me for that. Sorry, Loo.)

Picture the air being sucked out of the room, when twelve-year-old Son4 then said, with eyes widened, "You mean Loo's older than Pup!?"

Please -- tell me this isn't child-neglect. Strike 3,537. Am I out yet?

We remembered, then, our shock on the day the 6-year-old was asking strange questions about his other brother. "Are you talking about Son1?" No. We finally pinpointed the person he was referring to. "Son4, Kyle isn't your brother. He's Pup's friend." When the span between one's oldest and youngest children is twenty-three years, the baby needs a tutorial. Who knew?

"I" before "E", except after "C", and "E" before "N" in chicken.
This is your brother.
This is not your brother.
This is your sister, who is shortish.
This is your brother, who is tallish.
Mom and Dad were first on the scene, and Loo before Pup in family.

With that all cleared up, we turned our attention to the cake Charles had brought home. Yes, I was supposed to bake and decorate the cake, having even asked the birthday boy what flavor he'd like to have. But with flu in the house for two weeks, I made an executive decision that my time would be better spent shoveling a path through the accumulated debris, and at a late hour I phoned Charles to pick up a cake on the way home. "White. It has to be white with white frosting."

Peering into the box, my own eyes widened, and Charles said, "It was a man. There was only a man there to write on it"...which explained the nearly illegible scrawl.

Oh my. He's expecting a homemade cake, and not only did I not get that done, just look at this mess. It was comical...in a sick way. Poor Pup.

Purrle partied too hard.

Frankly, noticing this, there was a bit of a stir in the small crowd. "Is he breathing?" which apparently cued Pierre to check. Breathing. Breathing? Pierre knows breathing? He checked, and there was nary a twitch.

" Go for the jugglar, Pierre." Ah, he moved. Whew!

We all partied hard. And except for a store-bought, scrawled upon cake, discovering Son4 still doesn't know his own family, the fat cat playing dead, and a departure delayed by the tire our gravel roads flattened, it was a great event.


Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord. ~Psalm 127:3a

Control Your Nose

Don't be lettin' it get all stuck up in the air or anything. For starters, it's raining like crazy, and you might drown.

Actually, I just figgered you might not be able to stand another post with PEAR in the title. But if it had read Pear Pie, your nose might have gone north, and I wanted to spare you the embarrassment, because pear pie is d.e.l.i.c.i.o.u.s. Mmm-mmm-mmm.

"Pear pie? Whaaaat?" They ate the pie, and they ate the words: "This pie should be entered in a county fair." Any kudos go to Little Loo, who long ago steered me to allrecipes.com, where recipes are rated, and one can scout for five stars. In this instance, I'd even read like stories of turned up noses which got buried in a scrumptious pie. Would that be humble pie? Pass the napkins, please.

It's ugly, though.


All four of us peeled, cored, and sliced our way yesterday to pear butter, pearsauce, canned pears, pears for lunch, and pie. By the time we got to the pie, I wasn't of a mind (or body) to make crusts, and we needed to go to town, so I decided I'd buy crusts...until I saw they (and everything in the store) had taken a sizable price leap.

I bought my first manufactured pie crust circa 2004, having brought my own nose south in order to do that. "Real women make their own pie crusts." I got over my puffed up self and have bought many. But I wasn't going to pay the price of a bag of flour for a manufactured crust. I did decide to employ the food processor, though, and were it not for adding too much water, that probably would have been a good idea. I pieced and patched the results into an unsightly but serviceable receptacle and lid: Enter five-star-piggledy-pear-pie.

Never judge a pie by its cover...or its name.


The words of the Lord are pure words: as silver tried in a furnace of earth, purified seven times. ~Psalm 12:6