on politics

“Ahhhh… election year.  That magical year when friendships suffer because people love their soapboxes too much! Count me out, please.”  ~Claire A.

When I was younger, I remember my parents being very guarded about their political affiliation.  To this day, I can’t tell you for sure whether Mom & Dad are Democrats or Republicans (though I have my suspicions).  On Election Day every year, when asked who he voted for, my father politely explained that that was private and quite frankly, none of my business.  Even though I was far too young to vote, my parents kept their politics private and personal. 

Since I turned 18 and got my coveted Voter Registration Card, I have found that for every political statement I have ever made in my life (no matter which side I was in favor of – believe it or not, I’ve been on both), someone was there to argue with me.  Without fail, every time, someone found it pertinent to knock my poor little statement to the ground and step on it…and they expected me to do the same.  And quite frankly, I’ve had enough. 

I don’t like confrontation.  I never have.  Election season makes me tense.  All the mud-slinging and name-calling makes me want to cower cornered in the fetal position and sing Why Can’t We Be Friends

I really do hate confrontation.  So much so that even a heated debate will push me to tears.  I truly believe that bad-mouthing the competition will eventually ruin politics as we know it.  America is the melting pot.  Of course everyone wants something different from their leaders.  There’s no way to come to a peacable understanding when all anyone does is complain about something someone else did/almost did/is doing/didn’t do. 

Dear Candidate Running for Every Political Office Ever:  I don’t want to hear what your opponent did.  I don’t want to hear what you think about your opponent or what you think I should think about your opponent.  All I want to hear from any person running for any office is what they intend to do, how they intend to do it, and why I should believe them.  That’s it. 

Dear Friend Who Feels The Need to Flaunt Their Political Affiliation:  I’m glad you like the candidate you like.  I’m sure they’re glad to have your support.  But if you want to talk politics with me, don’t shoot down every other candidate.  That’s no better than the mud-slinging that all the candidates are doing in the first place.  Just simply tell me why you like who you like and don’t bad-mouth anyone else.  That’s quite enough for me. 


Vote for the candidate of your choice.  If you’re undecided, DO SOME RESEARCH!  On all the candidates…not just one party.  And by all means, register to vote.  But do it once you’ve weighed all the options.  And do it joyfully.  Not everyone in the world has that right, so don’t ruin it by bashing the candidates you don’t support. 


I’d honestly love to hear who you support and why.  Leave comments.  Leave links to that candidate’s website.  But if there’s so much as one complaint or comparison to any other candidate (incumbent or no), your post gets deleted.  Cause I don’t want that negative mess on my blog.  Capiche?


It’s no secret:  I’m a reader.  Since college (I know, I was a late bloomer), I’ve loved curling up with a good book and reading my day away.  I tend to choose books based on language…no, not Enlish.  I mean verbage.  I’m more likely to enjoy a book where the passages are filled with flowery prose or a witty turn of phrase than I am a book with a really exciting plot.  Don’t get me wrong though, plot counts too.  I like books that wrap the reader in beautiful sentences and clever quotes.  It was those two reasons, as a matter of fact, that caused me to fall in love with Vladimir Nabokov and Donald Harrington, respectively.  I tend to enjoy mushy romantic stories much less…quite frankly because the writing usually (in my opinion) sucks.  Sure, Nicholas Sparks can come up with a painfully heartwrenching plot, but the words he uses to tell the story just don’t do it for me.

With that being said, I have a rant.  Not really a rant…wait, yes, it’s a rant.  In the past couple of months, I’ve had several people suggest books to me.  My GMIL does it all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE new book suggestions!  Truly, I do. Here’s the thing though:  when you suggest a book to me, tell me why YOU loved it, don’t tell me how much I will love it. 

“You would absolutely LOVE this book. Especially, you know, since you like to read and write and stuff.”

Someone actually said that to me the other day.  And all I could think was: your favorite movie of all time is “It’s Complicated”…somehow I don’t think we have the same taste in reading material. 

But that’s not the first time it’s happened.  The last time I flew, I sat next to a very pleasant lady who insisted that I would LOVE whatever book she was reading.  She described the author as being “a lot like Nicholas Sparks but not as well known.”  Yeah…I can’t wait to get my hands on THAT one!

Please, please please please, when you suggest a book to someone in the future, please tell them why YOU love that book.  Tell them why YOU couldn’t put it down.  Don’t insist that THEY will love it.  Because truthfully, they might not.

Christmas list

It’s that time of year, the time when the nip in the air is a little more welcome.  The time when people tend to smile a little more.  The time when there’s a soundtrack to your day…and it’s coming from every speaker within a 20 mile radius. 


In honor of my favorite time of year, I thought I’d make a Top Ten list of my favorite Christmas songs.  Feel free to sing along and enjoy!


Top 15 FAVORITE Christmas Songs (sorry, I just couldn’t narrow it down!):

 15. Grown-Up Christmas List, Kelly Clarkson (didn’t see that one comin’, did ya?)

14. The Christmas Waltz

13. I Want A Hippopatamus for Christmas

12. Snoopy vs. the Red Baron

11. The Man With the Bag

10. Jingle Bells (it’s placement in this list is entirely dependent upon at least the second verse being included)

9. Here Comes Santa Clause

8. Carol of the Bells, by the Trans Siberian Orchestra…of course

7. We Wish You the Merriest, by Bing & Frank…it’s utterly delightful

6. There’s No Place Like Home For the Holidays, by Dean-o

5. (It Must’ve Been Ol’) Santa Claus, Harry Connick, Jr.

4. I’ll Be Home for Christmas, by Frank…gives me chills

3. In the Bleak Midwinter, James Taylor

2. White Christmas, by Bing…or The Drifters

1. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, by anyone, at all, except Gloria Estephan


And, just so you know how awesome my favorites are, here are my absolute least favorites…I dare say some of them make me want to give up and say BAH-HUMBUG!  They take the pep right out of my Christmas step.  They tell my inner-child I’m on the naughty list.  They burn the metaphorical chestnuts right off that roasting fire. In other words, they simply ruin my Christmas spirit.

Top 10 LEAST FAVORITE Christmas Songs:

 10. Frosty the Snowman, unless it’s the Jackson Five or Willie Nelson

9. Any “cutesy” revision of The Twelve Days of Christmas…they all suck.  All of them.

8. O Holy Night, by Michael Crawford…it sounds like he’s swallowing his tongue

7. The Peanuts Song…not Christmas Time is Here, the OTHER Peanuts Song.  It doesn’t even SOUND Christmas-y!

6. O Holy Night, by Josh Groban…dude, he changes the words.  Don’t mess with a classic

5. This Christmas, by Gloria Estephan…it’s a song about gettin’ it on and she included a children’s chorus, that’s messed up

4. Christmas Through Your Eyes, again, by Gloria Estephan

3. The Little Drummer Boy, unless it’s by Mercy Me

2. The Virgin Mary Had a Baby Boy, What’s with the calypso beat? It’s Christmas, not spring break in the Bahamas.

1. Lo, How a Rose E’re Blooming

chop chop

When we were little, mom had a haircut rule:  if we wanted to get our hair cut (other than just a trim) we had to wait a month, a whole 30 days before she would make us an appointment, just to make sure that’s what we really wanted.

As we got older, we pushed the 30 day rule, eventually working our way up to three weeks, then two.

Then, of course, once we were out on our own, Amy and I both made rash hair decisions that left us in tears afterward, regretting not following our mother’s hair wisdom.


For the past, I don’t know, year and a half, I’ve been growing my hair out.  Not necessarily because I wanted it long…I just couldn’t think of anything else to do with it.  I was in a haircut rut and inspiration just wasn’t there.

Trey and I had been living in San Antonio for a couple months before we ventured new haircuts.  His had gotten long and grown over his ears and he wanted to attempt the “Ted Mosby Do” from How I Met Your Mother. I must say, his hair looks fabulous and he’s really gotten the hang of using the spray wax. But on that day, in the middle of the SmartStyle inside the Walmart, all I could say was that I wanted my split ends trimmed.  And, while my hair felt healthier, my hair-esteem was as blah as ever. 

Flash forward a few months to this past Monday night:  I was scheduled to meet Trey’s mom and sister at The Melting Pot for Girls’ Night Out.  So I decided to go girly for the evening, and actually used my hairdryer.  I even took it a step farther and used my straightening iron to boot!  When I got home that night, as I was brushing my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, some of the shorter layers of hair close to my face fell in front of my shoulders, leaving the longer locks hidden behind my back.  And I thought, “hey, that’s not too bad.” So I stiffened my neck and walked into the living room to show Trey, trying with all my might not to let a single strand of hair fall out of place, thus ruining the haircut illusion. 

“Would you care if I cut my hair about this short?”

“Um, sure baby, whatever you want to do.” 

So, the next day, I hopped back over to the SmartStyle in the Walmart (I know I know, I’m real classy) and told her to chop it off…and when she asked if I wanted any layers, I told her to go to town.  And she did.  After adding all sorts of volumizing goo and blowdrying my hair with a fat round brush, the finished product looked a little Jennifer Aniston circa 1995.  So I came home, washed it, and just let it dry naturally…making me look a little like I did in my 4th grade year book photo.

But today is a new day.  Today I showered, dried my hair, and straightened it just a tad.  And it’s fabulous.  Spunky and sassy and easy-breezy.  Ahh…

Change is good.

boot weather

Recently, there have been a lot of facebook posts about the weather back in South Carolina.  How it’s so beautiful and cool.  How it’s time for ladies to start digging their awesome boots out of the depths of their closets.  How everyone’s so excited that fall might just be around the corner.


Grr.  I ain’t gonna lie…I’m jealous. 


The past week or so, we’ve had a cold front here too…for about 9 days in a row it’s been under 100 degrees.  And the wind is blowing.  96 degrees outside? Time to break out my scarves!


Besides, I live in Texas…here, it’s always boot weather.


About 15 years ago, when my family lived in Fort Mill, there was a tornado warning in our area. I don’t remember where dad was, but I do remember mom, Amy and I huddling together in the hallway, clutching a flashlight for dear life.  That was the only time I could remember ever being afraid for my life…until this past Wednesday.

Around 4:30 that afternoon, Trey called to check on me.  He asked me to look out the window, to go outside and see if I could “smell” anything.  At first, I didn’t notice it, but upon closer inspection, I could see a plume of dark smoke out our livingroom window.  I couldn’t look away.  I was paralized.  Up until that moment, the Texas Wildfires were this distant threat that would never really be a problem. But there, out my livingroom window, was evidence that the wildfires were much closer than I thought. 

 Camp Bullis wildfire

A large wildfire broke out on land in the western part of Camp Bullis north of San Antonio on Wednesday afternoon, raising concerns that nearby homes could be threatened as flames continue to spread.

The fire is reportedly situated on land east of Ralph Fair Road near Dietz Elkhorn Road. That’s near the Fair Oaks Ranch subdivision and the Fair Oaks Country Club.

Authorities said several roads in the area have been closed to the public to keep people safe. Ralph Fair Road is closed beginning at Pimlico Lane. Dietz Elkhorn Road is also closed, along with Fair Oaks Parkway. Drivers were being diverted into neighborhoods.

The fire is still covering a wide area and continuing to move. About 60 acres had been burned by about 5:30 p.m. Camp Stanley, which is just south of the fire area, was endangered by the advancing flames.

Evacuations were under way in some spots, while others were trying to get to their houses.

About 4,500 customers in the area were without power, and officials were asking others who do have power to conserve.

Dozens of fire and police units had converged on the scene, and air support has been called in to help, Bexar County spokeswoman Laura Jesse said.

Dry, hot winds have been driving wildfires in the San Antonio area since the weekend.

– courtesy of www.kens5.com


Just four miles away from our apartment, that fire was too close for comfort.  By bedtime that night, the fire marshall let residents (who lived much closer to the flames) return to their homes and I could no longer see the smoke rising in the distance.

Since we live in an apartment and don’t have a yard to worry about, I didn’t pay much attention to the drought.  It took that fire coming into view for me to truly realize how badly Texas needs rain. 

Tropical Storm Nate is hanging out near the east Mexican coastline…it seems strange, but I find myself praying that the tropical storm will become a hurricane and that one natural disaster can save us from another…

Either that, or someone should pack up all that flooding from the northeast and send it our way.



All my life I’ve secretly wanted someone to throw me a surprise party.  Seriously, I wanted it really really bad.  But that’s the kind of thing you can’t say to someone:  “Hey, you know what I’d love for my birthday?  A surprise party.”  The request in itself defeats the point.  So for years, I’ve just secretly sent mind signals to those nearest and dearest, begging them to surprise me. 

But then I had a realization.  I hate surprises.  Not only do I hate them, I’m not good at them!  I’m the girl who spends the entire two hours of a movie trying to figure out the twist before it’s revealed…and most of the time, I do.  Also, when I get surprised, I cry.  Not a sweet “oh, you shouldn’t have” cry, a snotty, red-faced, puffy-eyed, ugly sobbing cry of complete overwhelming emotion.  Case and point:  in 3rd grade, I won a news paper contest to name the mascot of the local Children’s Hospital.  They brought the Charter Bear (who I named “Caly” for Charter of Augusta Loves You) to my school and did a big presentation and little eight-year-old me sobbed through the entire thing.  And on top of all that, when there’s a surprise, you miss the anticipation!  You miss the chance to build up the excitement.  AND I hate not knowing what’s going on, not knowing my schedule, not being in control.  These are all things I’ve recently discovered about myself…or, more accurately, recently accepted.


Back in March of this year, Trey and I already knew we were moving and were frantically getting the house ready and Amy and Adam were frantically getting their wedding planned.  So, the soon-to-be Steptoes came to Spartanburg so Amy could do her bridal portraits with the fabulous Melissa Ragan Photography and so Adam could help Trey jack up the dip in our guest room floor.  Now that I think about it, those might have been two different trips.  Anyway, I vaguely remember an IHOP breakfast with Amy where, when she had gone (presumably) to the bathroom, I told Trey that, for my 30th birthday, all I wanted was to see Amy. 

Fast forward to about a week before my birthday – I was still very aware of the request I made back in March.  And I was noticing that Amy and Trey had been communicating a lot.  While I didn’t quite have the whole thing figured out, every fiber of my being hoped that Amy was flying out to San Antonio for my big day.  I literally spend the entire Tuesday before my birthday cleaning the apartment from top to bottom, hoping and praying the whole time that we’d soon have company, and crying when I thought we might not, and smacking myself in the face for getting my hopes up because, if I was wrong, then I couldn’t let Trey know that I was disappointed with whatever other gift he may have gotten me.

When Trey got home from work that Tuesday night (I had just gotten out of the shower), he said he had part of my birthday present for me.  The only stipulation was that he had to video me opening it.  I cautiously pulled the tissue paper out of the green striped gift bag to find a delicious-looking blueberry muffin.  In a timid voice, I asked why he was giving me a blueberry muffin, to which Trey responded “that’s not A muffin, that’s YOUR Muffin.”  A few more questions and it was revealed that Trey and I would be flying to South Carolina for the weekend.  My eyes filled with tears, my hand flew to cover my mouth to stifle a sob, and I whispered the most appreciative “thank you” that I’ve ever said in my life…after which I made him turn off the camera because the real crying was on it’s way. 

So I knew we were flying to SC.  What Trey refused to tell me was what city, who we’d be seeing, where we’d be going and what we’d be doing.  I mean, I love you baby, thank you for this awesome gift, but DUDE!  You gotta tell me SOMETHING!  Between Trey and Amy, I was told to pack “comfortable clothes” and shorts…I never wear shorts. 

Thursday, we arrived at GSP and were greeted by my awesome parents at the airport.  Then it was off to a late lunch with them and Mama Jane.  After which, we decided to swing by our house to check on everything.  Did we need to get the lawn freshened up, did the house need to be dusted?  We found a few things we wanted freshened up…and we also found a mop bucket on the back patio in which someone was growing a marijuana plant.  Really. 

So we spend the next hour waiting on the police to show up and laughing about the ridiculousness of the situation.  On the one hand it was pretty hilarious, on the other hand, however, I was pissed…we’re trying to sell that house!  The last thing we need is for a bucket of pot to scare away a potential buyer…or get US in trouble with the law!  The very nice Spartanburg County police officer verified that yes, indeed, it was marijuana, and probably a couple hundred dollars worth at that.  Then we hit the road to Columbia for dinner with Grandma and Amy and Adam. 

Before detailing the rest of our weekend adventures, I have to say that my parents gave me the best birthday gifts ever this year:  a beautiful peridot ring that I’ve had my eye on (other than my engagement and wedding rings, it’s really my first piece of REAL jewelry…I’m such an adult), and a thumb drive with about 140 or so of Dad’s sermons.  Other than the trip itself, that has to be the best birthday gift of all time. 

Okay, so we spent Thursday night in Columbia with Amy and Adam and then Friday we had breakfast with mom, dad, and grandma at the IHOP (did you know they have eggs benedict?  I LOVE eggs benedict!), then it was off to Fort Mill…OH, I should mention that Thursday night at dinner, I ventured a guess about our Friday plans:  since I was instructed to bring shorts and told that we’d be outside for a while but not particularly active, I guessed that we’d be going to a Charlotte Knights’ baseball game.

The game started at 7.  But before that, I had girl time at a local cupcake shop with Sara, Amyfay, Amy A. and Jen (and her family).  From there we walked down to Six Pence Pub where we met up with the Ragans, Rob and Nick’s Melissa.  After dinner at the pub, we caravaned to the Knight’s game and were joined with the Petersons, the Scroggs’, Josh, and Nick.  And after the Knight’s game (no, I have no idea who won) we all went back to Sara’s.  I spent the entire evening with my favorite people in the world…for those of you who couldn’t make it (Blair, Andy & Abbey), I’m so sad I didn’t get to see you.

Saturday we had a late breakfast at Flying Biscuit (if you’ve never had their Creamy Dreamy Grits, you’re really, really missing out).  I think it was sometime at breakfast that I asked Amy and Trey if I could make a request regarding our plans that day.  Amy said no, I couldn’t but I asked if we could go visit Courtney and her new baby, since we were in town anyway.  My question was completely dismissed.  We arrived at Courtney’s house a couple hours later.  PS:  baby Adelaide is about the cutest thing ever.  After visiting for a couple hours, we headed back to Columbia for our second (well, everyone but Adam’s second) Harry Potter viewing and for turkey steaks wrapped in bacon back at Chez Steptoe. 

Sunday, we headed back to Texas.  Even though I figured out most of the surprises ahead of time, it was officially the best birthday ever.  As Rob put it, “that was fun, you should turn thirty more often.”  Ya know, I think I might.

laundromats and dirty diapers

Before I share the details of my (amazing) 30th birthday, I feel like you should understand how horrible my last big milestone birthday was:

My 25th birthday was on a Friday.  I was in a show called Wonder of the World and it was the worst theatrical experience of my life.  The director was a jerk and thought he was God’s gift to the stage.  The show itself was just bad, from the script to the interpretation of it.  The main plotline involved a woman who left her husband because she discovers that he swallows Barbie doll heads and…er…passes them for sexual pleasure.  It was a really bad show.  But that was a time in my life when I was such a stage hog that I couldn’t say no to any part.  Oh how I learned my lesson! 

I digress.  I was in a horrible show, and because of that, I didn’t have time for birthday dinner with family or friends, I had to head to the theater right after work (I should mention that Mom, Dad and Amy did surprise me for lunch though). My boyfriend at the time actually forgot it was my birthday.  I was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and Australia didn’t seem like far enough to run away. 

After the performance that night, I didn’t want to go home alone, and I didn’t want to go out with the cast.  So I picked up my dirty laundry and headed to the Wash Depot to spend a couple hours reading to the rhythm of the industrial sized washers and dryers.  I got there around 11pm and made myself comfortable on the only couch in the laundromat, the rest of the chairs were cold and hard and plastic.  My dear friend Josh called to wish me a happy birthday and we chatted for a while, which definitely helped my mood.  When I got off the phone, I snuggled into the poofy couch and poured my attention into the chapter I was reading…and that’s when my day went from bad to worse.  The automatic doors swooshed open and in walked an ill-tempered woman with her five children (all under the age of six).  She pointed directly at the couch where I was sitting (despite the fact that there were at least 60 vacant seats) and told the kids to sit there “and don’t move.” So they did.  All five of them squeezed on the couch next to me.  Thinking that surely, as soon as she realized that they were invading my space she would ask them to move, I held my ground. 

And then I smelled it.

The littlest of the five, who just happened to be practically sitting in my lap, was wearing a dirty diaper.  And when I say dirty, I don’t just mean wet.  I mean dirty.

At 25 years old, I thought I’d be married with a career and children on the way and living the American dream and instead I was sulking in a laundromat in the middle of the night with someone else’s kid’s crap in my lap.  This was my life.


Flash forward five years to the Best Birthday EVER!

slow bloomer

My favorite color is green.  If you’ve ever met me at all, you ought to know that.  I have a green purse, green dresses, green pajama pants, green cowboy boots, green ballet flats, my wedding shoes were green, my eyes are green, my car is green.  My thumbs, however, are decidedly not green despite the tireless efforts of Grandma, whose thumbs are so brilliantly green her front yard looks like a jungle, in a good way.

Every year or so, Grandma sends me a plant that she’s certain I am fully capable of caring for.  She doesn’t know that I was once asked by a neighbor to remove the potted plant from my front porch because it “looked like dead seaweed” and was “an eyesore.”  But with each year, I get a little better at not brutally murdering the plants.  And now, (believe it or not) some of them are actually doing quite well.

Last spring, Grandma gave me an Asiatic Lily.  I kept it on the back patio, watered it when I remembered to, and mostly forgot that it existed…until one day, the green leafy sprig that was totally uninteresting the day before, was a bright pink flower in full bloom.  It caught me completely and utterly off guard.  A sneak attack.  A surprise flower.

I ooh-ed and ahh-ed and showed it to anyone who came by the house.  I was so impressed that a flower had bloomed under my watch – despite my watch.

Since we’re now living in an apartment, the Asiatic Lily has become indoor plant, sitting on a small table in front of our living room window.  Last week sometime, I noticed it had a little green bud on one of the stems.  The next day, it was a slightly bigger little green bud.  Another couple of days passed and the little green bud looked a little pink at the top.  A day or two later it looked very pink at the top.  Is this pokey little flower ever going to bloom?  I wondered.  Out loud.  And often.  But no, it took it’s sweet time.  Until yesterday morning.  It opened just a little.  And this morning?  It opened a lot.

I rejoiced at having not killed an indoor plant.  More so, I rejoiced that Rufus had not eaten the indoor plant.  Trey, on the other hand, was less than thrilled.  He knew that a blooming lily in the house meant that there was lots of active pollen floating around.  Since I don’t have an allergy to pollen, I have a difficult time empathizing.  After all, this was a miracle, and it was happening right under our noses!

I like to think I’m like that pokey little flower.  I’ve always been jealous of my friends who’ve already found their carreer path.  The teachers who knew their calling when they were still in college, the wedding photographer who quit her job to pursue her dream, the people who know what they want to do and then do it.  For the most part, vocationally, I feel like a kindergartener: When I grow up I want to be an actress, I want to be a lounge singer, I want to be a famous novelist, I want to be a construction worker, I want to be…

So what if I’m a slow bloomer?

Trey, I told you your health and happiness was more important than the health and happiness of any flower.  Which is why I picked off all the pollen tips and wiped it clean with a damp paper towel.  And if that kills the pokey little flower, I’ll only be a little sad.

One of these day’s I’m gonna bloom. And I can only hope that some very loving person will take whatever poisonous pollen I may unintentionally give off and wipe it clean so that my blooming will only bring joy to those around me…


This morning, in a fit of sheer insanity, and with no prior intent of doing so, I set out to organize the contents of our garage by myself.  You see, when Trey and I moved into our apartment, we rented a garage as a storage space (way cheaper than any other self storage we found, and it’s on site.  perfect). Well, on move-in day, the movers just tossed stuff in there with no rhyme or reason.  Basically, it looked really full, but nothing was stacked very high and there were lots of “holes” that you could walk through.  Since then, Trey and I have off-handedly mentioned that “we ought to go work on the garage sometime” in the vague and distant and entirely optional future.  But this morning, for some inexplicable reason, I decided to go for it.

Initially, I thought I would just go assess the situation.  Maybe assemble the metal shelving unit so I could stack Christmas decorations on it.  Maybe just make a clear pathway from front to back.  Maybe just stare at it vacantly and become overwhelmed by the ridiculously daunting task.  I packed a cooler of snacks (a couple Dr Peppers, an orange, some poptarts, water) and hopped in my car to drive across the apartment complex to our little garage.  As luck would have it, there was a vacant parking space right in front of our garage…AND the sun was coming up behind another building, casting a shadow over the garage door opening.  Thanks for looking out for me God, that was awesome.

Well, most people who know me know that I love nesting.  I love rearranging trinkets and picture frames and furniture that is entirely too big for me to be attempting to move on my own.  Good think I’m “freakishly strong for a girl.” So of course I didn’t just assess the situation.  I dove in head first. 


Windshine A side story:

I have a  windchime that I love.  We bought it at World Market.  It’s basically a stick with colored glass bottles hanging from it.  But when the wind hits it just right, and you hear the tinkling of the little wooden beads hitting the sides of those glass bottles, it almost sounds like someone tapping their champagne glass with their fork to get the attention of everyone in the reception hall so they can offer a toast.  Every time the wind blew, it was like a little toast:  Here’s to Leslie, she’s fantastic!  Here’s to the Hendons, may they live a long and happy life together!  Here’s to life!  Cheers!

When we decided on our apartment in San Antonio, we opted for floor plan with the bigger living room, forfeiting a porch or patio.  “Why do you need a porch in Texas?” Trey asked, “It’ll be way to hot to ever sit outside anyway.”  He was right, but I was still a little sad that there’d be nowhere to hang my windchime.  In hindsight, we made the right choice.  We have entirely too much furniture to have gone for a smaller living room with a porch just so I’d have somewhere to hang my windchime.  It, along with the love seat, the pump organ, the elliptical, the Christmas decorations, and a hundred other things that we decided we could live without for a year, ended up in the garage. 


So, as I was shifting and lifting, stacking and unstacking, wiggling and hefting the contents of our poorly packed garage, I discovered a strangely labeled box:  Windshine.  Very Fragile.

Windshine? Oh, WINDSHINE!  In his haste (or maybe because he really thought that’s what they’re called), the mover labeled the box with my World Market Windchime incorrectly.  I think it’s the most glorious word mistake I’ve ever heard.  Even more glorious than misheard lyrics (“What’s love Dr. Doo, Dr. Doolittle?”).  In fact, the misnomer made me smile all morning.  AND it put to mind one of my favorite songs:

“Soul Shine, it’s better than sunshine.  Better than moonshine.  Damn sure better than rain.
Now people don’t mind, we all feel this way sometimes, you gotta let your soul shine, shine till the break of day.”
– Government Mule