Weddings have gotten terribly out of hand. Even our wedding was too much, and we tried to keep it as simple as possible. We had originally hoped to keep it really, really small and simple, but thanks to some backhanded comments from the peanut gallery it grew to be a bit more than that. But that's another story, I digress.
So where were we? Oh, yes, weddings have gotten too out of hand. I think that people try to turn it into such a production and they forget that the entire point is not to build up such elaborate pomp and circumstance but to revel in the fact that two people are making a commitment to God and not just to each other. I don't believe there should be a year (or more) of planning and feeding someone's inner narcissistic monster. I don't believe that on your wedding day you should feel like you are be followed by paparazzi.
Really, all you need to remember your wedding day is one good picture.
Think about looking back on your parents' and grandparents' wedding pictures. One picture is worth way more than 1,000 words. No doubt that in their pictures they look fresh faced, perhaps a bit flushed, excited, nervous, overjoyed, anxious, scared, happy - all of those things. No doubt that when the majority of those pictures were taken there was not a professional photographer prompting them to elicit all these emotions and "tilt your head to the left - chin down."
Am I slamming all photographers? Well, I'm not trying to, believe it or not. I love photographing things. Am I drawing some sort of parallel between the amount of pictures one must have of themselves and their level of narcissism and the declining length of the average marriage? Perhaps, but that's more of one parallel and one inverse correlation, but now we're just splitting hairs. Believe it or not, in some sort of twisted way I'm trying to get back to my original point - 40 years from now you need to be able to look back on your wedding day, holding the hand of the person you married and look at just one good picture.
On that note, happy belated 40th to my aunt and uncle, and happy 30th to my folks. Congrats on your marriages and getting one good picture.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Basic Instincts
I have a paralyzing fear of snakes. Well, let's say semi-paralyzing fear of snakes. Thus far, when encountering a snake's presence I have never lost the ability to shriek and scream like a little girl.
As I grow and mature; however, I have found that I am learning better, more efficient ways to cope with their existence. Maybe existence is too strong of a word, seeing as how I chopped one into little pieces with a shovel a few months ago. Anyhoo, my main point is that I'm getting better at not just screaming and crying when I see a snake.
Case in point? Tuesday of this week.
I had just finished hanging clothes out on the line and needed to walk inside to the utility room and grab my next load of wet clothes. As I opened the door I saw something wiggle out of the corner of my eye. I looked down to see a little nasty creepy-crawler right underneath the door stoop.
In the half-second that I had to process information, I remembered that there is a slight gap between the bottom of the screen door and the door stoop and it might be possible for the little snake to wiggle in to my beloved home, especially since I had the heavy storm door open as well.
How do you prevent a snake from making his way into your home without touching him? By growling, of course.
Yes, my primal fears and natural instincts worked together to solve a problem and that is what they came up with. An odd "GRAAAAAAWWWWW" that sounded like a cross between a drunken sailor, a bear and a lion.
It managed to do the trick, though. Instead of slithering into my house, it decided that weirdos resided in this particular residence and he should probably have no part in that. Good choice, Mr. Snake. Good choice.
Maybe I should just go back to screaming. I really hope that Grandma Curry wasn't in her yard to witness that little escapade. I have a feeling she prays for me a lot.
As I grow and mature; however, I have found that I am learning better, more efficient ways to cope with their existence. Maybe existence is too strong of a word, seeing as how I chopped one into little pieces with a shovel a few months ago. Anyhoo, my main point is that I'm getting better at not just screaming and crying when I see a snake.
Case in point? Tuesday of this week.
I had just finished hanging clothes out on the line and needed to walk inside to the utility room and grab my next load of wet clothes. As I opened the door I saw something wiggle out of the corner of my eye. I looked down to see a little nasty creepy-crawler right underneath the door stoop.
In the half-second that I had to process information, I remembered that there is a slight gap between the bottom of the screen door and the door stoop and it might be possible for the little snake to wiggle in to my beloved home, especially since I had the heavy storm door open as well.
How do you prevent a snake from making his way into your home without touching him? By growling, of course.
Yes, my primal fears and natural instincts worked together to solve a problem and that is what they came up with. An odd "GRAAAAAAWWWWW" that sounded like a cross between a drunken sailor, a bear and a lion.
It managed to do the trick, though. Instead of slithering into my house, it decided that weirdos resided in this particular residence and he should probably have no part in that. Good choice, Mr. Snake. Good choice.
Maybe I should just go back to screaming. I really hope that Grandma Curry wasn't in her yard to witness that little escapade. I have a feeling she prays for me a lot.
Monday, September 10, 2012
New Shoes
When I was little we didn't go shopping very often. New shoes were quite the luxury. When we did manage to get new shoes it never failed.... within 12 hours I would be wearing them either out in the pasture or out in the lots and pens. Its not that I WANTED to get them dirty, its just that I would come home from school, get distracted by something I'm sure was reallllllly important and forget to change out of them.
I was sure that someday I was going to outgrow this.
Friday night on our way to watch the high school football game, we got a call from a neighbor saying that he saw smoke to the west of us and was just sure it was one of our pastures on fire. Wesley and I dropped everything and immediately went to check it out.
Although it wasn't our pasture (thankfully), it was a neighbor's and we felt obliged to help them out. When the first volunteer fire truck showed up Wesley hopped on, grabbed the hose and started spraying while I followed along behind and stomped out the flare ups that happened at every cow pattie.
Halfway through this exciting adventure I paused and looked down, actually absorbing what was going on and not just in an epinephrine overdrive.
My brand new, white tennis shoes (which I knew was a dumb idea) were no more. They were more of an ash-gray color and stinky from all the smoke.
Some things never change.
I was sure that someday I was going to outgrow this.
Friday night on our way to watch the high school football game, we got a call from a neighbor saying that he saw smoke to the west of us and was just sure it was one of our pastures on fire. Wesley and I dropped everything and immediately went to check it out.
Although it wasn't our pasture (thankfully), it was a neighbor's and we felt obliged to help them out. When the first volunteer fire truck showed up Wesley hopped on, grabbed the hose and started spraying while I followed along behind and stomped out the flare ups that happened at every cow pattie.
Halfway through this exciting adventure I paused and looked down, actually absorbing what was going on and not just in an epinephrine overdrive.
My brand new, white tennis shoes (which I knew was a dumb idea) were no more. They were more of an ash-gray color and stinky from all the smoke.
Some things never change.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Pot Lights
I love to watch home interior design shows. Something that is totally "in" these days are recessed lights. I remember calling them "pot lights" before all the PC dictators took over and made us start calling everything "vintage" instead of "antique." Frankly, I feel like they can kiss my "gluteus maximus." Like that, PC dictators?
Back to my story. I don't feel that I can ever call them pot lights again. Nope, this time I'm following a trend and sticking to calling it recessed lighting. Wanna know why?
Yesterday, a member of our local sheriff's department walked into my office. Not that I had done anything wrong, but seeing someone in that line of work always makes me do a quick mental checklist of ways that I may have majorly screwed up in the recent past.
After exchanging pleasantries and some idle chit-chat the nice officer asked if I would be interested in some grow lights for any agronomy projects that I might have coming up. My frugal nature couldn't pass up such an opportunity and I of course assured him that we could indeed use them.
"Okay, great, let's go get them out of our storage shed. They came from a drug bust and the case finally closed so we don't need them as evidence anymore."
Um..... come again? I froze in my tracks while a million thoughts raced through my head. "Do we need to clean them or something?"
"Nah, they don't have any residue on them or anything, just scrape the evidence number off them if you want."
It was at this point I realized how odd this conversation really was and I immediately turned to one of my less attractive defense modes when faced with an uncomfortable situation. I began to giggle uncontrollably.
The officer looked at me in a really strange manner from that point forward and I'm sure that my giggling helped turn this into a one-time only gifting of unwanted material from their department.
So now I have these two lovely grow lights that set in the corner of my office. See why I can't use the term "pot lights" ever again in my life?
Back to my story. I don't feel that I can ever call them pot lights again. Nope, this time I'm following a trend and sticking to calling it recessed lighting. Wanna know why?
Yesterday, a member of our local sheriff's department walked into my office. Not that I had done anything wrong, but seeing someone in that line of work always makes me do a quick mental checklist of ways that I may have majorly screwed up in the recent past.
After exchanging pleasantries and some idle chit-chat the nice officer asked if I would be interested in some grow lights for any agronomy projects that I might have coming up. My frugal nature couldn't pass up such an opportunity and I of course assured him that we could indeed use them.
"Okay, great, let's go get them out of our storage shed. They came from a drug bust and the case finally closed so we don't need them as evidence anymore."
Um..... come again? I froze in my tracks while a million thoughts raced through my head. "Do we need to clean them or something?"
"Nah, they don't have any residue on them or anything, just scrape the evidence number off them if you want."
It was at this point I realized how odd this conversation really was and I immediately turned to one of my less attractive defense modes when faced with an uncomfortable situation. I began to giggle uncontrollably.
The officer looked at me in a really strange manner from that point forward and I'm sure that my giggling helped turn this into a one-time only gifting of unwanted material from their department.
So now I have these two lovely grow lights that set in the corner of my office. See why I can't use the term "pot lights" ever again in my life?
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Patient Update
No worries, folks. Loop's minor surgery set her back for a whopping 2.5 hours. Her stitches look good (go me!) and I'll take them out in about 2 weeks. AND, we saved a ton of money by stitching her ourselves! Before you read that last sentence and go postal on my frugal nature, please believe me when I say that I felt competent in my capabilities and if it had been something really major I would in fact spend the money to heal my beloved bestie. Pretty sure I ruffled some feathers on that last comment.
On a sidenote, my poor mother. I wonder what goes through her head sometimes when I call. Like when I lived in east Texas and she got a random call, "Hey, Mom, how do you know if you have a concussion?"
Or last Saturday as I was prepping for Loopie's stitch-up job. "Hey, Mom, do you know where I could find some hemostats?" (A tool used in surgery procedures.)
Her response is almost never varies. ".....sigh...... Um, why?...."
"No reason, just curious."
On a sidenote, my poor mother. I wonder what goes through her head sometimes when I call. Like when I lived in east Texas and she got a random call, "Hey, Mom, how do you know if you have a concussion?"
Or last Saturday as I was prepping for Loopie's stitch-up job. "Hey, Mom, do you know where I could find some hemostats?" (A tool used in surgery procedures.)
Her response is almost never varies. ".....sigh...... Um, why?...."
"No reason, just curious."
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Sad, sad day
Wesley and I got home from a high school football game last night and Loopie was in a shy mood. We could tell that something was wrong, but of course she wouldn't tell us. We were pretty sure that she had just found some mineral bags and torn into them like usual, but I didn't feel like finding the mess and cleaning it up last night. I kicked both of the girls out to their pen at bedtime and didn't think anything more of it.
This morning, Loopie was still out of sorts. She kept hiding under things and staying very close to me at all times. Very peculiar. I thought that maybe she had a tick the size of Texas on her that could be causing her so much distress. After feeling around on her legs and belly I found that she had a 4-5 inch gash across her poor little tummy. I'm a sucky dog pseudo-parent. And I wish it had been something simple like a tick instead. I still can't get a strait answer out of Loopie or Laurie on how this happened, but I'm guessing it had something to do with a nasty game of Truth or Dare.
Long story short, a phone call to our vet got me loaded up with all the supplies and goodies I needed to stitch her back together. There was a quick little 60 mile round trip to pick everything up and then we preceeded to perform our minor little patch up job on the kitchen floor. (Don't freak out, it wasn't near the food prep areas, and it WAS on the floor.)
So now I sit here typing and just waiting on my patient to wake up. Although we don't have a proper, padded room for her to recover in, Loopie is resting comfortably on her denim pillow. (Sidenote: Everything I have ever known has been in terms of animals, and then I have to make the connection of how it relates to humans. I remember asking my mother if she had to recover after her surgery in a padded room. She was not impressed. More impressed; however, than when I was little and asked her what she did with her afterbirth and I hoped she wasn't like a cow. That's another story for another day though...)
This morning, Loopie was still out of sorts. She kept hiding under things and staying very close to me at all times. Very peculiar. I thought that maybe she had a tick the size of Texas on her that could be causing her so much distress. After feeling around on her legs and belly I found that she had a 4-5 inch gash across her poor little tummy. I'm a sucky dog pseudo-parent. And I wish it had been something simple like a tick instead. I still can't get a strait answer out of Loopie or Laurie on how this happened, but I'm guessing it had something to do with a nasty game of Truth or Dare.
Long story short, a phone call to our vet got me loaded up with all the supplies and goodies I needed to stitch her back together. There was a quick little 60 mile round trip to pick everything up and then we preceeded to perform our minor little patch up job on the kitchen floor. (Don't freak out, it wasn't near the food prep areas, and it WAS on the floor.)
So now I sit here typing and just waiting on my patient to wake up. Although we don't have a proper, padded room for her to recover in, Loopie is resting comfortably on her denim pillow. (Sidenote: Everything I have ever known has been in terms of animals, and then I have to make the connection of how it relates to humans. I remember asking my mother if she had to recover after her surgery in a padded room. She was not impressed. More impressed; however, than when I was little and asked her what she did with her afterbirth and I hoped she wasn't like a cow. That's another story for another day though...)
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