Letter writing is a lost art.

This is the letter that Davis brought home yesterday for his weekly letter writing activity that all the second graders do. Sometimes he writes to Mommy… sometimes he writes to Daddy… and lately he’s been writing to his big sister. (you may have to click on the picture to be able to read it)




I love this week’s letter. LOVE IT. Why? Oh, I don’t know… maybe the phrase he selects to describe the 2nd valentine he had crafted. ‘Not so much’.
I actually laughed out loud at that because it is pretty much EXACTLY something I would say.

You know, like… ‘The blog that I wrote on Monday was funny, as well as thought-provoking. Tuesday’s blog? Not so much.’ Of course, that is just an example, as I’m pretty positive I’ve never written anything that is both funny AND thought-provoking. You can’t have everything, people.

And I love how he signs it, ‘Your bro’. Like she might not be sure who this ‘Davis’ character is. Um… okay, that may actually be true. Or maybe it is just a not-so-subtle reminder to her… ‘LOVE your bro’. As in, ‘Don’t be a hater and rat me out when I… well… ever. Just stop ratting me out.’

And for the record, it *does* say bro, even though it looks like it could potentially say ‘bra’. Because that would be waaay too weird if he had written ‘Love your bra’ to his sister. (And I’m getting the shakes just typing that sentence.) Honestly though, I wouldn’t mind getting a letter from someone that compliments my personal style as they sign off. ‘Love your shirt,’ or maybe ‘Killer open toe heels!’


I can only picture how stoked he must have been when his teacher told him that the class was making Valentine cards for REAL-LIFE SOLDIERS! I’d give anything to know what he’d written in the cards.



Dear Army Guy,

I am your #1 fan. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.

I drew two army men for you on the front of the card. The first one is some of my best work. The second one? Not so much.

My teacher said that all of our cards needed to say ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ and have a heart somewhere on it. So…


Happy Valentine’s Day. And here is a heart.






I hope you like the bayonet I drew through it.



Love your camouflage,
Davis

Let's just say...

My girls have become wicked obsessed. And, no, I’m not suddenly from Boston.




Make that ‘Wicked’ obsessed.

Despite never actually having seen the musical, (did you SEE how much those tickets cost?!! Um, hello? *I* was lucky to get to go!) they know the songs by heart. And they know the story, for the most part.

My apologies if you’ve never seen it… it’s truly amazing. It is based on the book by Gregory Maguire about the early life of the Wicked Witch of the West (from the Wizard of Oz, of course. Not to be confused with the Wicked Witch of West Dorman, which is what I can morph into when someone leaves globs of toothpaste in their sink.)

Anyway, my girls want to listen to the ‘Wicked’ soundtrack almost exclusively in the van, and always ask, ‘What part of the play is this?’ ‘Can we hear Popular again?!’ ‘What is *this* song about?’

They’ve seen Youtube clips, memorized the songs, and we even got the chance to see a couple of the songs performed at an area talent show. Lately I have been listening to them ‘play’ Galinda and Elphaba (the original names of Glinda the Good Witch, and the Wicked Witch in the book and play.)

Their favorite song to sing together? “What is this Feeling?” If you haven’t seen it, it’s the song that Galinda and Elphaba sing to one another the first time they meet, and are paired up as roommates at school.

The gist of the song is that they hate one another… hate everything about each other… the feeling that they are feeling is loathing for one another.

Just a sampling of the lyrics…

‘Unadulterated loathing
For your face…
Your voice…
Your clothing.
Let’s just say… I loathe it all!
Every little trait, however small
Makes my very flesh begin to crawl.”


I know… nice song for my two sweet little girls to be singing to each other. ;)

Josie told me not to worry. They weren’t actually singing it to *each other*. They had some props.









A green one? Check. A pink one? Check. And notice their tongues sticking out at each other.

‘Wicked’ Cooties.

Pretty wicked cute, if you ask me.

Besides that...

Libby: Mommy, I'm going to color a picture for you. What's your favorite color?

Me: Green.

Libby (thinking): ...besides that.

Me: Well, I really like blue, too.

Libby: Besides that.

Me: Um... what about red?

Libby: Besides that.

Me: Well...black is a color that I wear a lot. So, maybe black.

Libby: Besides that.

Me: Purple?

Libby: Besides that.

Me (tiredly): Orange, then.

Libby: Besides that.

Me: Libby, honey, is there a certain color that you'd like for Mommy to say?




Libby: You *could* say 'pink'.

Me: Oh, okay. My favorite color is pink, then.



Libby (excitedly): Oooooohhh! That's a good one!!

;)

Oh, *that* explains it!

I know it’s going to come as a complete shock… but sometimes, I say things. Sarcastic things.

Whoa, whoa… I know. Hard to believe, right?! And sometimes I say these sarcastic things to my children. Off the cuff, ‘cause that’s just how I roll. I’m funny like that. Or at least I like to *think* I’m funny like that.

For example, a month or so ago, I was making spaghetti for dinner. (No, Jen, not with the delicious homemade sauce that is your recipe. Sadly, it was just me and Mr. Ragu throwing together a quick dinner for the troops before basketball practice/ twirling lessons/ PTA meeting/ fill in the blank.)

Davis: Why don’t we ever have meatballs? We only ever have sauce with little pieces of meat (ground meat) in it.”

Me: “Oh, honey, didn’t you know? Meatballs are only for rich people. We’re not rich, so we can only have meat sauce.”

Davis: “Oh.”

Phil (doing his ‘fierce whisper’): “Jeez, honey…don’t tell him that!”

Me (as close to a whisper as I can muster because we all know how my voice CAAARRIES): “Oh, stop… he knows I’m playing around.”


So last week, we were at the store, and I was doing my usual litany of “No, we’re not here to buy a Wii game. They’re expensive, and we only buy things like that on special occasions, like your birthday or Christmas.” (Or when Spring Break rolls around, and Mommy has gotten completely fed up with the bickering.)

Besides you still have games you got for Christmas where you haven’t completely kicked Mommy’s butt yet.” (See? That whole sarcasm angle I was talking about? It’s true, though. They *do* totally kick my butt in those games.)

Davis: “Well, I understand that we can’t get a new game. But…







…how much are meatballs?”



Um…yeah. Which explains why if you ever have Davis over for dinner, and you just *happen* to be serving spaghetti and meatballs, he will probably just stand there, gazing at those meatballs in total awe…



And then he will invite you to his birthday party. ;)

Almost always...

Things I almost always regret…


1. Cutting my own bangs.
It is usually done in a fit of not being able to do anything with my hair, and a couple of times, it actually turned out well (well… *not horrible*). Most often, though, it has disastrous results.

2. Forgetting to defrost meat for dinner. It leads to this inane conversation in my house at 5:00 p.m.:

What do you want for dinner?
I don’t know. What do YOU want?
I don’t know. What else is there?

And that all typically leads down one road. Frozen fish sticks.

3. Watching Jersey Shore on MTV.
If you’ve seen it, you know just what I’m talking about. I feel like I need to take a shower afterwards.

4. Trying to go ONE MORE DAY before cleaning the guinea pig cage.

5. “Liking’ somebody’s facebook status.
This results in me getting e-mails all day from their friends that I don’t even know who just want to say, “LOL!" or "I like this!"
People, that's what the LIKE button is for!!

6. Not buying (fill in the blank) when I saw it/ them on sale the first time. No, it doesn’t matter what it/ them is/ are… the stupid thing(s) will be gone when I go back for it/them. Crap. I needed it/ them, too.

7. Saying things in anger.
Yes… this *is* my serious side. And…done.

8. Not shopping sooner for Christmas.

9. Almost every time I say the following phrase: “I can take care of it! It’s not a problem.”

10. Anything with tequila. I mean, I'm just sayin'.

Hey now...

Preschoolers are so generous with each other. Well, most of the time.

And when they are in the mood to share, you just can’t keep them from ‘giving’ each other things. You know, like rotovirus and pink eye.

But what Libby brought out to the car today when I picked her up was something that I thought would never darken my doorstep.

Me: Um… WHERE did you get that?!

Libby: From Wyatt.

Me: Why?

Libby: To make a house for my monkey.

Me: A house. For your monkey. Ah…okay.

Libby: I’m going to keep it forever. And ever.

Me: Really? Forever?

Libby: Yep.



Well, it *did* make a nice house for a monkey, I guess.



And in a pinch, it can be a hat.



Still not seeing why I took issue with this particular gift from a friend?



Look a little closer.











I think I’d rather have pink eye. ;)

Don't call me Martha.

Don't you dare.

But I have to admit... these are too freakin' cute!








I made these "Nuts for You" (um... 'cause it's a squirrel?!) shirts for the girls to wear for their class parties on Valentine's Day.

Because I just don't have enough to do. Clearly.

A little Wonder-Under... some fabric... some $3 Walmart t-shirts... a piece of scrapbook paper with a cute little squirrel on it that I used as a guide... and... ta-da!




Suck it, Martha.




(The scrapbook paper is Bo-Bunny, btw.)

On the phone with my husband...

Him: Your blog was funny today.

Me: Ya think? I couldn't decide. I posted it anyway.

Him: I thought it was. I mean, it wasn't 'screen-spitting' funny, but it was still really good.

Me (dubiously): Um... you mean, 'side-splitting', don't you?

Him: No. 'Screen-spitting'. You know, it's when you laugh out loud suddenly and you accidently spray a little spit on your computer screen. Screen-spitting.

Me: And you've done that?!

Him: Well, I think you're hilarious, and I love to read the stuff you write. It cracks me up. So yes... I *have* spit on the screen before. Sue me.






And just like that, I fall in love with him just a little bit more. :)

A Slushie kind of day...

Friends, family, blog devotees… because I love you (truly, I do!), I’m going to let you in on a little secret. It’s a little known deal. You might even call it ‘the insider’s scoop’. You can thank me later. Here goes…




Sonic has a happy hour. Everyday. And drinks and slushes are half price. Half price! Astonishing, isn’t it?

And… you’re welcome.





Huh? What do you mean you knew?! Um… what do you mean, “Everyone knows that!”?

Now I’m not exactly a stranger to Sonic. I *have* been there and had a tot or two. But I’ve just never been a big fan of their Diet Coke (which is, of course, the best measure of any establishment… okay, not really. My favorite Diet Coke place is Jack in the Box, and the food there is out and out terrible.) Anyway, the Diet Coke at Sonic tastes funky to me, and they put waaaay too much of their ‘special ice’ in it, so I’d pretty much written it off.

And we all know that I’m no stranger to Happy Hour (of a different variety). Yep. Just feel free to keep *those* comments to your own damn self.

But Sonic AND happy hour? Together? Who knew? Evidently, everyone but me.

A few weeks ago when I was at my mom’s house, my sister-in-law called to say she was coming over and wanted to know what kind of slushes she could bring the kids since it was ‘happy hour’ at Sonic.

My sis-in-law: What flavor slushie should I bring for the kids?

Me: I don’t know. They’ve never had one.

My sis-in-law: Never?

Me: No.

My sis-in-law (enunciating): A… Sonic… Slushie… Not ever?

Me: Um. No.

Her: That’s child abuse right there.

Okay, okay… she didn’t exactly *say* that, but I detected it in her voice over the telephone.

Well, Brandi, I have to tell you that we’re making up for lost time. A 50 cent slushie has become the treat of choice, and when I pick the kids up from school, I have two questions:

1. How was your day at school?

2. Okay, enough about that… what flavor are you going to try today?

So far, we’ve tried Cherry, Watermelon, Orange, Cherry, Blue Coconut, and Cherry (they really like Cherry), and Grape and Powerade are next on the agenda.

We've become quite the Sonic junkies. But with that, I *would* like to offer a few words of advice. Just some nuggets of wisdom that I’ve picked up from our recent pilgrimages to Sonic.

1. Remind your kids not to poke the sides of their cup with the straw. You'd never know it to look at them, but evidently those straws are solid steel construction and will go right through the side of a Styrofoam cup, spilling Blue Coconut slush all over everything.

(Don’t worry, honey… it cleans up pretty quickly when you jump out of the van in the nearest available parking lot, armed with napkins, antibacterial hand gel, and old socks that the kids have left under their seats.)

2. Ask for extra napkins. (See #1)

3. Drink your slushie s-l-o-w-l-y. There is nothing quite like driving down 620 with a serious case of slushie brain freeze, silently praying that you won't have to make any snap decisions. You know, like slamming on the brakes... or changing the station because Lady Gaga's 'Paparazzi' is on the radio yet again.

4. Be prepared to drink some random flavor of slushie that your child picked, and then decided that they “don’t really like it, and can I please have a drink of your Cherry slush?”

5. For 50 cents, it’s worth it just to buy the extra Cherry slush.




6. Trust me.

Choking up

Today I worked a shift for someone at the scrapbook store. I still do that occasionally because it is nice to be out, talking to people.

You know... people who don't need me to pack a lunch for them. Or need me to do their laundry.

And these people? Out in the world? Well, some of them actually believe me when I tell them that I know what I'm talking about.

So I was gone almost the entire day, and I had to miss a basketball game, and the whole 'dropping off and picking up from a birthday party' routine, and a trip for ice cream.

Yeah. I was bummed about the ice cream.

Fortunately when I got home, the hubs had dinner made (LOVE that man!), and we went around the table, telling the best part of our day. (oh, yes... every day. Too precious, I know.)

And my boy... my son... that 7 year old that knows just how to push my buttons and drive me stark raving mad on any given day, says...

"The best part of my day was when Momma got home."



Seriously. I almost started to cry. I was completely touched.





And then I asked him what he wanted. ;)

Not today...

Okay, so I had a post all ready to go today. It was written down and EVERYTHING. And y'all... it was funny.

But I just wasn't feeling it. Maybe tomorrow.

Because today I keep going back to those pictures on CNN. The ones of Haiti and the utter devastation there. And those pictures are making me cry and giving me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I can't even begin to imagine the sheer helplessness all those people must be feeling.

So maybe tomorrow I'll be back with another snarky entry. But not today.

And if you pray, I know you're already doin' your thang. And if you don't, you probably should. These people desperately need our prayers and our donations.

Peace, y'all.

On my soapbox...

Forget the perfume counter at Macy's. I have a new favorite scent I like to wear, and I can buy it at H.E.B.
No… it’s not Jean Nate body spray (remember that?!).

It’s Irish Spring.

Yep. The soap.

I love the smell of it. We never used it when I was a kid, so it’s all new to me. I mean, we used soap when I was a kid… well, at least *I* did. There’s no accounting for my two smelly brothers. ;) But we were religiously a ‘Dial’ bunch. I can still remember the jingle. Come on… sing it with me. ‘Aren’t you glaaad you use Diiiialll?’

And I can still remember the Irish Spring commercial, too, from back in the day. You know the one… with the weathered old Irish guy in the cable knit sweater, slicing through that thick green bar that proves that the freshness goes all the way through? *Sigh.

And then he’d say in his thick Irish brogue… “Smells like frickin’ heaven.”
Well, maybe that’s not *exactly* how the commercial went.

It just smells CLEAN to me. After I shower at night, I’ll be laying in bed with the hubs, reading a book or watching the news, and I’ll smell my arm. On the sly. Surreptitiously.

The other night, he busted me.

Hubs: What are you doing?

Me: Um, nothing.

Hubs: Did you just sniff your forearm?

Me (nervous chuckle): Of course not! I was…just scratching my arm.

Hubs: With your nose?

Me: I can’t help it! I just love the way it smells! I smell like a proper Irish lass. (this last part was said, of course, in a poor imitation of an Irish accent.)

Hubs (without missing a beat): Like gunpowder and whiskey?

Ohhh… isn’t he the funny lad?

He does not share in my devotion to and/ or my wonderment of Irish Spring. Up until now, we have been a ‘Dove’ family because Phil and the kids (everyone except me) have ‘sensitive skin’ issues. Wusses. A buncha blonde-haired, blue-eyed wusses. ;)

It’s the same reason that I have to use fragrance free detergent, and as a result, my laundry doesn’t have the ‘Fresh Scent of Gain’ (damn… I think I watch too much t.v.)

The only reason I even had a bar of Irish Spring is because I read somewhere that it removes stains from clothing if you scrub the bar on the stained spot.

Um, it doesn’t.

But I discovered the extra bar under my sink one day when the Dove had been reduced to a mere sliver. I realized this, of course, after climbing into the shower, and had to get back out, dripping water onto the floor, while I rummaged through the cabinet. That big green bar was the closest thing at hand. I used it once, and was addicted.

I still buy Dove for the family, but on occasion, I like to use the big green, ‘heck, no, we have no added moisturizers’ Irish Spring. Sensitive skin, be damned. It may be stripping all the moisture from my skin to the point that my elbows crack…




...but at least I smell like frickin’ heaven.

My little hunter

Here’s a riddle…

What do you get when you take one little boy…





Add in three late nights in a row…



And mix in an afternoon with Daddy in the deer stand?


The answer...

Post-game Wrap-up...

Not much of a blog today.

Yeah, yeah. I *know* it’s just a game. But it didn’t feel very much like one last night.
It didn’t play out the way so many of us had pictured it. Or had wanted to picture it. And that all became very clear, very quickly.

The injury to Colt, that poor scared ice-cold freshman quarterback, and the disastrous shovel pass. Oh, that shovel pass. Sh*t.

And when it was in the bag for Bama, you didn’t have to be a Longhorn fan to think that Nick Saban is a complete douche bag for not taking a knee when there was a minute and a half left in the game. Have some class, you clown.

And you would have to have a heart of stone if it didn’t break just a little bit for Colt McCoy during his post game interview.

For me, it will always be the ‘game that might have been’. Might have been a different outcome. Might have been another National Championship for the burnt orange. We’ll never know.

So, yeah, I’m bummed. But I’m proud, too. Proud of my team and their effort… proud of my alma mater… proud of the Horns.

Hook ‘em.

A condiment by any other name...

Eating dinner last night...

Josie (looking into the fridge): Mom, where is the ketchup?

Me: We're out of ketchup. We used the last of it yesterday.

Josie: Well *that* just sucks.

Me (using my 'warning' voice): Josie! ... please use something different.

Josie: Um... okay... how about mustard?



I guess I should have been more specific. ;)

Breaking the Seal

I told Cynthia I’d write an entire blog about this.

Last night, I was asleep, snug and very warm in my bed, wearing my long pajama pants, my long-sleeved t-shirt, and my hella-ugly fuzzy socks. You know the ones. (EVERY day, people! ;)

I was under the sheet, my thermal blankie, a fleece blanket, and on top of it all was the comforter. As the temperature goes down, I add progressively more blankets to the top of my bed. You should have seen me when we lived in Colorado. I slept in a hooded sweatshirt. And I wore the hood.

Even in the summer, I usually have at least one blanket on the bed. My ‘just in case’ blanket. You know…just in case the temperature in our part of Texas drops down below 97 degrees in August. Or just in case hell freezes over.

I hate to be cold, especially when I’m trying to sleep. In fact, I’m kind of looking forward to menopause just so I can have some of those ‘hot flashes’ I’ve heard so much about.

Phil, on the other hand, HATES having that many blankets on the bed. He is much more warm-natured, and can seriously sleep in the dead of winter with just a sheet. As a result, most of the blankets end up piled on my side of the bed, which creates a perfect little warm cocoon for me to sleep in.

Now, last night, Phil didn’t get home until about 12:30 a.m. because he was in Salado, out at my grandparents’ house, working on his deer with my brother. So when he got home, I was out cold (warm?), having re-instated my early morning workouts with a friend.

I was practically comatose when he got home, and just barely managed to open my eyes and mumble… “Where’s my meat?” when he came into the bedroom. Oh stop it, people. The deer meat?!

He assured me it was safely stowed in the freezer, and then came to get in bed. And when he pulled back the covers, a frigid blast of Arctic air rushed into my warm little cave. Hmmm… maybe we should turn up the heater.

I tried very hard to not be cranky. I mean, he *had* just spent hours, (after being at work all day) working to bring home the bacon…er…backstrap. And *I* had spent the evening, after putting the kids to bed, watching ‘The Biggest Loser’ season premiere and eating a pudding cup. Which *felt* a little bit wrong, but was still strangely satisfying.

So… the seal of awesome warmth and comfy coziness was broken. When I was telling Cynthia about it this morning, that’s what she called it anyway…. Breaking the seal. And mentioned that it would make a good Seinfeld episode. Well, if it hadn’t gone off the air over a decade ago, I guess.

Whatever the case, my impenetrable blanket fortress was no more. And I was awake for the foreseeable future.

Which was, admittedly, about two minutes. But it was two minutes where I briefly considered if my sleeping bag would fit underneath all those blankets.

And the new year cometh...

Ah… it’s back to school today. Hold on just one sec while I do a little dance…







Okay… back.

And here was my early morning conversation with my son…

Him: I hate school.

Me: No, you don’t. You LOVE school. You like your teacher. You like to see your friends. You love to read. What’s not to love about school? *I* love your school. Today, more than ever.

Him: It’s just all that learning. I don’t get why we have to go to school.

Me: Well, you have to learn. Otherwise, you’ll grow up being ignorant and illiterate.

Him: Huh?

Me: Ignorant. And illiterate. It basically means that you’ll be unable to read and write very well, and that you won’t have the basic skills or knowledge that you need when you grow up.
Like knowing, for instance, that giving your kids a tattoo is NOT a good idea. (Yesterday’s blog, people. If you read it EVERY day, you wouldn’t get confused! ;)

Him: Huh?! I just wish there was no school. Or that we only went to school one day, and that we had vacation every other day, and I could stay home and play the Wii. I just don’t want to go to school.

(Sidenote: This is the point where my patience has worn thin, and I start to get a little sarcastic. Probably not helping the situation much, but it was early, not to mention cold. And I was tired, and a little cranky, myself. I’m not sure if someone messed with my alarm clock over the break, but it was especially loud this morning.)

Me: Well, I understand that it’s early in the morning, and that you may not want to go to school, but once again, I am not raising a child that is ignorant or illiterate. So if you live here, you HAVE to go to school. Hmmmmm… what are our options, bud?






Him (thinking...): Who are you giving me away to?

Damn. I think I’ve met my match with this kid.

Who could have possibly thought this was a good idea?

You may have seen it by now, but today when I was watching the news, there was a story about a couple in Georgia who were arrested for endangering their six children, ages 10, 11, 11, 12, 15 & 17.





Because they gave them all tattoos.




With a homemade tattoo gun.

And why did they do this, pray tell? “Cause the kids wanted ‘em.” (No joke. Check out the video on CNN, if ya don’t believe me.;)

All the children were tattooed on their hand with the homemade gun, which is made by using a ball point pen, a sharpened guitar string, a power supply, an electric motor, and wiring. Who knew?

Oh wait, PEOPLE IN PRISON know that!! And a few folks in Georgia, evidently.

The mother went on to say, “I just don’t understand how this has got blowed up so big! It’s just a itty-bitty cross.” (And yes, she *did* say ‘blowed’. That part of the interview just blowed my mind. ;)

But the part that *really* threw me for a loop? When the investigator that was being interviewed said, “And they used the SAME needle on all 6 children.” Like *that* was the most shocking detail.

Um, yeah… call me silly, but if you’re inbred enough, trashy enough, and stupid enough to tattoo your children, I’m thinking that hygiene and safety are not your biggest concerns.

Plus, HOW do you think this conversation went down? “Hey kids… while Daddy has out the fancy tattoo machine, finishing up Cousin Hannibal’s ‘Killah’ tattoo before he heads off to the state pen, how’s about we all get us some matchin’ ink?!”

Heck, my kids hate to even have their clothes match for Christmas pictures. And then, only for the duration of the time we’re actually at the studio. PLUS, from the minute we get into the car to drive to the pediatrician for a check-up, I hear this non-stop… “Mommy, am I getting a shot? I don’t want a shot. Please ask them if I have to have a shot RIGHT when we get there. Do you think I’m supposed to get a shot? I really don’t want a shot! I don’t! I don’t!” Not really sure that my boy would have waited around for his turn to get a tat.

The interview on CNN concluded with these sage words from the mother: “We don’t think we did anything wrong! The kids don’t think we did anything wrong! I just don’t understand it. It’s crazy!”

Crazy? Wow, she took the words right out of my mouth.

Oh deer...

And so the phone rings…

Me: Hello?

P: Hey honey.

Me: Did you get one?!

P: Yeah. I got a spike buck. I thought it was a doe at first, but after I got to it, I realized it was a spike.

Me: Did you take a picture?!!

P: Um, no.

Me (crestfallen): … But I even sent the camera with you. In that manly little pink case?







P: Well, I *did* take a picture of it after it was skinned.

Me: Oooh, gross. You didn’t make Chris take a picture of you with it *before* you skinned it?

P: Nope.

Me: Well, damn, honey. I can’t put that on my blog! Didn’t you even *think* about the blog?!

The great white hunter got himself a deer. He killed it. He gutted it. He skinned it. Well… technically, my brother skinned it, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re the experienced hunter who takes on the novice ;) He and my brother will be processing it next week.

So, it wasn’t a big trophy buck. I’m cool with that. All that means is that I get deer meat in my freezer, and I never have to look at anything like this…




...cause that's just wrong.

Way to go, honey! Can't wait to make up some chili :)

On the hunt...

So, I am sitting here in Temple at my mom's, waiting with bated breath. Oh yes... my husband has gone a-huntin', folks.

Huntin' with my brother. Huntin' for a doe-eyed little dee-uh.

Phil is an Indiana boy. He's hunted squirrels. He's hunted birds. Heck, he may have even hunted for possum, but I'm *pretty* sure he's never gone deer-hunting before. I know for sure he's never killed one.

I, on the other hand, grew up in a family of hunters. My dad hunted. My brothers hunt. My uncles, and cousins, and grandparents hunt. I have even sat my stint in a deer stand when I was a kid. The Jacksons are hunters, people. We say 'huntin' instead of 'hunting', and, daaaamn...we look good in camouflage.

I grew up eating deer meat, and was embarrassingly old when I realized that chili can actually be made with ground beef, too.

So Phil's gone hunting to try to blast some little Bambi right between the eyes so that I might have some deer meat. What a guy. The fact that he gets to fire a gun has nothing to do with it, I'm sure.

They hunted yesterday afternoon, with no luck, so today was back to the deer stand. This morning, actually. At the @$$-crack of dawn. Even though, technically, 4:45 a.m. is not even dawn. It's just flat-out crazy.

It's almost 10 in the morning, and I haven't heard yet if it was a successful huntin' trip. The kids asked this morning where their dad was, and I told them he was hunting again today. Josie, my little new-age flower-child, who loves animals of all kinds and species said, "Mmmmmm... I can't wait to eat some deer meat!"

I guess her allegiance to the Ethical Treatment of Animals is in direct proportion to the tastiness of said meat. That's my girl. ;)