My Would-Be Easter Report

Due to a missing camera cord, you’re getting a few unrelated smatterings from my life instead of a cutesty Easter post.
HOWEVER, my picture-taking, gardening, jewelry-making aunt wrote a post I highly suggest you check out.
I’ll put a link to it right after I post a couple stolen pictures from it.

We had our Easter Egg hunt in her backyard, which used to be my great-grandma’s backyard. She was never able to do much of anything with it, but Aunt Cat has transformed that piece of property into a SLICE of Heaven.

That’s my boy in the blue. He goes after candy like a blood hound.

There’s Lacy with her Grandpa. I’ve seen this somewhere before. Where was it? Where was it?

Oh yeah. It was 2009.
Check out the way this plays out. Grandpa starts out in the lead, then Lacy takes it.

By the end of the hunt, Grandpa was carrying her basket and she was barking out orders.

But back to 2011:

And back to 2009:

I love that picture. I love that boy.  Can I have another?  Please?  And will he let me drag him through irrigation water like that one did?

Alright, you’ve earned the link to cat’s blog.


And yes, that is my husband worm-hunting.  I didn’t steal that picture… I’ll let you seek it out.


yesterday I found my son sitting on the counter eating out of the sugar bowl with a giant spoon.  Turns out he took well-meaning advice from Mary Poppins too literally (buh dum dum).

I ate a cookie for breakfast and then died after only 15 minutes of yoga.  They call me “Idiot” down at the office.

I’m ridiculously excited about making a list and menu today.  Food planning has become a sort of tiny thrill for me.  Is that sad?  Or is it  capital?  Does it mean I’m losing the luster of life?  Or does it mean I’m getting better at managing a household?  Am I reading too much into my own emotions?  And is over-analyzing always bad?

Do you know where my camera cord, Elmer’s glue, and stamina went?

Did I mention that there was frosting on the cookie I ate for breakfast?  There was.  Fail.

I feel really strange smiling and laughing and going on with life while storms are ripping through the South.  I somehow wish the world would stop for those who’s hearts are aching.

I watched a witty chicky movie last night.  And I must say: there’s nothing better than witty dialogue.  The movie wasn’t all that great overall, but the dialogue was so satisfying that I went to bed completely content with life and slept like a baby.  Sometimes (usually when I turn the radio on) I get down and blue listening to the downfall of wit.  I start to believe that wit is losing it’s place of honor among the children of men.  At times like that, I go home and watch something old -usually The Philadelphia Story -and drink a hot beverage to comfort my sad soul.  HOWEVER, I’ve gone so long watching old movies and not watching modern-ish movies that I was shocked when there was makings out and… stuff… between the couples.  In those old movies, the couples rarely kissed unless they were ENGAGED.  Which brings me to my next point: I’d like to launch a full-fledged return to that idea.  My daughter is much too pretty, and I see no other way to handle life than to make sure she has no kissing or contact with boys until she’s engaged to one.  Okay, fine.  I guess I could try the whole “trusting her” thing.  But maybe … could I make that the fall back plan?  No, no.  Forget I asked.  Forget it.

Has anyone else in town decided that our post master is the best post master in the world, yea perhaps the universe?

Looking for Mother’s Day ideas?  You’re going to want to check this link:


My mother’s day gifts are in the works as we speak.  I can’t wait to share them with you… but my mom reads my blog.  But I still can’t wait.

I miss my friends. This week, I’ve had a hankering to sit and talk with ALL of my close out-of-town friends.  Enter: letter writing.  I’ll be mailing some off tomorrow.

I want a housedress.

I love the length.

I also secretly want perfect 40’s hair.


As long as I’m hoping for the impossible, I’d also like my kids to stop fighting. If you’ll excuse me: they’re running with scissors.

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