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An Ode of Un-Joy to the Dog Next Door

You stupid little mutt,
I want to kick your butt.

Your barking is incessant,
my mood is most unpleasant.

Twenty-four/seven you bark,
from sun-up to sun-dark.

And when I lay down to nap,
Sleep is eluded ’cause you yap.

If I could have one wish,
It’d be your voicebox in a dish.

A shock collar around your neck,
might be my best bet.

Sugar is good and honey is sweet,
I pray you’ll go play in the street.

Perhaps its cruel, but ’tis true,
I hope your doggie days are few.

And in dog Heaven you can croon,
by the light of the silvery moon.

With gates of pearl and bones to nibble,
 balls to chase and drool to dribble.

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Run, Auntie, Run

13.1: miles in a 1/2 marathon

4.5: days until the race (race!  Ha!)

298: times each day I look in the mirror and cuss myself out for signing up

5:  number of months we’ve been training

6:  pounds I’ve gained while running

7:  pounds really

1:  day I’ve trained when the temperature was above 40 degrees

112:  degrees it will probably be on the day of the marathon

20,999:  number of people that are going to trample me at the start line (I can only hope)

3: hours that I pray I can finish in

40:  mph the ambulance will drive to get me to the nearest hospital after I collapse across the finish line.

2: number of knees that will afterward need replacing

17:  blisters on each big toe

13:  years it will take me to recover

0: times I will ever run again unless being chased by a rabid dog

************

I picked up my marathon shirt the other day. 

I’m running with a very large group of fellow agile, vigorous marathoners from my hometown.

We’re all wearing the same shirt, so we can be noticed out of the 21,000 other runners.

It’s definately loud enough.

Really……it’s probably not a good idea to ask me how I’m feeling. 

The Harvester is our little town’s mascot. 

The mighty Harvester who wields a fierce sickle or yo-yo or something.

Bringing in the sheaves,
Bringing in the sheaves,
We shall come rejoicing,
Bringing in the sheaves.

Sorry.  Just looking at him makes me want to break out into song.

Ask me how I’m feelin’ and I’m supposed to say Harvester Good.

But only time will tell what may come out of my mouth on Sunday after about 8.4 miles into it.

After aches, pains, limps, cramps, sweating, wheezing, dehydrating, and puking, I’m supposed to say Harvester Good.

Wrong Answer.

I  hope I can refrain from flying the bird to all those questioning, happy spectators.

Jason suggested mine should say something else,
like….

“Because I’m stupid” 

or

“Because teaching school isn’t punishment enough” 

or maybe

“Because I really don’t need my knees”

but my favorite is

“Because I make limping look good”

But seriously y’all.

Will all the joking aside, this is rumored to be an awesome experience.

One that I will never forget. 

Maybe even cherish.

 And all the hard work, time, blood, sweat, and glucosomine chondroitin will be well worth it.

“There will be days when I don’t know if I can run a marathon. There will be a lifetime knowing that I have.”

See ya at the races,
Angel

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Sunflower seeds anyone?

I have a nasty habit.
It’s not as bad as picking scabs, slurping, or letting the dog lick my face after he just licked his boy parts however.
But some (my husband for one) may consider it pretty gross.

It’s sunflower seeds.  I love them.  I have a spit cup from The Rambling Road Trip Vacation Bible School I taught one year.  I hide it in a special place in my cabinet so no one inadvertently drinks out of it.  I eat them while I blog.  I eat them while I drive.  I eat them while I watch TV.  If I were a junkie, sunflower seeds would be my crack pipe.

I truly believe with every ounce of my being that eating sunflower seeds takes talent. 
It’s almost an art form.
None of that picking them up one by one, holding them between you finger and thumb as you gingerly crack them and then remove the seed.
No sirree bob.
You have to throw a handful in at a time, till your jaw poofs out, suck the salt, and spit out the shells.  If you can’t eat them this way, you have no business eating them at all.  You’ve got to eat them until the tip of your tongue is raw. 

Ever since my niece Ashlynn was a wee little one, she’s been eating sunflower seeds.  Of course in the beginning she wanted to just eat the whole entire thing, so I had to teach her.  I took great pride that she knew how to eat a sunflower seed unlike her sandbox peers.  She’s a one by one kind of sunflower kid, but she can crack them with the best of us.  Give her time, give her time.

One summer, when she was about four or five years old, I as driving around town with Ashlynn in the back seat.  I was snacking on some sunflower seeds when she asked for some.  Oh, I’m stingy with them.  I hate sharing them.  What junkie likes sharing her crack pipe?  But even more than that, I hate wasting them, and to hand them off to a little pip squeak is about the most wasteful thing I could do.  I only knew she’d spill them in between the car cushions.
 But being the loving, affectionate, sacrificial auntie that I am, I passed her a handful with a mere cringe.  Several minutes passed, and I heard the window in the back rolling down. 
“What are you doing?  Are you throwing out sunflower seeds?  Quit that!”  I shrieked, “Quit wasting my sunflower seeds!  Give them to me if you don’t want them!!”

I flopped my right hand back behind my head and held it there as she leaned forward and put sunflower seed after sunflower seed in my hand.  I popped them in my mouth, sucked off the salt, spit out the shells, chewed and swallowed them,  and then heard this wee little voice…..

“But Auntie………… they were in my butt.”

Apparently, she needed both hands to crack open her shells one by one, so she sat them between her legs on the car seat, and as I gassed it at the red lights, they shifted up the legs of her shorts, until she pulled them out and placed them one by one in my hand.

I might as well go let the dog lick my face.  It couldn’t be any worse could it?

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Just call me Lizzie for short

The Texas Panhandle = Wind.

Crazy kind of wind.

Wind that makes you kind of crazy.

The kind of winds that you really can’t even fathom if you haven’t ever visited here in the Spring. 
Or the Winter. 
Or the Summer. 
Or the Fall.

It blows all year long.  Except when you want it to.

We consider 30 mph to be a slight breeze. 

I’ve lived here all my life and I really should be used to the wind by now.  But I’m getting cranky and irritable in my old age.

I find myself thinking of Lizzie Borden a lot lately.  Did you jump rope to her little sing-song when you were a small child? 

Lizzie Borden took an ax,
and gave her mother forty whacks,
when she saw what she had done,
she gave her father forty-one.
I didn’t jump rope to that either.  It’s just that my mother told me her story.  My mom who is a lover of all things morbid and murdery.  I remember murder mystery magazines stacked nearly to the ceiling in our garage in my childhood home.  Covers with pictures of women laying murdered, ropes around their necks, half dressed, blood pooled under their heads.  It’s a wonder I turned out normal, and the jury is still out on that one.
Legend, or my bad memory, says that Lizzie Borden lived in the 1800’s.  There was no air conditioning and a massive heat wave enveloped her area.  The temperatures soared, the heat was unbearable, not to mention she had to wear all those hot dresses which only intensified the problem.  So the tale continues that the Borden family had to eat stew, or something similarly wretched, day after day after excruciating day.  The stew spoiled, I assume there wasn’t a Frigidaire in the house, or any Secret anti-perspirant, and they sweated and ate rotten meat for days.  Until Lizzie had just had it.  She couldn’t take it anymore.  A girl can only eat rotten meat for so long, and so she bludgeoned her mom and dad.  I mean enough is enough.  The crazy weather can really get to a person can’t it?
Did I mention the wind is blowing?  Did I mention it’s been blowing for day after day after excruciating day?  Did I mention my mother’s mystery murder magazines that infiltrated my brain as a young impressionable youth?  Did I mention I have an axe in the garage? 
Kidding!
Maybe.
Here’s a picture of my dresser. 
See that empty spot right there.
I had a lovely topiary sitting there from my wedding reception.  There’s a matching one on the other side.
Have I mentioned the wind’s blowing? 
Maybe the curtain whipped really hard.
And the wind must’ve helped.
Somehow, my lovely topiary landed on the floor, right next to my slippers.
  I’d opened the windows to get a refreshing gale during the night, and mistakenly left them open today.
Woe is me.
I’m off to find a broom.
And maybe an axe.
Peace,
Lizzie
P.S.  I googled good ole’ Lizzie and couldn’t find anything about the rotten stew and heat, so don’t quote me on this.  Really you probably shouldn’t quote me ever.
It’s a fine line between a good story and a lie.
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A Failed Attempt

We have a bovine dilemma.

It consists of a cow who lost her baby and is left with a bag full of milk.

And a baby who was born a twin and its old momma doesn’t have enough milk for two which leaves it powerful hungry.

The logical answer would be to let the baby calf nurse a momma with a tight bag. 

But it doesn’t work that way.

That’s not her baby.  Which means she will not voluntarily let it nurse.  And even though you might receive touching emails about tigers adopting puppies or wolves letting bunnies hop around on their heads, it’s not the way it works around here.

So Jason forces it, in an attempt to see if this cow will adopt the calf.

After penning the cow and calf, he runs the big bagged momma into a squeeze chute.

Then he gets the poor hungry calf.
And puts it to the tit.
It doesn’t know what to do at first, but with Jason’s coaxing and cussing, it catches on.
So we wait.

Now I would like to end this story with good news. I would like to tell you that this momma adopted this baby, its little calf belly is pooching,  and all is well in the world. 

 But no such luck suckers. 
She isn’t going to earn the philanthropist of the year award in the bovine category.
But the baby was given to a little tyke to bottle raise.
And I’m sure its little calf belly is pooching.
And all is well with the world.
Peace,
Angel
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Easter

Ashlynn colored Easter eggs.

Yet, again.
Is she too old for this?  
A part of me says yes, and a part of me says, let her be a kid as long as she can.  
She did a good job freehanding some art on them.   
She’s showing off a bunny, but it more resembles a cat too me. 
We both agreed it was a mammal.
 We’ve come a long way.
Journey with me down  memory lane.
From back when her 2T training panties were too big and the eggs were dipped in a solid color.  It appears she’s dropped a big old load in those underpants, but really it’s just that she has the butt of a frog.
Droopy drawers.

When you’re not quite two years old, you really have to crouch down and look carefully.
Various Easter egg coloring pictures from years gone by.

I hope everyone had a glorious Easter.
I know I did.

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen!” Luke 24:5-6

Be Blessed,
Angel