Sunday, July 27, 2014

Funny pictures. Haha.

I am currently not caffeinated enough.





Too low, I find, to properly express myself through words.

Yesterday was a long day.

FanTAStic!!!  . . .but long.

So here are some funny pictures.

***They make me giggle.  It's all I'm saying.***

(Y'all best NOT.)

(We call them braids.  Because, Oh-I'm-sorry-I-thought-this-was-AMERICA.)

(Natasha Lyonne is completely awesome in this show.)

(Woman, DID.  YOU.  JUST.)

(Kill it.  Kill it with FIRE.)

(And that's my ONLY weakness. . .)



(If I had a daughter. . . yeah.  She would hate me.)

(Totally weird dogs.)

(. . . Hunter humor.  Love it.)


And now you may continue on with your day.

That is all.

As you were.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

On Writing: Babies, Battles, and BOC

Some people prefer lives of peace and solitude, and I am content to be counted as one of those.  

I need time, really need it, spent doing nothing more than contemplating a flower:  the lines, and the color, and the sweetness.  
Or breathing in the scent of my back yard.  Or studying my son's face while he sleeps, and trying to commit every contour and shadow to memory, perfectly.  

I need scheduled, regular time to spend just staring off into space and. . . thinking about things.  

It recharges my batteries, to let my mind wander.  It is when I feel the most like me.  And I feel like the world could use more of it, honestly.  (I'm not even gonna get started on this subject, because I could probably prattle on about it for an hour or more, and look up and half of my day would be gone.  So I'll just say that I think kids need it maybe the most.  

A wandering mind can be a wonderful, beautiful, creative thing, and I shudder to think that future generations may become so distracted by other things that they entirely lose the things that can happen, and the glorious things that might be created, when the mind is let loose to ramble down pathways of its own.)


I'm saying all this basically just to establish that I am, for lack of a better word, a home-body. I like my peace and quiet, and I don't get out and socialize with brand-spanking-new people that often, due to personal preference and some legit nerves.

Occasionally, however, I do venture out for social events and happenings, and do stumble across Brand New People (henceforth to be known as BNP).  And there invariably comes the part of the conversation where they say:

"So. . . what do you do?"

. . . . 


And what I REALLY want to say is:

"I don't really feel the need to quantify it.  I try to let life happen to me.  I try to be available for it.  I look for beauty, and get really happy when I find it.  I listen to music, and I seek out funny things, and about 5 times a week I make grilled cheeses for two boys, and then I spend 15 or 20 minutes trying to get them to EAT said cheeses, before our resident geriatric cat does.  Because the cat LOVES cheese, but it upsets his stomach.  So he'll snatch a grilled cheese in the blink of an eye, then instantly regret it, and then spend the rest of the afternoon trying to hack it up on the carpet.
Ummm. . . and I also play with Hot Wheels a lot, and I enjoy at least one game of Uno every night, and I can recite 'If You Take A Mouse To School' without even looking.
Also:  Interpretive dance."

Unfortunately for me, this is not exactly the kind of torrent of words that you can just unleash on an unsuspecting new person.  (Believe me:  I've tried.)  

You spew out this much unfiltered TRUTH on someone that doesn't know you well enough to understand how completely and deeply weird you are yet, and what you're probably going to get is a blank stare, an "Ohhhh-kayyyy", and a quick change of subject.

And so I've learned to filter what I say a bit, to make it a little more digestible for my peers.  So usually my already-ready answer is: 

"I'm a stay at home mom. . .

. . . and sometimes I paint.  

And I write a blog.  

. . . but nothing professional."

And then I smile nervously, and take a sip of my drink, or shove some food in my mouth and hope desperately that someone else says something (anything) before I finish chewing.

(Sidenote:  From time to time, I meet BNP that I deem to be either awkward enough, or genuine enough, or damaged enough (or all three), in just the right sort of way that, even social anxiety withstanding, I manage to maintain a good relationship with them for years.  . . . and I credit the longevity of these relationships entirely to massive veins of patience running straight through these folks.)

But the question of what I DO always seems to make me feel antsy for some reason. . .

I'm a mom (this has been established in previous posts, and also, if you ever spot me in the grocery store, toy store, library, etc., I feel that it would be glaringly apparent).  I take care of the kids, and the house, and I think I do it fairly well.  I'm not going to win any "Cleanest and/or Most Presentable" awards for either one. . .  but I think I might just almost be okay with that.  =)

(Learning to own your imperfections is a brand of nirvana I find myself reaching for constantly.)

After that. . . what DO I do??

I paint sometimes, and I write sometimes.  

And sometimes I make cookies, and sometimes they are snickerdoodles, and I am not even gonna play:  they are fabulous
Really, REALLY good.

But I do not make them often because, much like Phoebe Buffay, I feel that it's not fair to the other cookies.

And so I do all these things, and I range from Decent to Really Decent at all of them. . . and yet I don't get paid to do any of them.


So I think this lack of a paycheck has made it very easy for me to question exactly how valid these things I do actually are.

. . . I write a blog.  And I don't get paid for it.  Soooooo. . . why, exactly, do I do it?

Why do I do it?!?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately.

And this is the answer I've come up with:

I do it for the same reason that anybody writes.

I have loved the written word for literally as long as I can remember.  It has so much power; so much beauty.  And while most of these reasons apply to pretty much ANY creative endeavor: writing, painting, acting, dancing, performing, singing, playing music, etc. . . . today I'm just going to put it under the blanket of "Writing."

So here's my list of why people write.


(Sidenote:  Go on and prepare to be SUPER impressed, because these are all just stupidly noble reasons.)

#1.  To make their voices heard.

I'm going to die one day.

We all are.

(I promised you 'noble', not uplifting.)

Some people deal with this knowledge in a very stoic manner, while in others, it inspires a quiet sense of desperation.  A sense of:

I was here.  I mattered.  I NEED TO BE HEARD.

I had these experiences, and though they might not seem like much, they were important to me at the time.

And so writing is, in a way, a means of scrawling 


in dark Sharpie, on the bathroom wall of Life.

And people get to see it, and acknowledge it:

Hey.  Look at that.  Somebody else was here.

. . .every time they go pee.

Hmmm. . .  I'm now looking back at this last section, and rethinking the whole thing. . .

But I'm in a mood where I refuse to second-guess myself.

*I* think it's noble, and I'm sticking with that.

Deal.  With.  It.

#2:  To keep a log of events.

You know.  As in, "for FUTURE PEOPLES!!!"

People have done this for as long as writing has been around.  As a way of communicating with those that come later.  As in:

"So hey, we've noticed that the banks of the Nile overflow at pretty much the same time every year.  You might wanna watch out for that."


"My neighbor figured out that if you chew the bark from this tree, it makes your fever go away.  I know--sounds crazy, right?  But all 10 of my kids are alive because of it.  Just FYI."

Or even:

"Notice:  If you're nice to dogs, and feed them and give them a place to live?  They will HELP YOU herd your sheep and stuff.  NO LIE."

(. . .I'm fairly certain that there are far better examples out there. . . but I'm working on my second Big Gulp of coffee right now, the caffeine is kicking IN, the toddler is squealing, and I find that I'm a tad scattered upstairs at the moment.  All apologies.

Besides, I feel that these examples adequately illustrate my point, so I'm just going to move on now.

While I am NOT writing to warn future generations of flood-times, natural remedies, etc., I am still essentially doing the same thing.

I write this blog for me.  And for my son.  And for my family and friends.

Just as a way of saying:  This is what happened.

This is what we did.

This is what your childhood was like, Took!  This is how we spent our days.  =)

And, on rare occasions:  This is what I learned.

(I DO actually learn lessons occasionally.  Not ALL the time. . . but sometimes.  But I prefer not thinking on the "lesson" part of my life too hard.  Puts too much pressure on me.  I'd much rather just go through my days, experiencing my life, and then every once in a while I'm all:  

"OOOH!!!  Look!  There, on the ground!  A lesson!!  . . .I'm growing as a person!!!"

And then I pick the lesson up, and put it in my pocket.

. . .And then I usually have a snack.)

**Because 'growing as a person' is freaking exhausting.  

Pretty sure it was Ghandi that said that.  But you don't have to look it up.  I'm pretty sure.**

#3:  As an attempt to be understood.

This is my effort
To be heard through the howling.
Adored, though imperfect.
Understood, though unclear.

As a way of relating to people, nothing beats writing.

. . . I still remember, quite clearly, the day when I was in 4th grade, and our teacher introduced us to Shel Silverstein.

We followed along in our books, as we sat there as a class and listened to Where The Sidewalk Ends on cassette.

And I still remember hearing the first poem, Invitation,

---and thinking:  


THIS guy.


Wait . . . this was written by a grown man??!

. . . I'm pretty sure this guy is a sorcerer.


Nothing had ever spoken to me like those poems did that day.

And I spent the next several years searching for Shel Silverstein books in every bookstore and library I was lucky enough to visit.

. . . those same books are stacked on my son's dresser at this very moment, patiently waiting for the day when he is old enough to discover them.

Which brings me to:

#4:  To inspire.  To lift up.

I make very few, if any, promises to the readers of this blog.

But I do strive to maintain it with a couple of rules in mind:

First off---don't bitch.

I might've broken this one occasionally, but I really do try not to complain.  I don't like complainers.

Of all the lessons of my childhood, one of the ones that has stuck with me the most is something that both my mother and my grandmother taught me from the time I was just a wee-one:

No matter how bad you have it, there's always someone out there that has it worse.  There's always someone out there that would get down on their knees and be grateful to only have to deal with your problems.  So suck it up, and try to help.  (I'm paraphrasing.)

So that lesson has stayed with me to this day, and I try to keep it in mind when I'm writing.  I feel that writing, just to complain, is kind of. . . pointless.  Everybody has problems.  Why waste the time and effort just to complain about yours?


That brings me to the second rule I try to uphold with this blog:

Be sincere.  Be honest.  Be genuine.

And honestly?  Yeah, I've got problems, just like everybody else.

And I do write about them.  In a way that (I hope), comes across as genuine and sincere.

And I also pretty much refuse to write about troubling things in my day-to-day, UNTIL I have found a positive way to look at them, or a productive way to deal with them.

And while I will readily admit that it is probably not exactly prudent to be so open with my own shortcomings and demon-dances. . . I do it anyway.

Because I know that if I'M going through something. . . chances are pretty good that someone else might be, too.  And maybe they'll read what I write.  And maybe they'll relate.

And maybe. . . maybe they won't feel so alone any more.

So if I learn something. . . I'm gonna share it.  Even if it makes me look like a dumb ass in the process.

It's Shake N' Bake, and I helped.

#5:  For shits and giggles.  (aka: Humor)

I think a lot about humor.



I mean, seriously.  I really think about it a lot.

You know the line "My heroes have always been cowboys"?

Well, my heroes have always been comedians.

As in. . . ALWAYS.

People that make me laugh just kind of instantly own my heart.

It takes. . . it takes a special awareness of the world around you to be funny, I think.  I don't think it's possible to be funny if you're walking around wearing your rose-colored glasses, willfully blind to painful truths.

I think it takes a recognition of the darkness, of the insanity, and of the helplessness that is synonymous with the human condition. . . to be funny.

Let me rephrase that:

I think it requires a recognition of the darkness, and then a shrug of the shoulders, and then a cosmic thumbing-of-the-nose.


To me, comedy is seeing all that can be bad in the world, seeing it as it REALLY is, and then choosing to say:

"You know what?  SCREW YOU, Darkness!!  SCREW YOU RIGHT IN YOUR BIG STUPID EAR!!!"

This is the only life I've got.  

It's the only one you've got, too.

Why not laugh?

And if I could pass on words of wisdom, to my children perhaps, about the nature of comedy?

You have to look for it.

You have to always be looking for it.

But this life is inherently absurd.

Just keep your eyes open, and you'll find it.


To my way of thinking, humor is a weapon, and a shield, and a freaking LIFE PRESERVER.

It is laughing in the face of our own mortality.

It is fighting back the Reapers.

It is bravery, defined.


So I write.

I don't get paid for it, and it is possible (even likely) that I never will.

Doesn't matter.

I'll still do it.

Because I'm an earthworm out of dirt, squirming around, trying to find meaning.

And in order to DO that, I have to walk my own path.  Kick the stones, smell the honeysuckle, get my feet dirty.

And what do I want in return?

Hmmmm. . . 

Just to grow.

Maybe leave something shiny behind when I'm gone.

Create a smile, or a laugh, or a sense of belonging. . . that maybe wasn't there before.

To connect with other weirdos.

To say:  "Hey.  Check it out.  I learned something."

To leave love.

. . . which reminds me of a song that has been playing in my head for about a straight week now.

And, since songwriting is just another type of writing, I'm gonna leave it right here.  It's Justin Townes Earle, it's called Mama's Eyes, and I love the sincere and real way he writes:

So that's it.

That's my list.

And honestly?  . . .I think I feel better just having written this.


No matter how bad, how good, how grammatically satisfying, or how much money I'm not making for doing it --- I'll write.

Because I no longer have any fear of being anything other than my flawed, but seeking, self.

And because this is MY blog, my record, my work.

The value is whatever *I* say it is.

These are my demons I'm beating back; my battles, my lessons.

My wins, and my losses.

The worth, and the value . . . they're found in the fight.


Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Turberville Boys Seaside Gentleman's Club, and also: Me =)

I always seem to have the hardest time writing about family vacations. . .

It just always seems like there's so MUCH that happens, and then I need to get home, get everything put away, take a couple of days to decompress. . . and  by the time I get around to actually trying to write about it. . . everything's just gone.


Straight outta my head.

And I'm left sitting here thinking:  . . . what did we DO??

Which is why, even though nothing earth-shattering or remarkable happened on our 2014 Family Beach Trip this year, I am writing about it NOW.  While it's still fresh.

I make no promises that this is going to be interesting.

It is merely a log.


First log-point.

We left in the early morning (early-ISH), Sunday before last.

Got up early and loaded up the truck, sat out the water and feeders for the cat, and were out of the house by about 7 a.m.

From my perch in the front passenger seat of Crystal Gale (Mister's truck's name), I had everything I needed:  a bag full of Pull-Ups, wipes, gummies and Hot Wheels to keep Took pacified, and also a bag filled with books, magazines, assorted reading glasses, a small afghan, and snuggy travel-socks.

To keep ME occupied.


Getting out of the house that morning was quick and easy, as we only had one Turbo-offspring with us, the Grey Took.  Our plan was to pick up other Turbo-offsprings as we made our way south.

First stop was to collect Padawan.

His mother had him for the weekend, and assured us that she would meet us as 7:30 SHARP, at the agreed-upon site.

. . . I will just admit right now that I had serious doubts about this.  NOT because I have any problems with his mother, but simply because there are people in this world that are almost always on time, and there are people in this world that are reliably late (almost always).  I am not making judgements about right or wrong here. . . I am just saying that we all know people that we can pretty much count on to be late.

And she is pretty much consistently one of those.

But lo and behold. . . we pulled into the gas station at 7:26. . . and she was pulling in right in front of us.

And then I felt guilty.


I mentally apologized to the universe in general for my shameful lack of faith, we collected our monster, and moved on to McDonald's for sausage biscuits, to be consumed on the road.

****Sidenote:  This is one of my favorite things EVER.

Eating in the car!!!!

Sausage biscuits, in particular.

It is a near-divine delight that only happens every-so-often.  (Usually when we are en route to some exotic-ish location.)
The scarcity of this enjoyable event is what makes it so beautiful.

Sausage biscuits.  On the road.  Eaten in the passenger seat, propped up on napkins on the travel pillow in my lap.

Heavenly.  =)

So we got the Padawan, and moved on to Montgomery to collect the larger Spawn, who would be following us, with his girlfriend, in her car.

. . . As another sidenote, our youngest son is possibly/most certainly in love with Spawn's girlfriend (much as he is, INSTANTLY, with pretty much any lovely girl that takes the time to talk to him and allows him to hold her hand).  He is utterly shameless in his attempts for her affection, and it was something we witnessed again and again over the several days that she was able to stay with us.

Up until this point, Took has merely referred to her as "Friend", as he has been unable to pronounce her name correctly, and has been loathe to embarrass himself with any failed attempts.  Near the end of our trip, however, he came really, REALLY close, with a drunk-sounding drawl of:
"Mewwy Awe-nnnnn."  

We were all very impressed, and he received many high-fives, and a blueberry Yoplait yogurt, for his efforts.  =)

(Regaling Friend with tales of his exploits.)

And so, aside from several not-entirely-veiled threats to visit bodily harm upon the occupants of the backseat unless they ZIPPED IT RIGHT NOW. . . it was an uneventful ride down.


(Seriously, I was ready to sedate them.  But just about the time I started looking for the Children's Benadryl in earnest. . . we started seeing sand on the side of the road.)


My children are my joy.

But don't take that to mean that they can't SUCK THE JOY RIGHT OUT of Crystal Gale after several hours.

. . .because they CAN.


Me (after several hours of this):  

"I.  DO NOT.  CARE.  . . . I do not care who gets hit.  I do not care who touches whom.  I do not care if you BLUDGEON each other, as long as you DO IT QUIETLY!!!!"

"But he won't stop touching me!!!"

"AM I SPEAKING GERMAN??  . . . what part of 'I DON'T CARE' was unclear??!  I want you BOTH to sit still, and just pretend like the other one does not exist.  Do not speak to each other, do NOT touch each other in any way, do not acknowledge each other in ANY WAY.  From this point forward. . . each of you is an only child."


Shortly after that we stopped for some fries and drinks, and then passed Padawan on to his older brother, to complete the ride down in THEIR car.  It was pretty quiet after that.  =)

So we eventually arrived, and, after a quick grocery run, we were camped out on the beach under our EZ Up.

(This was our first time taking the EZ Up to the beach.  It was definitely a good decision.  We just put it up on the first day, and it served as Base Camp for the rest of the week.)

Mister had reservations about taking it. . . because it was so heavy.  But I thought it was a GRAND idea.

. . .

Just in case that was too subtle:






As family beach trips go, I suppose it was standard fare.

We sat on the beach, and drank cokes, and Capri Suns, and pre-mixed slushy-fruity alcohol drinks.

I got sand in mine.


The boys played in the sand,

and Spawn dug a huge hole, that was both an enticement to the younger boys and, in my mind, a death-trap to anyone that might happen by.

My family.
Perched on the edge of The Death Trap.

On our second or third day, we decided on Bahama Bob's for lunch (which, thanks to Took, shall heretofore be referred to as 'Bob's Burders').  As Bob's is only a few blocks from where we were staying, we decided to walk over for lunch.

And for some idiotic reason, I thought it would be a GREAT idea if we just walked down the beach.  (It is situated ON the beach.  You can walk right up.  Great idea, right?)

Wrong.  Because I'm an idiot.

By the time we got there, Padawan was pretty much soaked with seawater (because he doesn't understand the concept of "just walk in the EDGE of the water"), and Took was panting and whining like we'd just made him walk to Disney World by way of Downtown Birmingham.

So we got a seat, ordered a table full of appetizers for all of us to share, and Mister, Spawn, Friend and I made short work of the wings, fries, shrimp and AMAZING fried crab claws. . . while Took drank his Coke with great zest and refused to touch anything even resembling food, and Padawan stared sullenly at his plate of chicken fingers.


Those wings were GOOD.


In the evenings, Mister made Low Country Boil, and Jambalaya, and other assorted delights (because even a ham sandwich tastes GREAT if you're at the BEACH), and we watched The Simpsons together (and Michael and I watched Supernatural, after the kids were in bed), and we even played a few games of cards.

("No, Took.  We said we're gonna play 'CARDS', not 'cars.'"
Sidenote:  He is nearly impossible to play cars with anyway.  He never lets you have the cars you want, and always complains that you're parking them wrong.)

A few days into the vacation, we got up early and arrived at Lulu's just as they were opening for lunch.

We sat right beside the water (even saw a DOLPHIN!!!), and the view was GREAT.  =)

And while I usually don't make it a point to plug restaurants. . .

. . .that was probably THE BEST cheeseburger I've ever had.

. . .

I'm just gonna need you to take my word on this one.

I have consumed a LOT of cheeseburgers.

And I mean:  A.  LOT.

And this one. . . THIS ONE was. . . 

This one was the cheeseburger equivalent of Westley and Buttercup's happy-ending kiss at the end of The Princess Bride.

In the history of the cheeseburger, there have been five cheeseburgers that have been deemed the most passionate, the most pure.

. . . This one blew them all out of the water.

. . . medium rare, pineapple, jalapenos, cheddar, and bacon.

MMMMMMmmmmmmm. . . .  =)


I saved my second half, JUST SO I could enjoy it on the beach, with my toes in the sand.  (Note:  It was even good cold.)

. . .

So I've just realized that I've spent more time talking about this cheeseburger than I have spent talking about anything else. . . 

But honestly:  It WAS that good. 

It was a treasure.


Also, Took thought the cokes at Lulu's were just top-notch.

(SRSLY.  Dat coke tho.)

So, in conclusion, I guess we did all the normal things that people do on family vacations.

. . .And I guess what makes it difficult to write about is that I'm trying to write about it in a linear way ("We did this, and then on the second day, we did THAT", etc.), and memories don't HAPPEN in a linear way.

So here's my ACTUAL take-away from our trip:

I remember sitting under the EZ Up, reading my new Dean Koontz book and drinking a coke that my offspring kept sneaking sips from when he thought I wasn't looking.

I remember Padawan and Took playing in the edge of the water, running away from the waves and screeching and squealing with an audible delight that echoed down the beach.

I remember Spawn digging an enormous hole, and his exquisite attention to detail, and I remember him spotting and catching a sand crab that Padawan ultimately (accidentally) set free.

I remember my husband dancing on the beach, and asking me every few hours if he was doing or saying anything that might embarrass Spawn TOO MUCH in front of his girlfriend.

I remember Friend patiently playing with her little constant Took-shadow, and I remember the look of SUPREME DELIGHT on his face when she offered to take him to the pool.

I remember the boys making a pillow fort on the couch.

I remember Spawn playing frisbee with Pad and Took, even though both of them suck at frisbee.

I remember climbing in bed at night, and that sweet-sleepy feeling you have after spending all day on the beach, and the UNBELIEVABLE amount of sand in the sheets at the foot of the bed.

I remember asking my husband, after he'd made a run to the convenience store across the street, did he happen to notice if they still sold those little individually wrapped pralines?  And turning around to find him holding out TWO of them for me.

I remember the day Mister took the boys down to the beach after lunch, and just let me NAP.  =D

I remember little boys jumping in sand-piles, and saying "Mama, watch THIS!", and doing jumps and tumbles like their bones were made out of well-cooked pasta.

I remember taking the boys to spend their Lemonade Stand money on souvenirs, and not being a BIT surprised when Took selected two cars, and Pad chose a shark tooth and a severed alligator head.  (Pad. . . whose mom is a vegetarian.  . . . Hell, I'll eat any animal that happens to be delicious, and I still wouldn't want that thing in MY house.  But we told them they could buy what they wanted with their money, and that's what we stuck to.  
**Pornographic material and hermit crabs excluded.)

I remember little boys BEGGING to go to the pool, and trying to explain to them that we HAD a pool at HOME, but we did NOT have a beach at home.

. . . and then I remembered my mom trying to explain the same thing to me, many, many years ago.  =)

I remember going out for ice cream, and Pad and Took deciding on the "Crazy Colors" flavor. . . 

. . . and I remember the excitement and delight when, the next day, both boys discovered that Crazy Colors ice cream results in. . . OTHER things being crazy-colored.  =D

. . . I remember THAT being a topic of conversation for a WHILE.

I remember my husband playing with three different-aged boys, with three very different personalities, and the consideration and time he tried to give to all three.

. . . I remember swimming in the ocean.

Just me and my Grey Took.

I remember him saying:  "Mama, this SO FUN!!!" and grinning at me.

And I remember thinking that it was pretty much the greatest thing that I had ever experienced.


I remember snacks on the beach, and constantly discovering what appeared to be fistfuls of sand in my beverage.

And then we came home.

And OH!!!!




. . . I always KNEW I was a home-body. . .

But I don't think there has ever been a girl in the history of EVER that has been so very, very glad to get back to her own home.



Where things are like you like them.


Where the cats missed you, and are still alive, thanks to plastic feeders and the attention and care of great neighbors.  =)


Where the bed feels like it's supposed to, and there's no sand at the bottom.  =)


It's not a huge place, and it's not overly fancy or impressive.

But dear GOD. . . I LOVE THIS PLACE.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Mister and I were talking about it, the night we got back.

We were both giggling and grinning from ear to ear, and pointing out this and that that we were happy to get back to.

And we were just sitting on the back porch, lazily wondering about WHY we were so glad to be back. . .

"It wasn't a bad vacation. . . I had a really good time.  Why do you think we're so glad to be back home?"

". . . Because this is the first time in my life that I've had a home that I wanted to get back to so much."


Wherever you go. . . there you are.

Beach, or back yard.

We've made a concerted effort to fill this place up with Happy.

. . . and Happy is what was there to greet us when we all returned home, again.

So here's all I really wanted to say:  

I'm grateful.

For beach trips, and for returning home.

For the threat of Time-Outs, and for Waffle Houses, and for people who don't judge you for putting sugar in your grits.

For pillow-forts, and sunburnt noses.

For cheeseburgers that make you want to slap your mama.

And always, always, always:

For Dean Winchester, his tireless battle against the forces of evil, and his endless quest for pie.


Because I DO deserve pie.

I really, really do.