Screw the forecast: I declare sweater season dead!

I know. I know. It's early spring. It's Indiana. Additional snow isn't just possible, it's likely.

I don't care. For me, winter is over. Dead. Gone. Kaput. And good riddance.

My winter clothes are downstairs for storage. The snow scraper is in the garage and the trunk of my care is sand bag-free. Best of all, I reclaimed my back porch.  

The porch is really a breezeway between the garage and house. It becomes spillover storage in the winter now so we can get the Mustang in the garage. I don't really mind that so much, though every so often when it's cold out, I'll glance out the kitchen door to see the jumbled mass of stuff and cringe. It's unheated out there so even if it wasn't filled with stuff, I wouldn't be out there. But still. I'm not much for clutter.

In good weather, on weekend mornings, I can usually be found out here. It's not decorator show room material, but it has the stuff I need: sunlight, table and chairs. There's WiFi reach and plenty of audio thanks to the living room stereo or a boom box in the garage.

The church pew doesn't really make sense, I know. But it's the only piece of my dad's carpentry work that I have and I love it. At some point, our family church replaced the old butt killer pews I grew up with. A bunch of the old pews ended up in my dad's barn. At some point there was a rush on having shortened church pews in your house and he shortened some of them. This one, I think, is the one he made for my mom. 

Jonathan Swain says I should put a TV out here, too. One day when I actually do some real home improvement work out here, I might do that. But for now it's a reading/writing/reflection space. 

When Alison was smaller it was filled with toys. If I was out here, Alison was usually with me, playing with crayons or paint or beads.  

She likes being on her own a little too much for my comfort now but I'm trying to be OK with it. She needs her own space and she's not nearly as interested in the Country Countdown as I am. Plus, there's so much light, it affects her ability to see whatever's on her iPad. Gak!

There's still tons of evidence this was once her primary studio. I know I should replace the rug. But those paint stains come from times when Jenna or the Ogdens or Breanna or the cousins were here and it was a melee of paint and glue and glitter and giggles.  Alison's art work used to cover the walls. We cleaned up one year. I can't remember why now. Might have been because the constant sunlight had made most of the colors fade.

So yeah, I have some work to do out here. But for today, I'm going to drink my coffee, listen to my music, read my paper and listen to the birds outside. There are buds on the trees and flowers in my yard.

Winter is over. Welcome back spring!

In other news, I read this piece in the NYT about how to raise a moral child, which reminded me a lot of my dad who was deeply devout but not one to preach at anyone. He was happy to talk about his faith if you wanted -- he was active in jail ministry -- but only at invitation. 

He was my original "lead by example" example. I try, but often fall short and reminded of it when Alison, for example, will relate how many curse words she learned on the mean streets of, well, anywhere I happened to be driving.

But in my defense, the other day she came across a flyer announcing a toiletries donation drive and a walk for the homeless starting at our little park this weekend. It wasn't all that informative about who was in charge of the event, but it was a good thing, so I'd kept it, planning to contribute. 

When Ali saw it, she announced that she would donate from her collection of hotel lotions and potions.  

I swear we buy her as much full-sized soap, shampoo and associated toiletries and girl could possibly need, but she's a hoarder of hotel soaps and shampoos. She's gotten really good at charming the hospitality staff out of additional supplies. One Spring Break we almost had to pay extra to get her suitcase home she'd scored so much booty.

Anyway, it's a big deal for her to part with that stuff.  But on Saturday, she put a bag together that was every bit as full as the one Jeff and I had contributed from our bathroom cupboards.  When we got to the park, we found the donation/walk was the project of a little girl in the neighborhood -- a service project for school. It wasn't fancy. It didn't have the marketing heft of the Komen Walk downtown, but it was a nice effort and we were both happy to have contributed to it.

So she might have a bit of a sailor's vocabulary, but she's a generous soul, too. I'd like to take some credit for that, but I think she mostly came that way. Although, according to the NYT piece: 

 "The most generous children were those who watched the teacher give but not say anything. Two months later, these children were 31 percent more generous than those who observed the same behavior but also heard it preached. The message: if you don't model generosity, preaching it may not help in the short run, and in the long run, preaching is less effective than giving while saying nothing at all."

Jeff likes to remind me that Alison is a sponge and that I really need to watch myself whether it's speeding or cursing or just general bad behavior. I really do behave better when she's around. Maybe I ought to consider behaving better all the time......

Sent from my iPad

Um, hello Weight Watchers?

  We had another great week in Turks & Caicos thanks to Grandpa. We're kind of the anti-Bravo Housewives vacationers -- very little drama, though a fair amount of gourmet food and more alcohol than we typically consume. 

And of course, despite working out every day, I'm terrified to get back on the scales. Weight Watchers, I am yours again. I had momentarily decided that this year, I'd skip the chocolattte croissants that have faithfully followed my morning workouts like pickpockets follow tourists. 

But then I remembered I was on vacation. I might have doubled down a day or two. And it was totally worth it.

The idyllic weather, scenery and the awesome hospitality at Beaches resort may have something to do with it, but we Reeds truly do all like each other. Plus, there's no obligation to travel as a pack, so some of might do a group thing that others don't, or we might cluster as a group near water and within sight of the trolling waiters who are ever eager to refresh your cocktail for you.

Alison set a record one day for strawberry daquiries at the poolside bar. She'd been sipping on them most of the day when I joined in and ordered. "Two virgin strawberry daquiries, please," I said. I don't know if it was the word "virgin" or that I'd ordered, but she was slightly outraged.

"They usually come with rum," I said, defending myself.

"What?!" she said, momentarily convinced she'd been boozing it up. 

"I don't think they'd be giving ME alcohol," she sputtered. She later switched to pina coladas as it had been a goal of hers to test that drink out, too.

***

Jennifer, Peter, David, Alison and I took a SCUBA lesson. Jen decided she didn't want to spend the whole day on a boat, so only four of us went on a dive. Peter had trouble with his ears and didn't get all the way to the bottom, and David had trouble staying down but it was a fun experience. As beginners, we didn't get to go to the more scenic, deeper areas but it was still fun to paddle around breathing from a tank and realizing you were literally swimming with the fishes.

David also had trouble grabbing the rope to make the ascent, but he was within reach of me, so I snagged his hand and brought him to line. Thus, I decided I was the savior of the trip and will forever remind him that I saved his life.

Our dive captain, Gustavo, would likely have come to his rescue eventually, but I got there first. So there's me: officially a life saver.

We could have gone on more dives, but the beach was calling and Gary, David and Peter had fishing plans, and  Alison and I got hot stone massages, which were aMAYzing.

***

Poor Uncle David got a little fashion skewering from his still newlywed husband.

"I got them at Kohl's," David was explaining to someone.

"Yes," intoned Uncle James. "In the Missy Department."

***
We dubbed Peter "SharkBait" after David's repeated complaint that it was Peter who was manning the reel at the time his 100+ pound trophy fish was stolen off the line by a hungry shark. 

Without missing a beat, Alison threw her hands in the air and said, "Ooh Ha Ha."  (Nemo fans will get that..)

So all poor David has to show for his island vacation is a picture of the fish head that came aboard. Sadly, no one captured a shot of the munching shark. I'm pretty sure the tale the shark told was better received than the one we heard. But I still maintain that losing the fish of his fishing lifetime to a shark is a better story than actually landing the damn thing. Plus, had he done that and had it mounted, the boat captain said it would cost about $10,000.  That's a nice lunch....

***

Alison came away with a turtle tattoo, a couple of conch shells, shells she scavanged from the beach,  a fist full of fancy lotions and fun little bracelet. She also picked up a few new friends and got a chess lesson, which she promptly tried out on her father.  We had dinner waiting, though, so I don't think they  got to finish their game.

   

***

David asked Alison if she'd trade her week in Maine this summer for an extra week in Turks right now. She paused before declining. She likes her time on her own in Maine, plus, she couldn't possibly miss a week of school AND she had plans to go to the movies with Nick on Friday.

***
The Turks airport is tiny and there's not much there to eat, so we usually try to bring cookies or croissants and fruit to get us through the long wait there and the first leg of the flight home. This year, even the small bar was under construction so the options were a meat pie on a warmer, beer and assorted chips.

I dipped into the croissants and had an apple, but left one apple in our bag, which was quickly sniffed out by a cute little airport dog at the Charlotte re-entry area. Alison had wanted to pet him, but as he was on the job, it was probably a Homeland Security violation so I tried to steer her away from him. The handler was fairly sharp with Alison about not petting the dog as he sniffed, which did not endear the handler to Alison.

So the dog found the apple but missed the conch shells, which were detected by the extra Xray and security check the apple discovery had forced us into.

The people manning the agricultural check didn't seem alarmed by the conch. Alison, however, by the time we got through the extra security checks, was over her charm of both the dog and his handler.

"The beagle confiscated our apple," she complained to the bored security guards. They didn't care. And at that point, I didn't either. It was a long day getting home.

We were lucky though. Our flights were on time and screaming children free. Jennifer and Peter sat behind the family from hell on the way to the island, and then all the other other Reeds had to spend a night in Philly when their flight home to Portland was cancelled.

But everyone is home safe and sound, if a little bit sad to have left paradise.

"Oh man, mom," Alison said to me as we drove home from the airport. "Tomorrow, we'll have to get our OWN food. If we go anywhere and I just get what I want and leave without paying for it, it won't be my fault."

I kept her mostly home, just in case... :)

  

  

  

Pentecosts, Catholics and Big TVs!

Somehow we got on the subject of the Pentecostal religion over dinner tonight.

I think it got started because Alison had make a reference to bad language and Jeff claimed all her bad language knowledge comes from me. But it might have been her reference to Mr. Klee and his wife.

Mr. Klee is her Religion teacher. He married a high school Religion teacher. Alison and her school chums are convinced there's not a couple more devout than the Klees and that if the Klees ever have a child, it will be the savior incarnate.

They're probably right. But back to dinner.

We'd gotten on the subject of being drunk, somehow. Jeff had broken out a bottle of wine I'd gotten him at Christmas. It's a 2010 Napa Vally Red called, "The Prisoner" and it is fabulous. I'm a lightweight, admittedly, but I was woozy before my second or third sip. And of course we finished the bottle. So if my story tonight seems to yaw and pitch, well, let's just blame Jeff. He did, after all, open the bottle.

So Alison was explaining to us that Matthew, Mark, Luke and John weren't all apostles, and I was complaining that some man had dictated who got to be featured in the Bible and that while some of the apostles were stiffed, there was no female author anywhere within the Scripture. And, you know, that was wrong.

Somehow that led me to tell Alison about my grandfather, Laymon Bickel, who married an outstanding woman of faith -- my grandmother, Thelma. There was never a more devout woman born and he slowly came into the fold. Together they helped buiild my family church -- a Pentecostal one -- and he eventually was allowed to teach the adult Sunday School class even though he struggled with vices like cursing, smoking and occasionally drinking alcohol. He was an amazing guy. I both worshiped and feared him. My grandmother, on the other hand, I 150 percent worshiped. 

She didn't reach 5-feet but she stood taller than any woman I've ever met. My dad had her faith, her patience, her balance, her grace, her beauty. Everyone came first for her. She was Job and Martha all in one package but was the best grandma ever sent to Earth. (Martha was the sister of Lazarus and Mary -- the sister who got all the work done while Martha attended to Jesus, fyi)

Anyway, one night, somewhat early in their 50+ years of marriage, My Grandpa stumbled home drunk. Drinking alcohol was a huge sin, and he'd fallen more than once. My Grandma took stock of the situation and (gasp!) made him sleep it off in the yard.

Alison thought this was hysterical. 

My grandmother, at the time, struggled with her Pentecostal prohibiliton on anything fun and her need to be a good wife. Ultimately, God won in the struggle and Grandpa woke up sober in the dew. He may or may not have given up booze. Legend has it, he always had a bottle in the basement but it was a "Don't ask, don't tell" kind of policy.

Grandma claimed later that she felt guilty about leaving the head of her household out there in the cold, but you know, God. He's like a higher power, and in the Pentecostal faith, you'd better damn well do what He says. Or there's a lot of fire and brimstone in your future. So Grandma was really doing Grandpa a good turn.

So I tell Alison that she's lucky she's learning from the catholics. When I was small, it was Pentecostal all the way. No swimming or dancing with boys in the same space; girls couldn't cut their hair; they had to wear dresses and there was no cursing, no smoking, no movies, no TV. 

I tossed that TV line in there only because we once -- I swear this is true -- had a minister who said television, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, etc.. were all just Satan stand-ins and you couldn't have them in your life because it was getting in the way of your focus on God. He might have also been the one who threw hymnals at my brother David and me when we weren't paying close enough attention. He was in the pulpit; we were near the back row. It was a small church but he had good aim.

My brothers fed his children canned dog food and told them it was braunschweiger. That might have fueled his aim that day...

Anyway, I as I told Alison: "I was lucky. I was the youngest, so by the time I came along, my parents had relaxed about most of the hard stuff. Aunt Donna, though, she got it all. She wore dresses all the time except once in high school when she broke her leg."

Ali, totally caught up in the story, said, "That explains the big TV."

Donna has a big-ass TV in her front room.

But then, Alison turned the tables on me and set about trying to figure out how to get her father hammered so we could leave him in the front yard to sleep it off.

He was not amused.  

"Between the two of us," he argued, "which parent is more likely to get hammered?"

God love her, she's totally thinking it's him. I told her that he was on to her, though, and we'd have to find a way to both get him hammered AND lure him into the front yard.

So the next thing I know, she's hauling up a block of fireworks from the basement.

"Hey Da-ad," she calls....

I love that girl.

Shop til you drop

I'm not a great shopper. I like shopping but I'm more of a strategic shopper -- I know what I want and I go find it. Jeff and Jennifer Reed have some genetic gift for sniffing out bargains, but that can take days and weeks of patiently sifting through racks and bins or watching for an item to go on sale.

Jen's also a great coupon user. I'm the one who puts them aside and then either forgets to bring them with me to the store or whips them out only to hear, "Uh, ma'am, that coupon expired last year."

A couple of weeks ago, though, on my way home from a visit to my favorite aunt, I stopped at the Edinburgh Outlet Mall and scored a great find at White House Black Market and thought I had some great shorts for Alison from J. Crew. I'd sent her photos of some possibilities and then ended up getting the wrong colors.

So we'd planned on going back this weekend. But first, we stumbled (thanks, Jodie) onto a once-a-month opportunity to visit a Dr. Who warehouse sale. The story in the local paper said it was from 2 to 6 and Alison and I were sure we needed to get there right on time.  Jeff was less sure.  "How crowded can it be?" he scoffed.

The store is a warehouse in a section of town near the old airport terminal. It was in the southeastern corner of a block of other office buildings. When we got there shortly after 2, the line was to the northeastern end of the L-shaped office block. When we staggered out it was after 4 p.m. And it wasn't the selection that kept us there so long.

Kudos to the staff for crowd control. They must have had an earlier visit from the fire  marshal. They let you in in groups of 20. First, you had to go to the viewing room where, if you didn't know about Dr. Who -- and why would you be there if you didn't? -- you could watch part of a show and get a short infommercial about DrWhoNorthAmerica -- the business. There was a life size Dalek there and happily, comfy sofas. 

Then, it was on to the museum. Actually a room crammed with glass cabinets stuffed with items dating back to the first years of the show. It was really remarkable. There was even a pinball machine.

Finally, you could enter the warehouse, which was arranged kind of like the old Kahn's Fine Wines on Keystone or an old five-and-dime. Shelf after shelf with every kind of Dr. Who propaganda you could imagine. Books, movies, tee-shirts, Jammie Dodgers, posters, etc... Alison was in heaven.

We ran into the Earles -- whose son Charlie was equally impressed. Jeff and Kit wised up and got in line to pay long before the kids were ready. Dee and I went outside to breathe and soak in the unusually warm temps.

Jeff and I went to a birthday party last night and Alison had Jenna over. Jenna brought her flat iron so they flattened Alison's hair in preparation for our Sunday shopping spree.

This morning, we made the trek to Edinburgh and it was Dr. Who all over again but with trips into clothing stores in between arctic blasts of winter back like a bad penny.

We played the alphabet game on the way down. It's never a good idea to give me anything to think about besides driving, and the wind was buffeting us all over Interstate 65. They ganged up on me but I almost beat the little mongrels both times.

Once there, we mapped out a strategy that began with me being mostly a Sherpa, but they took pity on me when I kept finding them the right sizes and pointing out fun outfits. 

At one point, the girls were trying on clothes and I took a bathroom break. We were in Rue 21 -- a store where I'm sure Julia Roberts must have shopped before she met Richard Gere. On the way back, I stopped in at Coldwater Creek and instantly felt like I was 150 years old. I declined, later, to stop in at Chicos.  I might be old, but the retail whiplash was an experience I needed only once.

They had a great time. At one point, they were in a dressing room together -- well they always shared a dressing room -- but this time, Alison was sitting on the floor just hanging out while Jenna was trying on a dress. It's a good thing they didn't have food or they'd never have come out. We had a fantastic, albeit late lunch, and on the way home in the back of the car, the girls put on these crazy fake fingernails.   

We got home just in time to fine Jeff had built a fire. I laid down on the couch and promptly fell asleep. Jeff ended up taking Jenna home while I was still snoozing and yes, there was a moment when I woke up to an empty house and thought the Rapture had come and left me behind.  (It's an old flashback from a Pentecostal upbringing.) Gah.

They eventually returned, so unless we find others have vanished overnight, I think we're OK. 

And as long as Jeff keeps putting logs on the fire, I'm not sure I'm ever getting off this couch.

Animal Stories

One evening in a Key West bar, I was telling stories from home to the wife of one my favorite new colleagues. Debby and Allen are fun people, hipsters, urban dwellers who likely buy only organic fruits and vegetables and have images of farm life not unlike my friend Jackie who grew up on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. Farms to them are happy places where the chickens bring you their eggs and the bacon comes from a pig down the road, but certainly not Wilbur from  your own pen.

On our farm, we ate a lot of the animals Jackie would have named and be-ribboned, and my brothes thought if it moved, it was shootable. And maybe edible, too. They didn't kill every animal, though, of course. Some were needed to run down the animals marked for grilling; and some they just took a liking to. 

So anyway, I told Allen and Debby about my dad and the fox he’d befriended and which followed him like a dog. Eventually, the fox was shot and killed by a hunter, I think. I don’t remember the who or the why of that action. What I remember is my dad liked the fox so much, he had it stuffed, and it sat near our television for years.

 

He also brought home a baby raccoon once, which we raised. Until, the day (or one shortly thereafter)  I was carrying it through the dining room when it jumped on the back of the poor sod sitting there at the table with my father, trying his best to sell him an insurance policy. The insurance salesman did a dance like no dance had ever been done in my house (my parents were fundamentalists to whom dancing was a sin.) My father thought it was hysterically funny. I don’t think the insurance salesman ever came back.

 

Back in Key West, I also told Allen and Debby them about my brother who rescued two baby raccoons he found out in the woods one day.  Never mind that he was probably responsible for their orphan state -- ‘coon hunters spend all night in the woods with dogs chasing, treeing, retrieving and eventually killing and skinning the raccoons. 

I don’t know who buys these pelts, but in the winter at my house ('coon season is a winter sport) there were always dozens of hide stretchers lying about, drying out the skins for sale. So David finds these baby raccoons and brings them home. He raises them like puppies, but as anyone from the country (and one former insurance salesman) knows, raccoons are not indoor pets. 

They’re not even pets. I don’t remember why, but David's raccoons were always terrified of thunder and lightning. He babied them through the storms, and as they got bigger and bigger, he eventually returned them to the wild. I always thought that was a bad idea because he was, still, a coon hunter and might have eventually brought them home again in a different fashion. Maybe he thought their connection was strong enough that he'd spare them. Or maybe he only really liked them in their baby state. The world will never know.

 

He was married at the time of this wild life adoption and living in my grandfather’s house, which had a long, long linoleum covered hallway from the back door to the master bedroom.  Weeks after the raccoons had been gone, a storm hit. It woke David up but not his wife. He heard the raccoons break in through the back screen and skitter down the hallway. I can see him grinning now in the dead of the night, waiting for them to jump into safety with all the grace of a night-terror-striken toddler. 

Laurie, though, was was blissfully, deeply asleep. 

 

He divorced not long after that night. It wasn't only because of the racoons, but you do have to wonder if they were the tipping point. She did not seek custody of the raccoons.

 

I was reminded of these stories and other animal stories this weekend after I drove home from visiting my Aunt Shirley and Uncle Larry. Cousin Jimmy (my mother and Aunt Shirley’s cousin) was there, as were my sisters Donna and Debbie and my cousin Lori. 

Shirley is my mother’s sister. Larry is my father’s brother. So when the story telling started, it was difficult to leave. There was the one about the attack turkey (It attacked everyone with no provocation, but it was only when it attacked the family’s first grandchild that it became dinner.) There was the one about Uncle Larry’s pig, which Donna as a young child killed accidentally (I think) when she threw a croquet ball and hit it in the head. “Killed it deader than hell,” Larry mused.

I only remembered the turtles I'd tried to save on the way home. I was driving a two-seater Geo Metro LSi convertible when I saw them trying to cross the highway. I was on my way home to visit the family and I thought the kids would get a kick out of them. There were two and I snagged them and threw them in the passenger floorboard. 

It was only about 10 minutes from there to the my dad's house but I swear those turtles tried to kill me for at least nine of those minutes. I might have jumped over the door to escape them whe I got home and there he was again with that grin. "Don't you know it's mating season for turtles?" he said. Turns out they weren't just frisky, they were snapping turtles. 

 

It was the attack turkey that inspired the last of my father’s Animal Stories, and one I hadn’t heard.

 

We’ve always considered my father kind of a Pied Piper. He attracted mutts of both the two- and four-legged variety. No one and no thing was ever turned away, and most of those that came within his force field found a way to stay there.  I only vaguely remember seeing a white rooster strutting about the farm, but apparently in the last year or so of his life, my father collected a white rooster. 

It followed him around like that fox must have done. If he went across the road to the garden, the rooster followed him. If he patrolled the yard, it was at his heels. If he strolled down to the barn to observe the collection of crap he had squirreled away in there, there was the rooster, cackling off the inventory list.

 

The rooster also, apparently, channeled the attack turkey. If it didn’t like you, it would attack you. I must not have inspired it at all, because it didn’t so much as look my way.  I seem to remember it being a straggly kind of thing with tail feathers that might have suffered electric shock at one point. While chickens are not known to be especially attractive beasts, this one was less comely than most. And of course it had that bad attitude.

 

When my father died unexpectedly at home one day, no one thought to tell the rooster.

 

To hear Donna tell it, she and my sister Diana observed it walking over every speck of ground that little farm had, looking for my dad. One day, on another trip across the road to the garden, a favorite haunt of my dad's so a logical place to look, the rooster was the victim of a hit-and-run accident. 

There was no attempt to track down the driver because there were no hard feelings.

 

“We’re sure it was suicide,” Donna said.

When I got back home later that evening, Alison reported that her father was so worn out by his baskeball session that he'd taken a 3-hour-nap. She'd tucked him in with her quilt and had even brought him the stuffed turtle he'd had as a kid and which she heisted from her grandfather's house.

Don't worry, though. It's months away from mating season, and I don't think it's a snapper....

 

 

 

Girl Talk

The fine folks at my daughter's school have been sponsoring "Girl Talk" to help the middle schoolers cope with all the angst that comes with puberty and middle school. It's led by a high school girl with the idea that the junior high kids can connect with one of their own. 

It's a great idea and one that I think any parent would appreciate. It's been going on for years, and if I remember correctly, my friend Peter Lazarz actually was one of the teen lecturers back in the day. I'm pretty sure they only let him talk to the boys, though...

Anyway, when it came up as an option, Alison was adamant that she did NOT need to attend. She has her moments struggling with how to deal with this particular stage of her life, of course. It's part of the passage no one escapes.

But she had zero interest in sharing any of that stress with anyone who she might run into the next day. Jenna is her primary go-to.  She shares with me, too. Sometimes. While I'd love to believe she tells me EVERYTHING, I'm happy to get the intel I do right now. And I'm doing everything I can to keep the information flow going.

So even though I told her she could skip Girl Talk, I do still encourage her to reconsider going. I mean, I know I know everything she could possibly ever need to know, and I DO want to be her primary source of information big and small. But a little extra information can't hurt, right?

So while we feasted on Zheng Garden's finest take-out this evening, I noted my latest e-mail alert from school. 

"You're still not going to Girl Talk, right?"  I asked with zero inflection.

She slurped up some lo mein. "Oh, I go sometimes," she said, focused on the latest installation of Total Drama Action on her iPad.

"What!?" I shrieked. I mean I responded with no escalation of interest in my voice whatsoever. I can be cool.

"Yeah. I've been to about three of them," she said, still slurping and focused on the antics of animated people who are competing for $1 million ala Survivor and whose theme song is, "I wanna be. I wanna be. I wanna be famous."

I looked at her. "When did this start?" I asked, recalling her arguments over why she didn't care to be in a room full of other girls talking about "feelings and stuff like that."

"I dunno," she shrugged. "I go for the free food."

"Well, what do you talk about? What kinds of topics are covered? What do you LEARN about?" I asked. 

She looked up, finally. 

"Well," she deadpanned. "I learn about how to score free food."

Apples to Apples

As we awaited the latest snow-apocolypse, we were entertained by the silliness that invades our house any time Alison has one of her long time friends over.

Saturday it was Breanna Tabor. Just getting into the car was a flashback in time. Ali did something crazy, which left Bre to abanondon her in the backseat to drive from her Castleton area house to ours in Broad Ripple. Along the way, Alison decided to torment Bre in several different ways.

I left them in the car to pick up a pizza and came back out to find Bre in the back seat with the red headed demon.

"I decided to get back her to avoid having to smell Alison's feet," Bre informed me just before they dived into the breadstick box. It was understandable. Had they not opened it, they'd have had to wait at least four minutes to get home.

We left them to go out to dinner -- another winner where we sampled drinks at E&D while we waited for our table at Delicia -- a great way to deal with that little time waster. We ran into a few friends ourselves so that was fun. We came home to find Bre in pajamas and Alison running around in a bikini.

I don't even want to know what they'd been doing besides having a bath in my garden tub. There wasn't any evidence of real wrong doing.

This afternoon, we played Apples to Apples before we discovered Bre had homework due tomorrow. It's a great game where you deal out cards and each player tries to use one of the cards in their hands to define another card the rotating judge turns over. You try to get to 7 wins. We have a lighting round with the remaining cards to declare the ultimate winner. It's a lot of fun because sometimes you have really terrible cards that don't really fit the card you have to define so you have to try to argue your way to a win.

Bre may have had the best round when we were trying to justify "important."  Alison had "our family." I had "telling the truth."  Bre had "glazed donuts."  Jeff was the judge that round.

She made a great case. And really, glazed donuts ARE important. Somehow Jeff went with "our family" over "turning the truth," but he did consider the idea that he could adopt a new kid, find a new wife and the weight of honesty against a hot glazed donut was in doubt for a while.

It's a good thing we were playing in the basement because I think the giggles and the arguments would have attracted the neighbors. If they'd brought donuts we'd have likely let them join the game.

   

I took a nap while Jeff and Alison took Breanna home. I'm resting up for Clay Miller's annual Oscar party. I woke up to Ali listening to a YouTube video on how to make a new rubber band bracelet and Jeff practicing how to tie a bow tie.

The next snowfall has yet to fall.  I guess if it doesn't swamp us, we'll actually get out for the party.  Which means I'll have to get dressed.  I'm sure I'll have a good time at the party. The nap was really fun though. Between that and the glazed donut discussion, Clay has his work cut out for him if I'm to have another highlight...