This picture freaks me out.

One more for good measure.

Speaking of Chooch, watching him play Draw Something has become my #1 favorite past time.

Last night, I was watching him draw “fishing,” but focus more on the race of the fisherman, which he changed three times before settling on a bald black man.

My friend Sandy came over to me at work the other day and said she feels she deserves an award guessing Chooch’s drawings.

“Bowser? Seriously?” she cried. I actually watched him draw that one and she’s right—she does deserve an award.

Last night, I also watched him completely complicate “bubbles.

” I think that one was actually for Sandy too, and probably REALLY stressed her out.

Sometimes he’s so good! He drew a really lovely coffin for Amelia, complete with a bloody corpse and gravestones in the background, but then other times I have no idea what he’s doing and I get all pageant mom on his ass. Like last night when he drew just a line at the bottom of the screen for “rug.”

“He really phoned that one in,” Amelia said.

But I mean, look at his penguin!

I was so totally proud of him! Too bad he was supposed to be drawing a rhino, though. Clicked on the wrong word, poor guy.

I like to take screencaps of some of mine so I can rub them in Henry’s face because he sucks so bad.

Sometimes I have a harder time trying to guess Henry’s drawings than Chooch’s. Maybe I’ll start collecting some of those for my next Draw Something post.

Even I phone it in at times, so I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on Chooch.

I’M STILL BETTER THOUGH!

I like to incorporate Jonny Craig in as many of my drawings as possible. This one was for Macbook, which was perfect since Jonny scammed his fans last year by selling non-existent Macbooks for drug money.

I get so much joy out of this game, but most of the joy comes from imagining my friends running their hands through their hair in frustration as they try to guess Chooch’s artistic impression of the word “noob.”

Other than that, I’ve just been busy bracing myself for hockey playoffs.

We did what any other sad-sack family does on a holiday when they have nowhere else to go – went and got sushi.

Chooch kept dunking his lo mein into his glass of lemonade (“What? It makes my noodles taste like lemonade and I like it.”), so now you’ll never again have to wonder why I have a strict no-share policy when it comes to my son and beverages.

Aside from Chooch shouting, “I just want to be able to recognize what they’re saying!” and then counting in Spanish to try and “fit in” with the Pan Asia waitstaff, it was a nice, drama-free Easter dinner. Since it was still early and nice out, we took Chooch to the playground afterward, where I made him cry because I’m better at sliding down slides than he is. Seriously, this happened. I’m even competitive at sliding down slides.

Henry just shook his head and sighed.

Then he convinced me that I should not take a left-behind bottle of Diet Mountain Dew even if it was unopened.

While I was swinging (better than Chooch), the parallels between that and my recent emotions were not lost on me. One simple text message received February 24th at 12:22AM and everything has been swinging out of control, my heart has felt like a fucking Elmo pinata at some dumb 4-year-old’s birthday party, and for as hard and as stubbornly I’ve been trying to slam that door in her face, for as many awkward (supposedly) last words we’ve had over the last month and a half, she is still the only one who called me on Easter to talk to me about how I was feeling, to comfort me, to remind me that I’m a better person than my family has ever given me credit for. So what am I doing. For the last two and a half years, I have had this emptiness in my heart and would constantly ask Henry things like, “Do you think I’ll ever talk to her again?” and “Do you think she still cares about me?” and then she finally gets the chance to come back, but for every brick she knocks down, I’m busy laying down five more; busy listening to all the naysayers, letting other people confuse me, when I should have been listening to myself, and to Henry who has literally only been wrong a total of 4 times in the 11 years we’ve been together. But I’ve been too fucking bull-headed, resistant and cowardly to admit that I want to be friends with Christina again (there, her name has officially been written), to have that person in my life who I can call to get a second opinion when Henry tells me not to take some stranger’s unopened bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, in spite of all the supposed “closure” I was trying to convince myself I could achieve by putting all of our sordid past out in the open for everyone to read.

And if it takes swinging on a swingset in South Park on the day that Jesus provided a lifetime of wet dreams for George Romero by rising from the dead to make me realize that maybe the ending doesn’t feel right because the story isn’t over yet, then so be it. I just know that I can’t keep having these psychopathic arguments in my head anymore; I need to make a decision and stick with it before anyone gets even more hurt. And I don’t want it to be a secret. No more texting a nameless Cincinnati phone number. Either her name goes back in my phone or I need to walk away from this for good—no more Limbo. I officially don’t give a fuck what anyone else has to say about that.

There was a middle-aged blind lady swinging next to me and it was the single most amazing thing that happened all day. She was so happy. We should all be that happy on the playground.

Totally stopped pouting after that. (Until later that night, of course, when Henry chose his words poorly, which is like the worst thing in the world for an already hyper-emotional girl.)

I found Henry standing on a tree stump, counting its rings. Apparently that was his favorite thing to do as a child after completing his daily paper route.

Went home and ate coconut cream pie (with NO meringue!), which is really all I wanted to do all weekend, although maybe in my fantasies it involved more of a swan dive into a pool of it, less spooning it into my mouth.

Thank you Henry and Chooch for salvaging yet another holiday. How can I be lonely when those two jerks are always up in my face, anyway.

I’m ready for things to be OK now. It’s like I’m punishing myself and I just don’t know what for.

Today is Chooch’s last day of Easter break so we went outside under the pretenses of doing “normal” child activities.

Writing inoffensive slogans with sidewalk chalk kept Chooch busy for approximately 5 minutes.

And then we played with what I hoped would be Thingie Ball 2012, but it is sadly a cheap imitation of my beloved Thingie Ball set from 2010, which I have been unable to find in Target ever since.

We gave up after I screamed, “THIS SUCKS, I HATE IT & NEVER WANT TO PLAY AGAIN!” Chooch was like, “God, calm down Mommy. We’re outside where people can see AND hear you.”

Finally, Chooch could contain himself no longer and we spent the rest of our time outside playing zombies.

Flexible Zombie.

Then the FedEx guy came to deliver a package for our neighbor, which made Chooch cry REAL TEARS because I NEVER ORDER ANYTHING FOR HIM, WAAAAH.

Guess what, kid—Mommy likes getting mail too, so GET IN LINE.

Seriously. Who actually LOVES Ohio? In either case, we had a nice day there yesterday. I’m very tired though & ruing the moment I gave Chooch my old iPhone so he can play Draw Something on his own.

Granted, it’s helping him with his reading and spelling, but he is SO HIGH MAINTENANCE about it and gets all pissed of when people don’t drop everything to guess his drawing immediately after he sends it to them. (omgitschooch if you want to play him.)

(He really is getting so good at reading and spelling though. Through the power of “sounding it out,” he was able to spell “piss” the other day. I’m proud and also extremely surprised that he started with such a PG word.)

At one point yesterday, we were at some playground in this small town outside of Columbus when he patted the pockets of his jeans and exclaimed, “Shit, where’s my phone?!”

Dude, you’re 5. Calm the fuck down and play with some Legos. And no, not a Lego app on your iPhone!

Coming home from roller skating.

Sunday was so beautiful. After the hockey game (PENS WON, FUCK YEAH), I suggested that we spend quality family time outdoors, so we went to the cemetery like anyone else would do. I chose the Homewood Cemetery on this particular day because it has a pond and it’s been awhile since we were there last. So many great memories were made in this place. And it’s where Chooch was conceived!

(Kidding. No really, it seems like it would have to be true, but it’s a joke.)

“Look at that tree!” Chooch yelled, pointing to some weird, ugly, low-to-the-ground clump of vegetation. (Not the tree in the above picture.) He covered his mouth and giggled obnoxiously. Not even plants can escape his scathing mockery.

“That’s not a tree,” my Pointdexter Eagle Scout boyfriend corrected. “It’s a rhododendron bush.” And he even pushed up his glasses as he said it.

“Oh boy, I always forget that you’re a nature know-it-all,” I mumbled, picking up my pace. He gets on my nerves with this shit. If it’s not moss education or bird identifying, it’s smug bush naming.

Get a fucking life, Henry.

Ever since that one dickhead made a comment about how I post too many Instagram’d photos, that’s pretty much all I want to do. AND I THINK I WILL. I am full of self-righteousness these days. (I know, what else is new.)

OMG DEER!!

This is like the most anti-Chooch bench of all time. Love to all? Yeah right. He divvies his love in tiny increments between our dead cat Speck, Star Wars, wii and whichever girl he’s fake-hating at school this week. (Names will forever be omitted for the sake of all those Catholic school families who do not want to be associated with any of the Satanic smut on this website.)

This is part of the maintenance building, but it reminded me so much of the Bayernhof Music Museum, that I had to take a picture and send it to Andrea. I should have waited until much later that night, though, so she would have had horrific nightmares of vagina dentata, where the dentata was actually the thrashing lid of a music box. She told me I’m evil — only to my favorites!

It’s a wonder he didn’t fall into the pond. I almost fell into the pond when I was yelling at him about falling into the pond. One of these days, I really am going to fall into a pond and I’ll be part of that small percentage of people who wind up with some nasty parasitic worm swimming up their nostril (I’d say kooka, but I’ve already mentioned vagina once and I’m trying to keep this a Catholic family blog), but if it’s the kind that will make me lose weight, I’ll be fine with it.

“CARRY ME, MY LEGS HURT! I’M SO BORED!” He says bored when really he means LAZY. This kid has so much energy and I have seen him run laps around most other kids on a playground, but if we’re anywhere else where he has to walk like a normal human being, he gets all bent out of shape. Not like I walk like a normal human being, but I can at least walk uphill without having a major fit about it.

(Mostly.)

OMG SO FUCKING TIRED!!!!!!

Oh OK, Nature Dick.

Chooch and I spent most of our walk bickering with each other. I told him lies about cemeteries and Henry would sigh and say, “No, Chooch, that’s not true.” Then he would threaten to hit me with sticks and I would retaliate with threats to leave him there alone over night.

During one of our typical banter sessions, I was frustrated to the point where I said he was my least best friend.

“Yeah, well you’re my frenemy,” he retorted with a smugness.

On the way back to the car, we passed a couple sitting on a secluded bench behind some overgrown bushes.

“WHAT ARE THEY DOING, LOOKING AT DEAD PEOPLE?” Chooch shouted in his normal high-octave voice.

Henry tried to shush him, but then I noticed what they were actually doing so then Henry turned his futile shushing onto me.

“Chooch, do you know what they’re doing?” I asked mischievously.

“WHAT? WHAT ARE THEY DOING?!” he asked, stopping in his tracks and craning his neck toward them again.

“They’re MAKING OUT!” I yelled, and Henry shook his head and walked away while Chooch and I cracked up like two five-year-0lds.

Who needs a playground when there are cemeteries?

Sometimes I sit here and watch 9767896 videos of live Emarosa and Dance Gavin Dance performances because I’m so afraid I will never get to hear Jonny sing in person ever again. PLEASE STOP SHOOTING UP, JONNY CRAIG.

***

In other news, I got my hair chopped off the other day. It’s not man-short, but the longest layers skim my chin. I asked Chooch the next day if he liked it, and without even looking at me, he said, “No.” Granted, he is very surly in the morning, but he is also HONEST. So I was pretty bummed. Right before I took him to school, I prodded him some more.

“Do you think it’s better or worse than before?” I asked, like my future on America’s Next Top Model is on the line.

Watching the news (he watches the news every morning now and is really interested in what the “traffics” is like), he sighed and said, “Well, did you like your hair before?”

I thought about this for a few seconds. My hair was getting to be too long and the ends were pretty obliterated. The color was bland, too. “No,” I answered him confidently.

“Well, then I guess it’s better,” he said in a tone that implied, “Good job, you just answered your own question.”

Naturally, 80% of the office freaked out over it (except for WENDY WHO DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE!!!) and you all know how much I love to be gang-praised. Which is to say, as much as I like to be gang-raped. I think I had longer conversations about it with the boys though, which was kind of weird. Chris even stopped bouncing his fucking orange ball long enough to put his hands under his chin and call me adorable. BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT EVERY GROWN WOMAN WANTS TO HEAR.

No really, I’m OK with “adorable.” When you have the face of a turtle, you will take whatever complimentary handout you can get.

Probably the fact that I pull unflattering faces should be my main concern of model-rejection, not my hairstyle.

Thank god I have two Valentines or the day would have really been a bust*. Chooch, who put way more thought into than HENRY, didn’t like any of the songs that the Valentine cards played, so he gave me a birthday card instead. He will only choose cards that play music.

*(In all honesty, it really was a sweet night. It was nice coming home to a clean house and good dinner after I SLAVED OVER A CAKE for two days.)

Anyway, I’ve had the birthday card on my desk all week which invites people to ask if it’s my birthday. I just now realized how idiotic I’ve been by saying no. I could have maybe scored a free Starbucks out of it. Or at least spoken to in a nicer tone (or at all) from certain people in the department.

AND CANDY! Which he wanted back after giving it to me. I don’t know WHERE he learns these things.

And he made me another Valentine at school. <3  I try and act like I don’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day, but maybe I sort of do, you guys. It’s fun to draw hearts.

Henry, Chooch and I just walked into Eat n Park when a group of middle school-aged kids turned around and one of them, a cheerleader in a letterman jacket, exclaimed, “Hey look, it’s God!

” A titter of recognition spread through the group.

Surely she’s not insinuating that Henry is god-like, I thought, and then I realized that they were all looking at Chooch, who was desperately trying to blend into my back by that point.

And that is how we found out that back on All Saints Day*, when the priest was asking all the children what Saint they were dressed as (this is what Catholic schools do in lieu of Halloween, or so I’m learning) and my plainsclothed son said, “God,” that this did not happen just in front of his kindergarten classmates, but the WHOLE SCHOOL.

Chooch is legendary; on the Internet and off, apparently.

I’m not really sure what changed in Chooch, if maybe enough time had passed for him to genuinely want to give roller skating another try, or if he was adopting the old If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em mentality, but he is a skating fool all of a sudden. After we returned to the rink two weekends ago after a long hiatus and saw that he was refusing to have his hand held, we decided that maybe a few lessons might benefit him.
“What are you going to do when he becomes better than you?” Wendy asked me in a taunting tone at work last week.

“Um, like that would ever happen,” I shot back, but I have to be honest here and say that I blanched a little. This is a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me!

Lessons are only $4.50 and then everyone gets to skate freely until the Saturday night session starts. I’m tempted to take lessons just so I can take advantage of that beautiful, open rink. And maybe learn how to do spins and twirls.

Before the lesson started, all the kids were permitted to stumble around on their own. I was actually surprised that Chooch took to the rink without even a hesitant glance over his shoulder. Kid completely didn’t give a shit that Henry and I weren’t skating with him. I think I was only surprised because I always project a little bit of myself onto him only to be reminded that my kid has way more confidence than I do.

I call this video Why Henry is Not a Skate Instructor:

This video was filmed pre-lesson. By the time the lesson was over, he had improved by leaps and bounds, was scissoring and doing cross-overs (albeit a little shakily, but the instructor said she was proud of him for trying, since it was his first lesson).

There were some dicks in the group of kids, I’m not going to lie. Henry might yell at me for calling them dicks, but deep down, even he can’t deny that they were totally bastards. This clearly wasn’t their first lesson and their parents clearly knew someone affiliated with the rink, because they were acting like complete elitist motherfuckers and yes, my hate extends to children; I don’t age discriminate. Just being in the single digits doesn’t give you a free ride in my blog of wrath.

Roller DJ was there! He got settled in his DJ booth and then came over and sat with me for the rest of the lesson and at first I was all, “Yes! Now I can sit here and take clandestine photos of him!” but after about 5 minutes of him lecturing me for not coming out enough and how irritating it is to him when kids request songs that JUST AREN’T SKATEABLE!, his follicular mushroom cloud novelty had dissipated and I had resorted to squirming on the bench in awkward imprisonment.

(I would like to take this moment to thank Henry for completely ditching me as soon as Roller DJ sat down. Fucking dick.)

Goddamn, do I love that rink, and now Chooch does, too. Finally. I’m going to start schmoozing* the new owner so he’ll leave the rink to me in his Will.

*(I have ways.)

The U.S. offices of the Law Firm are all closed for Martin Luther King, Jr. day, but our department stayed open with a small staff to cater to all the European, etc. offices. I was one of the suckers who agreed to come in because it’s extra money, and what would I be doing anyway? I’ll tell you what — sitting at home and calling Henry every 15 minutes to see when he’s going to be done with work. So why not give Henry a bit of a reprieve while making some extra money, I guess, right?

The problem is that this special Fuck the Holiday shift starts at 7am. As you may know, I’m accustomed to working 4pm-9pm, so the whole getting here part was kind of stressful and included a lot of whining and whimpering.

The other problem is that Chooch doesn’t have school today. I attempted for a minute to use him as my scapegoat (“But what will I do with the babe?!”) except everyone was like, “WHY, BRING HIM IN!” I figured maybe this would be OK since there are only 5 of us in the office today.

Even though we packed Chooch’s Darth Vader backpack full of activity books and other Kindergarten fare, he declared within 30 minutes that he was bored and requested to go home.

JOIN THE CLUB, KID. THIS IS YOUR FUTURE.

This was all pre-8am, when the novelty of sitting in the empty desk behind mommy was still fresh and made him feel cool. But then he quickly realized that mommy’s job is pretty dry and uneventful, so he started creeping around and scaring my co-workers, which is hard to do when you work in a building full of reflective glass.

My serial killer coloring book kept him occupied for awhile. The middle finger pose is totally unintentional, by the way. This is one of the few obscene things he’s yet to learn. He’d rather just use his words to express his anger and disdain for society.

Oh, and then I lost him for awhile! That was really fun. I searched everyone’s office on my side of the floor before discovering that he was hiding in the small closet attached to the desk behind me the whole time. I wanted to fucking kill him.

However, it did last an entire 2 hours before he tried to color my white desk, so that was pretty impressive.

I just lost half of my donut in my coffee — THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER.

2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go.

****

45 minutes to go. In an effort to keep us distracted & prevent Chooch from potential rubberband burn (he has himself rubberbanded to his chair, don’t ask), I suggested that we look at pictures of Jonny Craig.

“Oh great. Just like we’re at home,” Chooch deadpanned.

So instead, he drew a picture of John Wayne Gacy for Wendy, who LOVES CLOWNS.

(She does not love clowns.)

Now we’re giving ourselves makeovers with office supplies. I currently have a large binder clip in my hair. I am so far ahead of you, Milan. 

Gotta go. Some asshole just flagellated himself with a giant rubberband. DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING.

The sound on this is atrocious, but let’s be real for a minute: I’m not posting this for the song. This is one of my favorite videos to watch on YouTube because Jonny doesn’t look as much like a red neck crackhead for once. (Probably also because it’s from the 2008 Pierce the Veil tour where he was only a quarter of the hot mess he is today.)

Chooch stayed home from school today, and when I showed him this video on my phone, he sighed and half-sang, “It’s peanut butter Jonny time.”

***

Elsewhere in my pathetic existence, I have designed a total of 7 different blog promo cards. Anyone want a stack to help spread the word about some idiot’s mediocre blog? Comment here or email me your address and I’ll send you some: butgavincantdance@gmail.com

As I mentioned the other day, Chooch’s Kindergarten class got strapped with “Up On the Rooftop” for the school recital, so I had to endure two weeks of random “CLICK CLICK CLICK!!!!!!11” outbursts. The recital was this morning, so I have high hopes that perhaps this nerve-prickling carol will be put to bed.

Remember a few weeks ago when I went to Saint Anthony’s and the Holy Ghost anally entered me, deluding me into thinking that I should start going to church? That was obviously a very fleeting consideration, because from the moment I set foot in that church this morning (Chooch goes to Catholic school, remember? Please swallow your need to put out this glaring irony), the mark of the Devil on the nape of  my neck began to singe and I was afraid to open my mouth for fear of the parseltongue that would come somersaulting out.

Most of those parents are True Catholics. I watched in disgust as some of them genuflected every time they went in and out of their pew. Get a fucking grip, you God nerds. This is just a bunch of beaten-down moms watching their tone deaf kids sing obnoxious Christmas carols. There wasn’t even a priest in sight!

Fuck, some people have a lot of respect.

Before the recital started (if the 8th grade band honking and squelching on their ragtag instruments counts as kicking off a recital), the principal got up on the podium and reminded everyone that this is, after all, a church (don’t let those stained glass windows fool you into thinking you’re in a gothic strip club) and that all cell phones should be turned off (make me) and all hats removed. Because God hates a fucking hat.

“Dude, take your hat off,” I whispered to Henry.

“No,” he said defiantly.

After the band wheezed and puffed their way through some handicapped version of a Christmas carol (“Away in a Manger” maybe? The mind has a funny way of blocking out traumas), the prinicpal once again took her spot at the podium and reiterated in a very Mussolini-tone that THIS IS A CHURCH, HELLO YOU HAT-WEARING MOTHERFUCKER, TAKE IT THE FUCK OFF YOUR HEATHEN HEAD.

Again, Henry made no effort to take off his hat. People were starting to turn around, scanning the heads of the audience for that douchebag with a covered scalp.

Henry was the only one wearing a hat.

I waited a beat for God to blast his Heavenly spotlight upon Henry’s cotton-topped pate.

“Take it off!” I hissed.

“Me?” He asked. No, the other blue collar beverage warehouse worker. He finally pulled his beanie off his head, and then promplty started muttering about how his hair was still wet. I didn’t even care at  that point. I hate having people look at me and I’d rather be the poor lady next to the douchebag who dared come to church straight from the New England fishing boat than the lady next to the man who needs a hairdryer for Christmas.

Hatless Henry.

O Come (the Fuck On and Finish the Goddamn Song), Emmanuel. WHAT. Seriously, this is the longest song in the history of songs I have heard and been annoyed by. Some of the upper classes would sing like, two stanzas and then pause to have the fucking principal read some religious shit.

It went on and on like this. Singing. [ME, TWEETING] Religious shit. [BABY CRYING] Singing. [OLD PERSON COUGHING] Religious Shit. The parents were encouraged to sing along and everyone (but me) made a mad dash for the Missalette. Even Henry eventually grabbed one, but I think it was just so he could distract himself from the shame he felt for being That Douche In the Hat.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only fifteen minutes (which, in church time, IS ETERNITY), the Kindergarteners finally took the stage (altar?) and there was a rush of parents into the aisle, cameras and phones in hand. I was actually a Good Mom and joined them because I wanted to record it on my phone.

I am a Very Good Recorderer, as you are about to find out. Plus, you get to hear my whiny voice in the beginning and Henry having no patience.

I am so happy that after all that “practice” he did in the house, in the car, in my nightmares, he just STOOD THERE SMILING and NOT SINGING. He didn’t even do the arm motions!

Oh well. At least it was a short song.

Right after they were done, Henry said all quickly, “OK, gotta go back to work see ya bye!” and LEFT ME ALONE IN CHURCH. Some little girl in the pew in front of me kept turning around and gawking at my finger tattoos and I was feeling extremely uncomfortable and kept averting my eyes. God, I don’t like little girls. And this one wouldn’t just sit the fuck down, either. SIT THE FUCK DOWN! DON’T YOU KNOW GOD IS WATCHING YOU?

It seemed like I was there all day. My lower back was burning from sitting on that goddamn pew. The principal made this smooth transition from school recital to MASS by ending with some lame ass prayer and making us all do the Sign of the Cross (I remembered how to do it! Then I was like, “I can’t believe I just mindlessly followed along like a fucking sheep! I hate myself!”) and it ended with a part of church that I had forgotten about: that weird Flanders-esque “Peace be with you” segment where everyone engages in a mad flurry of spreading viruses and pestilence through clammy-palmed handshakes.

I found my shoulders rising as the rest of me slid lower and lower still in the pew. I knew at least the little girl wouldn’t turn around, wanting to shake my weird tattooed hands, so what a blessing after all.

I made it out without having to touch anyone or look anyone in the eye or speak to anyone about anything in general. And the roof didn’t collapse. All good things.

Oh, and I got to see my kid wearing cute antlers, which was the whole point, right?

This is what my kid does at his aunt Kelly’s while Henry & I are in Cleveland for the Craig Owens show.

Hanging out with Tommy and Jessy today has been a nice distraction and I’ve even smiled and laughed a few times. We just left Meder’s*, where god only knows what Chooch said to Santa, Tommy found ways to spin every ornament into something obscene to make up for my Pornament Party needing to be canceled last night, and Jessy gave me lots of hugs.

(*A local nursery which is bursting at the seams with overpriced Christmas ornaments, real life reindeers to feed, & elderly employees who skulk around watching your child with stern hawk eyes, but it beats braving the malls and standing in line for an hour among throngs of yuppies and their ugly-sweatered child-yups just to have a 20-second meeting with a nicotine-stained Santa.)

Now we’re on our way to Oglebay, WV to see Christmas lights. That will probably make me smile too. As long as there is hot chocolate and biting commentary involved. Glad to have non-sucky Sundays back.

Thanks to everyone who has been so sweet and caring to me since Speck died yesterday. Virtual hugs are just as special as real life hugs, and I’ve appreciated every last one.