Don’t go disrespectin’

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We live in sunny Florida now and I have to say…it becomes my minivan.  If you thought she looked hot cruising the streets of St. Louis, you should see her down here.

HAWT!

But there’s a problem.  “What problem?” you might ask.  “What could possibly be bothering you in sunny Florida?”  I’m so glad you asked! The problem, you see, is that is appears her hotness does not garner the proper respect down in this beach town.

GASP!

I know, right?!  How could it be? At first I thought that maybe it was Florida.  Maybe FLORIDA didn’t understand the royalty of the minivan.  But then I realized that I’m living at the beach right now…where a bunch of teenagers roam free at a time in life when most of them are pretty sure they know everything about everything.  You know…teenagers.

So anyway, as I cruise down the highway between here and Tampa, the ocean spread on either side, I have to tell you – my van?  She sings.  The ocean becomes her. BUT every time I drive that strip of highway, despite the fact that we’re zipping along a little above the speed limit (ahem…we’re at the beach – don’t judge) inevitably, some teenage boy in his sports car drives right up on my tail.  One even flashed his lights at me.

Flashed his lights.

They then buzz past me, their tatooed arms hanging out the open windows, leaving my poor little van quaking in their base filled, disrespectin’ dust.  But not to worry.  Nope…not to worry a bit.  Because I know something those little boys don’t know…

You see, I know that there’s a good possibility that 15 years from now, most of those boys are going to be haulin’ down the highway in a sleek black minivan filled with young ones.  I know that someday most of them are going to trade their unintelligible rap music for Kidz Bop and their ears will bleed as do mine.

I know that someday, they’re going to be driving down the road and some hot shot is going to whip around them, laughing at the power he thinks he wields in the tiny little sports car that he got from mommy and daddy.  And they’ll mutter under their breath something to the effect of “Jackass,” which their oldest child with the eagle ears will hear and shout, “What’d you say?” over the screeching sounds of kids singing the latest and greatest hits and they’ll shrug and yell back, “I said he’s got no class!”

I know this.

And so I drive in confidence down my beach highway.  In my sleek black van…with scratches down the side from the numerous times small children have run into her with their bikes.

*sigh* No matter what I do, driving a minivan is never gonna be cool…is it?

I fear just one thing

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The bags are packed and have been strategically wedged into the car in what I can only describe as the worst game of Tetris ever.  We have everything but the kitchen sink and that’s because my in-laws wouldn’t let us take it.  We even gained a chest of drawers.  This was Tia’s birthday present from her grandparents and it’s the first time we’ve been able to pick it up.

We packed it before packing it.  Everyone has to carry their weight.

The floors are covered in bags, boxes and with last minute crap treasures we couldn’t bear to part with.  In short, we are hauling whatever bits of our lives that didn’t fit in the PODS beneath our feet.  For 16.5 hours.  Who’s having fun?

I’m not overly concerned about the trip, really.  Especially since Lee was able to fly up here and make the drive with us.  Not having to do that trip alone?  Priceless. Mastercard has nothin’ on that miracle.  I’m quite looking forward to the adventure of driving down to Florida.  I think it will be fun.  Stressful, but fun.

Really...how important is it to see out the back window? On a scale of 1 to 10?

 

But I am worried about one tiny, little thing.  It’s really the only thing that I find myself thinking about pretty regularly with some anxiety.  And you would too – in fact, most of you will probably understand and identify with this thing I fear.  It’s quite frightening and is worth a bit of trepidation.  What’s the one thing I fear?

GAS. And not the kind you purchase at a station (although that has me a little anxious too.  Expensive much?)  No.  The gas I fear is the kind that you don’t want and comes with a price all its own.  The “cut the cheese” kind of gas…

Three kids.  One dog.  And a husband.

I don’t stand a chance.

You coop that many people up in a box for two days straight eating food out of a bag or a fast food joint and the smell is bound to err on the side of ruthless.  Add to it my extremely motion sick first born and his tendency to get barfy in the car and you’re looking at a good time right there.

Good. Time.

So there you have.  I am afraid.  I’m woman enough to admit it.  I’m scared of gas.  Because it’s hot outside so cracking the windows just stirs around hot air, which only makes everyone sticky and sweaty.  It doesn’t help.

Tia and Sadie's seats

We covet your prayers – for safety, for enjoyment, for excitement and for provision.  But if you think about it, and you feel so inclined, feel free to say an extra prayer for me.  Because I’m about to be trapped for 16.5 hours in a metal box and I kind of have a sensitive sense of smell.  Smells get trapped up in my nose and don’t come out.  It is a curse.

Good times.  Good. Times.

Tell me your favorite, and funniest, car trip story.  It will give me something to do while I try to survive the box.

You’re Welcome

May all of you enjoy life as much as these folks.  This has hands down made my weekend.

Jennifer Aniston did my hair

It was early morning, the air sticky and hot.  I struggled with my dress, which originally bore the shape of a bad muumuu…made out of curtains.  Unfortunately during the tailoring process, the dress had been altered into a bit of a mini-skirt.  I found myself self consciously tugging at it, all the while singing the song I learned at junior high church camp many moons ago:

 

 

Oh you can’t get the heaven (Oh you can’t get to heaven)

In a mini-skirt (In a mini-skirt)

No you can’t get to heaven (No you can’t get to heaven)

In a mini-skiiiiirt.

No you can’t get to heaven in a min-skirt

‘Cause God don’t like no little flirt

All my sins are washed away, I’ve been redeemed

(I’ve been redeemed)

Lovely.

Much emphasis was placed on the need for me not to be late.  It was imperative that I show up on time, which meant I needed to leave extra early because I didn’t know where I was going.  It’s always best to plan a little extra time to get lost.  Especially if you’re me.  I’m fairly certain God forgot to install my inner compass when He put me together.

I ran down the steep hill (mountain?) from the cabin where I and the other participants slept, carrying my flip flops in one hand and holding my shortened dress down with the other.  I finally got to the community bathroom where my friend Melissa met me.  She came out of nowhere – I’m not even sure how she got there….she lives in Louisiana.

“What are you doing with your hair?” she asked as I frantically applied my make up.

“I don’t know!” I lamented.  “My hair looks like a mushroom!”

It really did.  Somehow the humidity had tousled it into a bouffant that resembled a portabella on top of my head.  Making matters worse, I held the hair dryer too close to my head and fried my bangs and they now frizzed out in a bubble of straw right in the middle of my forehead.

As I huffed, I heard laughter from the bathroom stall.  Melissa and I exchanged looks and waited.  The toilet flushed and the stall door opened.

It was Jennifer Aniston!  Perfect hair and all…

Walking up to me, Jennifer studied my hair closely.  “Hmmm…” she said.  “Your hair does need a little TLC.”  She sounded just like Rachel Green.

“Can you help me?” I asked shyly.

“Sure,” she answered with a smile.  She was so nice!  I always knew she and I would make good friends.  Jennifer grabbed a brush and turned me away from the mirror then went to work.  She pulled and tugged and twisted and sprayed my hair with some kind of magic potion from her oversize purse.  A few minutes later she whirled me around and Voila! MY hair was red carpet ready. It was even a little longer.  I’m not sure how she pulled that one off… I felt a surge of confidence and I turned to hug my friend.

“What time are you supposed to be there?” she asked.

“6:45,” I answered.  Her eyes grew wide.

“Kelli!  It’s already 8:21!”

“No!” I kissed her on the cheek and dashed out of the bathroom.  I needed to get back up to the cabin to retrieve my car keys and make my way to the meet up point.  I tore up the steep hill that had somehow  become covered in snow.  As I climbed I found a pair of my sandals buried in the snow and snatched them up.  They would go perfect with my unfortunate dress.

This is when I woke up in a panic and had to tell myself that none of that happened and I didn’t miss the VP Parade, which I am singing in tomorrow morning.  Jennifer Aniston did not do my hair and last I checked there were no snow covered mountains in St. Louis.

Phew.

If you are in the area and want to come down and watch tomorrow morning, I will be on the Riverboat float singing dixieland.  Look for the girl in a muumuu made out of curtains.  Or in a min-skirt if my dream proves to be at all prophetic.  It starts at 10:00am (and yes, I have to be there no later than 6:45) and heads down 4th and Market.  It ends near Union Station.

Jennifer (can I call you Jen?) if you’re in town, meet me on 4th street at 6:00.  Me and my hair will probably need your help.

Image credit

When Daddy Explains

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I was on the phone last week, pacing the driveway.  It was a beautiful day and the kids were all napping or resting.  I just needed some air.  As I spoke with my friend, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.  I turned in time to see Sloan marching by with a twelve foot ladder tucked snuggly under his arm.  He didn’t even glance my way as he walked past, his face cool and nonchalant.  As if carrying around a ladder was normal.

I swear, if that kid had a stuffed tiger I would be living with Calvin and Hobbes.

“Um…I think I should probably hang up,” I said to my friend as Sloan set the ladder down next to the corner of the house and popped it open.  He looked up at the roof, his hand shading his eyes slightly.  I managed to reach him just as he stepped on the third rung, the ladder wobbling precariously on the slanted driveway.

“Whatcha doin’?”  I asked, grabbing hold of the base of the ladder.

“Oh, hey Mom,” Sloan said, still playing cool.  “I’m checking out the bird’s nest up here.”

I looked up and sure enough, there was a nest just underneath the roof.

“Can I?” he asked, looking down at me with his penetrating blue eyes.  Then he grinned.  Stinker.

“Yes,” I replied.  “Be careful.”

So up he climbed to the top rung and he peered over the side of the nest.

“There’s a baby bird in there!” he screeched.  Seriously screeched.  My ears are still ringing.  “It’s so cute!  Aw, Mom come see the baby bird!”

So we switched places and I climbed the ladder with him holding it steady.  Inside the nest was a tiny, newly hatched baby, it’s beak pointed upward, waiting for nourishment.

“Can I see it again?” Sloan yelled, shaking the ladder for effect.  Nice.

He climbed back up and looked in again.  “This is so freakin’ cool!” he yelled again.  To which I reminded him that I was only a few feet below and he didn’t need to scream.  Then he reached for the bird.

“Don’t touch it,” I cautioned.  “If the Mama bird comes back and smells you on her baby, she’ll leave him and he’ll die.”

With one last look and a wave, we pulled the ladder back down and headed on with our day.

Fast forward to this afternoon when we’re driving home from church.  Sloan pipes up from the backseat.  “Hey Mom.  I don’t care if it dies, so when we get home can I get the ladder out and pick up the baby bird and keep it?  I’ll get it worms and I’ll take care of it.  Can I raise the baby bird?”

“No,” I said.  “It’s Mama would be sad.  And we really don’t know how to raise a baby bird.  It’s better if we leave it alone.”

“But I can take good care of it,” came the anticipated protest.

“Hey Buddy,” Lee said, glancing into the mirror.  “You don’t need to try and raise that baby bird.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Lee said, and he paused.  “It would be like a bear coming to our house and seeing you and saying ‘I want to take that little boy home and raise him.’  Bears don’t know how to raise little boys.  That bear wouldn’t know how to feed you – he’d probably just give you raw meat or raw fish, like he eats.  And if he tried to hug you or give you a kiss, he’d probably claw you to death or bite off your nose with his sharp teeth.  Bear’s aren’t meant to take care of little boys just like little boys aren’t meant to take care of baby birds.”

This is the part where I begin clutching my sides, I’m laughing so hard.

“And bee’s should take care of bee’s, wight?”  Tia chimes in.

“Right,” Lee replies.  “Bears take care of bears, bee’s take care of bee’s, bird’s take care of bird’s–”

“And people take care of people!”  Sloan interrupts.

“That’s right!”  Lee pumps his fist in the air.  “Homosapiens take care of Homosapiens.”

And THAT, folks, is what happens when Daddy decides to explain.

The End.

Good Morning to You

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He crawled up in bed next to me and laid his head on my pillow. I rolled over, caught in that fuzzy state between dreams and reality. His soft cheek pressed up against mine, satiny skin dotted with freckles.

I wrapped my arm around him and pulled him close, breathing in deep the smell of little boy. Summer is in his hair – dirt, sunscreen and sweat. My eyes have yet to open but I feel his eyes on me, his breath smelling of apple juice. I squeeze him close and I hear his mouth stretch into a smile. His tiny little arm wraps around me and he returns the early morning squeeze.

Pure bliss.

“Good morning, buddy,” I say, finally forcing my heavy lids to part. He looks up at me with wide, crystal blue eyes and his tiny little bow tie mouth leans in for a kiss.  It’s delicious and precious.

“I’m glad to see you,” I whisper in his ear. “How are you this morning?”

There is a quiet pause as his warm little body snuggles close to mine. Then he giggles – magic.

“I jus’ fawted.”

*sigh*

So how was your morning?

One more year

I am officially one more year older as of Saturday.  I am 29.

Stop laughing.

I have to tell my children that because the two youngest can’t say their “Th” sound, which means “Th” sounds like “F” so when they say my age they place me well into a decade that I’m not prepared to enter.

When I was a 19 year old college girl, I began dating a boy who was, at the time, a senior.  One night as we sat in his apartment, I asked him how old he was.  “23,” he replied.  And I almost had a heart attack because OMG 23 was so old.

One year after marrying my husband, we headed over to the home of a couple who was one life phase ahead of us.  They had three young kids, a big house and were everything we thought we wanted to be.  It was my birthday.  “How old are you today?” they asked.

“23,” I replied.  And they laughed.  “Do you remember 23, babe?” she asked her husband.

“Barely,” he replied and I laughed along with them but for a different reason because OMG 23 felt so old.

Shortly thereafter I began having children.  And I waddled around, 25 and knocked up.  Feeling so old. Despite the fact, however, that I looked to be no older than a teenager in a very precarious position.

Then I hit 29 (where I have remained) and I finally felt at peace with my age.  When you have three children and you’re under thirty, you tend to get a look or two.  It’s a look of pity and wonderment.  Three kids already, huh? I got asked more than once. So 29 felt right…it felt good.

So I stopped there.  Mentally, anyway.  The truth is, I’m only in my early thirties.  I’m two whole years away from my mid-thirties so there’s really no need to acknowledge the thirties at all, in my opinion.

And there sure as heck isn’t any reason to tell my kids my age.  Because if I do, then whenever they’re asked how old mommy is, their reply will be, “Mommy if fowty-fwee.”

And h@#^ no I’m not.  I’m nowhere near the 4-number.  I can’t be because OMG forty is so old.

Stop  laughing.

Obviously, age is just a number and it’s all relative.  Forty really isn’t that old, but in my mind, it seems old.  I remember my parents turning forty, for cryin’ out loud.  But whatever.  The older you get, the younger old looks…right, Dad?

But I’m a long way from the 4 number so there’s no need to worry about that anyway.  Moving on…

So the number may  not be my favorite thing but, I have to say, that in my 29-ish years of life the greatest accomplishment I’ve had by far are these three:

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I still feel like that little 19 year old girl floating on the cloud of youth (just the fact that I am compelled to refer to anyone under the age of 25 as “little” or “kid” is evidence of my age…) but I will gladly grow older because each year brings new joys, new blessings and the chance to watch those sweet kids grow.

I’ll take that in exchange for a few new wrinkles.  But just a few!

Just please, don’t ask them to say my real age until we’ve had a little time to work with a speech therapist.  Deal?

Stop.  Laughing!

The Pick-Up Game

Did you know that my man was a star basketball player in high school and in college?

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He would never tell you that because he’s too humble and he wouldn’t want to brag.

I don’t mind bragging about him, though.

Did you know that my husband was asked to play professional basketball in Germany right before we got married?

We said no.

It is perhaps our biggest regret.

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Not that we regret the way our life turned out.

The decision we made led us down a different path of blessings.

But the reason we declined that opportunity is cause for regret.

We said no because we were scared.  We were babies and marriage felt monumental enough.

Moving to Europe didn’t feel safe.

That’s a terrible reason to say no.  Fear is never a good reason to dismiss opportunity.

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Did you know that my basketball man still has game?

He’s humbled more than one teenager on the court.

He’s not afraid to humble the college boys, either.

He gets a little more sore after playing than he used to, but he’s still got skills.

Did you know that my basketball man can not say no to the game of basketball?

Even if he’s bone tired and has had a long day working…

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if Sloan asks him to play ball, he will say yes.

And you will probably find two or three neighborhood boys out there with him, too.

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He always shares the ball and makes sure everyone, right down to the littlest one, gets a turn to dribble and shoot.

He also…

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makes sure they know…

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the old guy’s still got it.

Happy Memorial Day!

Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls

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Last night we watched the American Idol finale.  We haven’t watched American Idol all season so we had no idea who the finalists were, but we knew that the final show was bound to have good entertainment.

It had excellent entertainment, if slightly inappropriate for young eyes.  What the heck was up with J-Lo’s dress and dance?!

Yes, the show was good.  Only Idol could bring together Judas Priest, Kurt Franklin and Gladys Knight all within a ten minute time span and make it work.  But I must say, the real entertainment did not begin until TLC walked on stage.  When they announced it Lee looked at me with wide eyes.

TLC is coming on stage?”

“Who’s TLC?” Sloan asked.

“TLC is old school, son,” I replied.  “They were popular when I was in high school.”

“They were popular was I was in high school!” Lee said with a laugh.

When they hit the stage Lee’s shoulders immediately began to shake throwing me back to 1999 when I first entered a dance club with my soon to be husband…

*squiggly lines* *dream sequence* *squiggly lines* *dream sequence* *squiggly lines* *dream sequence*

I stood in line outside the club with the man who had not long ago professed his love for me.  We were waiting to get into Midnight Rodeo, the hottest dance spot in Waco, Texas.  At least I think it was still called Midnight Rodeo – the name of the club might have changed at this point.  This part of the dream is a little fuzzy.

“Why is it so crowded tonight?” Lee asks the couple in front of us.

“Vanilla Ice is going to be here tonight,” the guy replies, his cigarette bouncing between his lips.

“Seriously?” I say.  “Did Vanilla Ice have any other songs besides Ice, Ice Baby?”

We finally paid our admission into the club and, for the first time, I am able to enter without being branded with a giant X on the back of my hand by a Sharpie wielding bouncer.  I’m 21 now so I don’t have to be branded anymore.  How cool am I?

We start the night by watching the two steppers in the middle of the hard wood dance floor.  Lee and I marvel at the size of the mens belt buckles.  The only thing that rivals them is the womens hair.  After watching for awhile, we decide to try and join the ranks.  We don’t know how to two step, but how hard can it be, right?

It’s hard.  Two stepping is country’s version of swing dancing.  There’s twisting and turning and their arms intertwine into four knots then they spin and unwind and Voila! They are no longer tied in knots.  All the while they’re two stepping their feet in a slow circle around the stage.

We try for one song and decide to quit embarrassing ourselves.  But then Strawberry Wine comes on and everyone slows down, so we do too.  Because who doesn’t want to dance to Strawberry Wine, right?

After our slow dance, we head to a small room on the right where it’s just been announced that Vanilla Ice is about to take the stage.  We head inside and cram in with more people than I thought would care about Vanilla Ice.  And take the stage he does.

“He’s short,” I shout to Lee over the noise of the crowd.

“And he still has the same haircut!” Lee shouts back.

Vanilla Ice starts and it’s horrible.  His songs…they’re horrible.  They don’t make sense, every other word is the F-Bomb and it’s just terrible music.  We decide to leave when we hear it.

Bum dum dum dum da da dum bum

That’s the beginning strains of Ice, Ice Baby.  Couldn’t you tell?

And Lee freaks out.  He waves his hands in the air and then starts doing a move I’ve never seen before.  His fists ball up at his sides and his shoulders start shaking up and down.  I laugh and join in.

Alright stop.

Collaborate and LISTEN.

Ice is back with a brand new inVENTION.

Something. Grabs a hold of me tightly,

Pulls like a harpoon daily and nightly.

Will it ever stop? Yo!  I don’t know.

Turn out the lights and I’ll go.

To the extreme something something like a candle

Light up the scene somethingsomething like a vandal

DANCE.

I stop singing because I don’t know any of the words after that, but Lee does.  He know the whole. dang. song.  And he sings it while bouncing his shoulders up and down, his body moving to the rhythm.  It was hysterical and terrifying all at once.

After he woos me with his impressive knowledge of early ’90’s music, we head to the third room in the club where they are playing true dance music.  We take to the colorful dance floor and Lee continues to dazzle me with his impressive shoulder shake.  He shakes his shoulders to every song that comes on.  It is a move I’ve never seen before and I’m slightly baffled by it.  He accompanies the shoulder shake with a great deal of attitude in his face.  Lips pursed, brow furrowed, I’m a hip dancerman type face.

Sexy.

We dance until someone spills a large cup of beer in my hair.  As we leave I wonder if Lee’s shoulders are sore from all that bouncing.   Little did I know that the shoulder bounce is his signature move and he would bust it out anytime a song from his glory days (high school and college) came on…for all of eternity.

*squiggly lines*  *dream sequence ends*  *squiggly lines*  *dream sequence ends*  *squiggly lines*

As TLC sang last night, Lee’s shoulders shook out of habit.  It’s force of nature for him, you see.  But what I wasn’t prepared for was the TLC girls (what are their names) dance moves.

They were doing the shoulder shake!

“AHAHAHAHA!” I laughed.  “They’re doing your move.  It’s old school, baby!”

“THIS IS WHERE I GOT IT!” he yelled and jumped off the couch, his face full of attitude, his shoulders full of bounce.

Awe-to the-Some.


We’re Back

On Friday I picked Sloan up from school early.  I took all three kids outside the building and finally let them in on a secret I’d been keeping quiet for two weeks.

We were going to Florida.

I have never had more fun.  We will definately be doing more surprise trips in the future because their expressions were priceless and it was so fun to tell them we were hopping in the car and heading to the airport.  I kept it a secret from them out of necessity because we were going down there to surprise my Mom when she landed in Tampa after being in England for forever.  My Dad and I planned the trip several weeks ago and I knew that if I told the kids the surprise would be ruined.

So fun.

Mom was surprised and had no idea we would be there.  The kids thought it was the greatest thing ever to jump out and say surprise when she got off the plane.  It was just fun.

We soaked up every minute of fun while we were in Florida.  We swam, spent hours at the beach, rode on the kayak and the boat, snorkeled, found sand dollars, watched the sunset and ate lots of M&M’s and ice cream.  It was a great quick trip.

This was my first time flying alone with all three kids so I was a little nervous, but they did great.  Sloan sat in a row by himself and talked the ear off the woman next to him.  The only hiccup came when all three kids had to go to the bathroom at the same time and were all positive that they were going to wet their pants.  The bathroom closest to us was occupied for a solid 20 minutes by a man two rows back (yeesh) so we finally trekked to the front of the plane only to be informed by the flight attendant that we all had to squeeze into the bathroom together because we weren’t allowed to wait in the hallway.

So we all squeezed into the bathroom together.

Adventure.

The people in the first few rows of the plane got quite the entertainment as they heard my kids squealing and screeching.

“Don’t touch me while I pee!”

“I don’t have space!”

“My pee won’t come out.  Stop looking at me!”

“I can’t reach the toilet paper to wipe!”

“You’re too close, this is weird!”

All the while I’m taking deep breaths and trying not to panic because we all know I have an irrational fear of airplane bathrooms.  I tried to think of happy things like puppy’s and butterfly’s so I could keep my mind off the vision of the four of us plummeting 35,000 feet to our deaths inside a cramped airplane outhouse…

Finally everyone managed to do their business and we exited the bathroom to applause.

Awesome.

We’re home now and it’s time to finish school and prepare the house for the inspections that are happening this week.  I have pictures and video to share, but not today.  Today I have to scrub floors and organize so that my house can be picked apart and scrutinized.

This is the part where I tell you I wish I was back at the beach…