Corn Bales

For some reason these make me super happy. There are acres upon acres of these corn stalk bales in fields by our house.

Raccoon Killer

The most country thing happened to me today. I killed a raccoon.

It wasn’t any old raccoon killing either. In city terms it would probably be called vehicular homicide; country terms: instant road kill.

I, personally, am still in a state of shock. About a week after we moved my cousin claimed he killed a whole family of raccoons. I remember feeling embarrassed for him, until he claimed he swerved on purpose to hit them. He was proud. Me, I was pretty disgusted.

Now how am I to judge? I am a raccoon murder too. Not intentionally. It was five-thirty in the morning. They were huddled in the middle of the road and I swerved right to avoid them. One just decided to run right too. Hence it was instantly road kill.

Does this mean I am officially a country girl?

Ok, I should stop acting like am cement-beating city person. I did live on a farm for six years when I was younger, and I learned my way around hog barns while in college to make some extra cash. But it seems sometimes I forget the things I love most about the country.

Like the quietness, or wearing Carhartt jackets. Come on, is there anything more country that a Carhartt jacket?

Then there is standing in the yard at night and watching the lights of airplanes weave in between the stars. The enormity of the sky takes your breath away and makes you feel like you’re floating a sea of stars.

For the record though, I do not, enjoy being a raccoon murder. But I am enjoying being a country girl again.

Some Parents Give Us All a Bad Name

I have a story to tell about parents who don’t set boundaries and follow through on consequences.

At work this morning a kid around the age of four was having a tantrum. You would be surprised how often this happens at a gas station. Honestly, the thought of walking out without a bug juice or donut is just too much for most children under three, especially for this kid. 

He was flat out screaming and kicking on the floor. I was super amused. I know I shouldn’t because my day will come, but it was probably the highlight of my day.

The mom had the right idea. When he started his tantrum she left him there and picked up the rest of her purchases and bought them. All the while her child is screaming bloody murder withering and howling on. Can you see why I was amused? I was rooting her on too.

Then the unthinkable happened.

He stopped.

And she rewarded him.

Then there they were standing at the bakery case, where he happily picked out a cake donut.

I was shocked. Correction. I wasn’t shocked at all. This happens all the time. Whether it is over the coveted bug juice, or a slushy, or a donut, or any of the tempting goodies we display at the registers right in the reach of children, it happens all the time.

People shake their heads and wonder what’s wrong with the children of America. I have the answer for you.

Their parents.

End of story.

Bedtime

Lately, Darren will not go to bed for nothing. Actually, the whole thing is pretty much a joke to him. Seriously, I’ve tried every trick in the book, but I swear he’s on to me. It’s like because he turned six months old he thinks he’s a big boy and can set his own bedtime. Negatory.

This all started last Friday when he I picked him up from daycare and discovered he had only had a ten minute nap that morning and had only been napping for fifteen minutes when I got there. (May I also mention he ate like a horse? 2 six ounce bottles, 2 four ounce bottles and three containers of baby food. Geez.) Needless to say, he fell asleep on the way home, woke up for a thirty minutes and then slept till six the next morning. 

Do you think I was fine with that? You betcha!

Now, I don’t know what this kid is on. He fell asleep in my arms forty-five minutes ago so I laid him in his crib. That was his cue. A four ounce bottle and endless rocking later he’s asleep on our bed.

Or so I thought.

I walked in to safely deposit his nuk where I could find it later and decided to check on him.

Imagine my surprise when smoothing back his curls the little rascal is cheesing up at me in the dark.

“Ahh,” he coos and starts furiously moving his arms and legs.

“Seriously Darren?” I roll my eyes because he’s still wearing his goofy grin.

Currently, he is lying beside me trying to steal my pen as I write. It’s an attention-getter and I am steadfast in ignoring him. There is a bunch of scribbles on my paper from where I haven’t been quick enough to move away from his frantically moving limbs.

Oh wait….you have got to be kidding me. Now that I’ve finished writing he is fast asleep. He just wanted to make sure I had something to write about to night. The little rascal.

Who Wears Black to a Wedding?

Everyone. When I picked out my outfit for this wedding I thought I was being fashion forward; a catchy zebra-like print for a shirt tucked into a pencil skirt, clenched at a high waist with a wide sliver belt. Accessories: gorgeous diamond-shaped black and silver earrings, a watch, and elegant black pumps. Classic and fun rolled into one.

Imagine how I felt when we arrived and the first twenty girls I laid eyes on had on black. Black is the new in thing, (no pun intended) except for the tweeners. They didn’t get the memo. They had those short bright dresses that that border on too short because they wear the highest heels ever.

Here is my theory on the black dress for weddings. Girls who are not in the wedding wear them because we don’t want to take the focus away from the bride, but damn we look chic in them. Girls who don’t wear black, they are too young to know better or they like the attention. My personal opinion. My personal advice? Always incorporate black.

But let me talk about the red head of the event, the bride. She was amazing.  Fiery, bubbly, efficient, gorgeous, elegant, energized, emotional, romantic, and in love. She played all her roles perfectly and reminded me why I love her dearly. Any boy this girl can decorate and party.

Those of you who say that white girls can’t dance, you’re wrong. Find a red head and she will dance your socks off or in her words “you rock my face off!” And she rocked purple Pumas under a champagne wedding dress, a girl after my own heart.

#1 Reason to Live Closer to Your Parents

“So we are going to my mom and dad’s for supper?” I ask the hubby this. I had just gotten off the phone with my mom who informed me she had just finished to talking (on the phone) to my hubby about this.

“Well, do you want to cook tonight?”

I groan. “No, not really.”

“Me either.” He gives a guttural laugh which I join in on.

The number one reason to live five miles away from your parents, they are always willing to feed you when you are, in all honesty, too lazy to feed yourselves. :)

The Guilty Good Samaritan

Yesterday morning was a typical morning. Awake at five-thirty; dressed by five-forty; waking, dressing, and feeding Darren from five-fifty to six-ten; leaving the house by six-fifteen. Daycare by six-twenty-five and on the road to work by six-thirty.

ETA: time minus twenty-five minutes; speed, a steady sixty-two mph in a fifty-five behind a Ford Super Duty.  I am as happy as a lark that I am making good time.

Until I get outside our little town of Vernon Center.

I hit my brakes as the Super Duty hits his. Groan, we have caught up to ‘put-put.’

‘Put-put’ is any vehicle that go exactly fifty-five or slower on a back country road. As a new acquaintance to country driving I have found no one, including me, drives fifty-five. 

This particular put-put is taking its time and staking claim to both sides of the yellow line. Super Duty is frustrated. Me, I’m terrified and convinced put-put is a drunko and there is going to be a head-on crash. Super Duty tolerates this for about three minutes, and then does the unthinkable.

He passes, so much for those responsible ‘Built Ford Tough’ or ‘Leading by example’ ad campaigns.

Here’s a hint, if you have to use the opposite lane’s shoulder to make sure the car you passing doesn’t side swipe you, you should probably call the police. Nope, he passes the buck.

Now, I am a person who works with my conscience. I know passing the buck is out of the question. ETA: time minus 35 minutes at a painfully slow fifty mph. 

Gripping the steering wheel I watch as put-put slides over the center line again.  Cars are coming in the opposite direction. I am losing my composure.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!!!”

I grab my phone and dial 9-1-1.  At this point I don’t feel bad, if put-put drunko doesn’t know better to have someone drive him/her home, that is not my fault. Then the dispatcher asks me to get the license plate number.

It has handicap plates. For some reason this makes me feel horrible. Because now this person is probably not a drunko, it’s probably just an elderly person stating their independence and refusing to give up driving.

The dispatcher tells me to throw on my flashers to a cop can locate us. A few minutes later I am switching lanes watching the red and blues flashing as put-put gets pulled over.

I cringe. I am relieve the person is off the road, but I don’t feel like the Good Samaritan. Actually, pretty sure I ruined that person’s day.

 Go Figure, and I am late for work.