Day After Discombobulation

It looks like a tornado hit our house yesterday, on the inside. I'd like to say that it's all because of the Christmas festivities, but that would be misleading. Because the truth is... Brace yourself... Our house just looks like that sometimes.

Basically if I don't spend most of my waking moments tidying up, vacuuming, dusting, and disinfecting, this tornadic state is bound to happen. And unfortunately I'm battling a cold that has got me fairly exhausted, so between the cold and the Christmas chaos, it's the perfect storm for a messy house.

Fortunately we're not hosting any family or guests anytime soon, so I don't have to call in FEMA to help me clean it up. However, I tend to feel frazzled when our house is out of order, so for my own sanity I'll probably start chipping away at the clean up process today. At the very least, I must vacuum under the furniture cushions. Knowing there's all manner of crumbs under there is messing with my psyche.

Among the chaos, we had a quiet holiday with our babies. Peaches especially liked the wrapping paper...

I especially liked sitting with her while she crinkled it in her chubby little hands...

 This was the first year where Little Blue Eyes really started to get the concept of what opening presents was all about. He really got the hang of the unwrapping process, and like all children do, came up with his own way to play with his toys...

He and Dad went out for a little fresh air. They haven't had many opportunities to do that lately since it's been so cold and we've been so busy, so it was good father-son bonding time...

Look at those blue eyes... My cup runneth over.

Remember this guy: Alan Jackson? He found his way home for Christmas Day. I was hoping it would be to some kindly old man who would kneel down and embrace his lost friend. It wasn't, and I'm sad about that, but luckily he was more than happy to be reunited with his wife, Rosie. It was more than obvious that she was his one true love, and also pregnant with his children, so there's some comfort in that.

We sure do miss him, though. He was only with us for two days, but somehow he touched our hearts. I'm still suspicious that he might just have been a Christmas angel, come to bring us the simple yet profound message of unconditional love.

Well, I'm off to clean and be considerably less emotional, sentimental and foolish.

Only Fools Fall in Love

 

Pray for me. Pray that I don't fall love with this golden beauty, because as soon as I do, his owner will call and reclaim this sweet ol' boy.

The thing is, I think he might be an angel. I mean, just look at this...

He's just nothing short of ethereal. Or I accidently over-exposed the first picture I took of him. Still, there are no coincidences, right?

We know not from whence he came. Last night we were going to make the forty-five minute journey to town for a few last minute errands, and just a few miles down the road from our house, there he was, jogging down the road.

We said we should stop. Then we said we should keep going. Then we knew we should stop. So we turned around and pulled over, hoping he'd have tags and we could whisk him home to his owners.

He immediately came over to my side of the car, and when I opened it he came crawling over, and then crawled right up into my lap. Poor guy was so cold. I don't know if you can tell from the picture or not, but this guy is a full-grown golden retriever, so that was a lot of dog on my lap!

We headed back home and put our own mongrels in the bedroom so that we wouldn't have a dog fight. Since we have three dogs, sometimes their pack mentality can take over in situations like this. We couldn't leave him alone in our house since we didn't know what he would do, so my husband brought the babies back in the house and we stayed in for the evening. Going to town is overrated anyhow, and we lit a fire and nestled in, so it worked out alright. We slowly acclimated our dogs to him and they all slept in the kitchen together for the night.

We felt so bad that someone is probably missing him on Christmas, but also glad that at least we knew he was warm and safe. Hopefully word gets around and his people come get him.

But in the meantime, I'm in trouble. See, he's kind of sweet. He's kind of a romeo, as far as dogs go. Ever since the moment he climbed into my lap, he's been workin' it... He rubs his head against my hand when I walk by. He looks at me adoringly. When I scratched is head and told him we would find his people, he rested his forehead against my leg in ever so solemn and loving a fashion. He does this:

"Love me. And rub my belly. And love me. And then rub my belly some more. And then just fall completely in love with me. It's easy."

Stop it! It is easy. Way too easy.

"Just put your hands up in the air and say, 'I give in'. See, just like this..."

 

Seriously, he's got to stop this behavior. After all, I'm already committed to this guy:

Meet Burley. He's tall. He's dark. He's handsome. He turns heads. Seriously, he does... When my husband takes him along to the resort where he works, people take a second look when Burley struts by.

He's a gorgeous mutt, but that's not why I love him. I love him because he lets me rub his soft muzzle. Not all dogs will let you do that. But Burley does. And rubbing his velvet muzzle brings me inexplicable joy. It's like rubbing Lola's old man whiskers. There's just something all warm and fuzzy about it.

Hmmmm... Maybe it's because they're warm. And fuzzy.

Anyhow, back to Alan Jackson.

Are you confused? How does Alan Jackson figure in to all of this?

It's what I've decided to call him, the sweet ol' boy. Hopefully his people come and find him, but in the meantime we've got to call him something. And since I'm listening to Alan Jackson Christmas songs and he sort of looks like Alan Jackson, golden locks and all, Alan Jackson he shall be. For now, until he is reunited with his people. And I know, I just know, that the joy I feel at seeing him reunited with his family will far outweigh the urge I have to hold him and pet him and love him and make him mine.

I just know it will.

Until then, we all can use an angel watching over us, right? Even if that angel does happen to have really stinky breath.

 

The Naughty List

From the looks of this picture, you might think you know who I'm talking about here when I refer to the 'naughty list', but you're wrong...

It's not Little Blue Eyes on the right there, having a total melt down. And it's not Peaches there on the left being an amazingly good sport despite the screaming in her ear and her mom pointing a camera at her and her dad doing crazy noises and dancing in the background trying to make everybody smile. (For one brief moment, insanity descended on our peaceful lifestyle. Yeah. ONE... BRIEF... MOMENT. Otherwise that never happens. We usually have it all under control, all the time. Seriously.)

The ones who probably should be on the naughty list for this fiasco are moi (me, in French) and mi amore (my wonderful husband, or my love, in French. I'm so cultured.)

See, we just should not have embarked upon this mission to take Christmas pictures at 8:30 p.m. Since that's Little Blue Eyes' bedtime, it just wasn't our best laid plan. Luckily we did get in one somewhat acceptable shot that we were able to use on our cards...

I know, I know... It's a little blurry. Peaches' dress is riding up. Little Blue Eyes looks a little disheveled. But here's the thing: When you have two kids, 2 and under, when they're BOTH smiling at the camera at the same time (especially at 8:30 p.m.) and when they're holding hands (my heart is melting even as I type), it's considered a triumph. Undoubtedly. A complete and utter triumph.

Thankfully we got that one good shot. But shame, shame, shame on us for pushing Little Blue Eyes to the limit, resulting in this...

Bestill my beating heart. Those are real tears.

Now Miss Peaches, on the other hand, she fared just fine...

"Hee, hee... My brother's in trouble and I'm not. That's right, I'm the good child."

I just know that's what she was thinking.

Smile

This is Lola. As she will surely be involved in posts to come, I thought I'd introduce her to you.

Lola makes me smile.

Lola is the cutest ugly dog you have ever seen. Note the somewhat primordial paws.

Lola has a fairly minimal amount of hair... She feels like an old man's cheeks after he hasn't shaved for about four days... Somewhat prickly, but for some reason rubbing it gives you happy little tingles up your spine.

(Did your dad used to give you whisker rubs when he was all scruffy? Mine did. I still giggle a little to myself when I think about it.)

Unfortunately for her, life as a quasi-hairless wonder has its downside. In the summer she has to wear sunblock on her face and belly; in the winter... Well... Imagine running outside buck naked at ten below zero to do your 'business'. She's a tough girl.

Lola is robust yet sweet. She's a very intelligent little gal. If only we had time to channel that intelligence into something productive... 

We got her from a shelter (which happened to save her from a California shelter that was about to euthanize her) so we don't know what kind of dog she is. Dalmation? Shar-Pei? Pit Bull? Bull dog? Spotted Duck Dog? Malaysian Shepherd?

I'm pretty sure she's mostly yellow lab.

(Hee. Hee. Hee. I just say that to tease my older brother, the lab enthusiast. And since he used to make me ride a goat when I made him mad -- more on that later -- I feel entitled to give him a bit of a hard time.)

Back to Lola... Like I said, she makes me smile. Who could have not loved a face like this?

I love her for many reasons, but one of the most predominant is that she's good to my babies. Well, she's good to my oldest baby... We don't let her hang around the baby girl yet, who is just too little to associate with such big mongrels. But she is and always has been good with our oldest. When he was just learning to crawl and walk and grasp and pull himself up, she let him climb all over her. She also let him pull on these...

Wrinkley, whiskery, soft cheeks. See? I told you... Old man whiskers.

She and I do have one point of contention, however. She's in love with my man. That's right... She's got her sights on my husband. She adores him. She takes every opportunity to lay on top of him that she can get. She would slather him with kisses every chance she got too if we didn't get after her for it. (We try not to encourage face-to-face contact with her and our other mongrels.)

So, me and the dog get into a cat fight (did I just say that?) over MY man from time to time, but then she lets my baby climb all over her and all is forgiven. We don't get too shook up about it. We don't get too shook up about much of anything around here...

I Made the Right Decision

I had a hankerin' for a bath this evening so I went ahead and took one. Thanks to my wonderful husband, who can handle our two babies, sometimes this is possible. I say 'sometimes' because this is not something that happens all the time. The sun and moon and stars kind of have to align, i.e. I have to not have other projects going on, babies that need immediate tending, or be just too dog tired to even get in the tub.

Anyhow, tonight was one such night, so I snuck off and got myself all situated in the hot, bubbly water. I decided that since the farm house we will be moving to only has a tub on the main level (the shower is in the basement) and the main level is where the bedrooms, kitchen, living room, etc. are at, maybe I should try my hand at washing my hair in the tub.

This may not sound all that noteworthy to y'all, but to me it was kind of exciting. I don't think I've washed my hair in the tub for years and years and years. I guess I just grew to prefer to wash it in the shower because it seemed to do a better job of getting all the soap out.

I wouldn't have even attempted it were it not for this handy dandy little water pitcher that we got for washing the kids' hair... I don't know if I can really explain it in a way that is understandable, but I'll try: It has a rubber insert that you rest on the kids' head (or my head, in this case) when you pour the water over, and this rubber piece keeps the water from going into your face. It's really quite marvelous, especially for me because my son does not particularly like having his hair washed because he hates getting water in his face, and I can sympathize because I too do not like water pouring over my face. I was traumatized when I was younger by someone doing this to me (you know who you are, eldest sister).

I digress.

So this turned into my big adventure for the day. (I don't get out much.) And I'll be darned if it didn't all turn out just fine for me... My hair seems to have come just as clean as I would have liked, and I had the opportunity to soak in a hot tub for awhile to boot. What a deal.

But that's just all the preamble to what I really wanted to say here. What I really wanted to say was that this trivial little bath settled my mind on one small matter...

I debated a bit as to whether or not to use the word 'gal' or 'girl' in my website name. I did. I actually thought this over on several occasions. I guess I liked 'girl' because it was a nod back to my youth, growing up on a farm as a girl. So it seemed like maybe 'girl' was kind of fitting. But then I settled on 'gal' because I felt that it just more accurately describes me at this time, and I'm not one to dwell on the past too much, so that's the way I went with it.

I'm happy with my choice of nomenclature (I'm not sure if that's the right word to use here, but I like it so I'm sticking with it) and haven't given it a thought since.

Well, not until I was in the tub tonight, that is.

As I slipped down into the water and contorted just so that I could get my head/hair in the water to begin this momentous washing process, I realized something... Years ago, the last time I washed my hair in the tub, it was not such a physically demanding process. I mean, those muscles that help you keep your head in the water while at the same time putting your hands in your hair to lather things up, well, they don't seem to work so well anymore. Something that I used to do with ease and without thought was now an effort. Two babies in two years seems to have taken its toll on my girlish figure.

And that's when it hit me... Definitely not 'girl' anymore. It's 'gal'.

I should maybe even rename my website 'Ramblings of a Broad Shouldered Norwegian-German Woman with Child Bearing Hips'.

But I won't. I'll do yoga instead. As soon as the sun and moon and stars align again, that's what I'll do.

p.s. By the way... That happy little picture up above of a little girl -- who kind of looks a little bit like Dana Carvey -- is me, back when I actually was a girl on a farm.

p.s.s. Eldest sister, if you ever read this... No hard feelings. You made it up to me in a thousand ways.