One small step to realize a dream.

Good morning!

Friends, I don't typically use this blog to ask you for anything.  I mean, sure, I put links to my books on here, and I I make the suggestion that you might enjoy reading them...and if you enjoy reading them, perhaps you'd please leave a positive review...but other than THAT...

Anyway...

On a school trip to France last summer..
.a trip she paid for all on her own.

My daughter was recently invited to participate in the Miss Wisconsin USA pageant in September.  Modeling has long been a dream of hers, pretty much since the first time she saw "Project Runway" for the first time.  (I know, not the point of that show...but that was her takeaway.)  This is a huge step for her.

She has some financial needs to take this step and she's set up a GoFundMe account.  Her needs are relatively small, compared to some I've seen on the site. Hubby and I would help her out, but I've been out of work for a bit and there hasn't been room in our budget for many extras.  Even if there were, Hannah is a very independent girl and takes pride in doing things on her own.  She still attends high school full time, graduates this year, and works almost full time at a restaurant, pretty much for tips. Most of her money goes to putting gas in her car, paying for her car insurance and her phone.  

I did some quick math and I figure if every person who reads my blogs donated $1, she'd have way more than enough money to take care of the entrance deposit and fees.

Freshman year...still optimistic about
everything around her. She would not love that I'm sharing this picture.

So friends, I am putting out a call for help.  $1 from each of you.  If we are successful, my daughter, a girl who survived brutal bullying by people she thought were friends and abuse at the hands of a boyfriend, can realize a dream and see that life can be beautiful and strangers are often kinder than friends.

Please click here to read her story and donate.

Thank you and God bless!

So Mr. S. doesn't have to look at underwear...

Good afternoon!

Friends, I'm exhausted. This was a wild and woolly weekend for

me.  I won't bore you with all the details, but I will say this:  Oscar themed fundraiser at my church Saturday night and Oscar themed party at a friend's Sunday night.  Yep, I'm all Oscar'd out!

Two things happened over the weekend, however that were connected in a very roundabout way and were very funny to me, so I have to share.  The first, which was going to be the original topic of this blog, was a little rant I went on late Friday night. Hubby thought it was hysterical and, upon further review, so did I.

Let me set this up for you.

We all have a dream...this is Hubby's.

The Friday night before the big youth group fundraising dinner at our church is the night Hubby and I go out and shop for all the food for the dinner.  Hubby cooks all the food for the dinner. Now, one would thing Hubby would keep it simple, you know, chili, spaghetti, some other ground meat sauced based something you can slap on a starch and call it dinner for 70.  But no.  Hubby pulls out all the stops every year and spends two solid days planning, shopping, and cooking.  And Friday night is when the magic of the shopping happens. 

I call it the magic because every year there's an ingredient that's 1) odd and 2) we can't find no matter how many food selling outlets we go to.  One year it was parsnips. We cleaned out all of the grocery stores in the Greater Waukesha area of their parsnips because we needed 20 pounds of the white tubers for a soup Hubby was making.  And, since we always shop late at night, we sort of looked like insane people running into stores and yelling, "DO YOU HAVE PARSNIPS?"

(For the record, your average high school aged night grocery checked doesn't know what a parsnip is.)

This year the weird ingredient was ox tails.  Again, the soup.  Ox

tail soup. Hubby actually scoped out our local Woodman's a few weeks ago and yes, they had ox tails.  Whoot!  But, on Friday night....they did not.  And the search was on.  We had to hit a couple of stores quickly because they were not 24 hour stores and time was running out.  But even, after scouring the 24 hour stores, we couldn't find ox tails.  It was during this quest that I went on my rant.

As most of you know, once February 2 rolls around, I'm pretty militant about people who still have their Christmas lights up.  This year, however, I've been lax, and so have the people of Waukesha.  It's nearly March and there are many, many people who not only have their lights up (yes, we are included in that bunch) but they are lit...and they still have their trees up in their homes!  Friday night, as we were cruising through Waukesha and noticing just how many people still had their lights up and on, I started in with the following:

"Ya know, I get why people are keeping their lights up.  Christmas

blew. There was no snow. It was brown and ugly.  And then mid January we get pounded and we continue getting pounded until here we are, almost MARCH and there's a foot of snow on the ground and it's twenty below and it's dark all the time.  EFFING WINTER!  GO AHEAD PEOPLE! LIGHT THEM UP!  If it's going to be winter until May, then God love you, keep those Christmas Trees up and keep it merry and bright.  EFFING STUPID WINTER!

(For the benefit of my Sunday School kids, yes, I said EFFING, not the actual other word.)

I didn't realize I'd even said it out loud until I heard Hubby laughing at me. That's when I realized I had to share this with you fine folks because I'll admit it:  Winter has beaten me.  I don't know about Global Warming, but I know this:  We don't get actual snow until January, Spring doesn't happen until June, and Summer runs from July until the five nice days in November when we get fall. But Winter...winter pop up any time.  Like in October it'll be horrible cold.  And Thanksgiving it'll be freezing rain. And in March we'll have one 80 degree day surrounded by a month of freezing temps. It's been so cold for so long that knowing it was negative six this morning, I didn't even care about finding my mittens.  Effing winter. 

So I knew I was going to write this blog today, once my weekend was over and I had a little time to breathe.  What I didn't anticipate was getting stopped in the hall after church yesterday by a fine gentleman. I know his wife reads my blog, I was not aware he did...until...

"YOU!" he walks up the hall quickly, pointing at me. Now this is a tall fellow, he's about eighteen inches taller than I am. And we were the only two people in the hall.  So...yeah.

"Oh, hi," says I.

one more just for fun!

"You and your underwear and your blog.  Now I have pictures of underwear all over my computer!"

In my defense, I did put a warning up there...but still, I felt responsible. I don't want anyone to have a problem with my underwear.  (And wasn't that the point of last week's post?)  So here it is, the thing that's going to clear Mr. S's computer of underwear pictures.  I am, first and foremost, a public servant.

Meanwhile, if you've still got Christmas lights up: TURN THEM ON!  LIGHT THEM UP!  I'm going to turn mine on tonight.  Make Winter as pretty as we can because it's all we can do!

As for the oxtails...yes, we did find them.  Turns out, one of our young church members works for Robert's Specialty Meats in Waukesha.  We got there at 9 Am Saturday, and our friend Kyle hooked us up!  (We should have gone there in the first place!)

The soup turned out great and pretty much was the hit of the menu on Saturday night.

Under Britches Falling Down!

Good morning!

My mother has an excellent funny story about her brother, my uncle, and his faulty underwear.  A thumbnail sketch of the story is this:  My uncle is a frugal guy.  He wore underwear well beyond its time. One fine day he was directing his church choir...during church, and the underwear, whose elastic had long since evaporated, started to slide down his hips, ultimately landing like two saggy rags on either side of his trouser crotch.  And he never stopped directing.

Oh I have a billion stories about my family!

But we are not talking about my family.  I'm telling you that story to explain what I'm about to tell
you about my own underwear issues.  

If you are a Sunday School student of mine...do not read this!  ( And yes, I will know it you do!







Now then, a few months ago I  wrote a post about a new style of underwear I was trying.  You may want to click here and read that post so you fully get this one.  We'll wait.

Welcome back!  

Okay, so a few months back I thought I'd try boy shorts.  And I liked them.  At the time. When the elastic was perfectly new and the cotton hadn't, you know, stretched to fit my fully formed caboose.  Recently I noticed that, while still very comfortable, the boys shorts were looser than they had been...and had a tendency of slipping down my hips a little.  No worries, because most of the time I'm either close to a restroom and can pop in and realign things, or I'm at home and can just fix the issue because no one's looking.  Since I've been out of work, let's just say I'm always as careful about making my adjustments subtle.  

I made the mistake, however, a few Sundays back, on wearing the boy short underwear to church. I have to walk you through my Sunday morning so you understand:  See, Sundays are a pretty long morning for me.  I've got church, during which time I sometimes sing in a choir.  Running to the restroom is sort of frowned on during the services and if I'm singing, then I'm in the balcony and I'm a vertical mile away from the nearest restroom.  So from the time I sit in the pew until the time I leave the sanctuary area there's no chance to make any sort of personal adjustment.

Now, you're probably wondering why I don't adjust after church?  Simple, from the sanctuary I sprint to the classroom where I teach Sunday School.  Now I don't have time to stop then because 1)  I teach in the most interesting classroom in the building.  The classroom teacher who lives there during the week has something on every surface of the room and it's all attractive to unsupervised children  2) I teach grades 6-8 who are very likely to get into things they aren't supposed to get into even when they are supervised, so leaving them unattended, even for a moment, is not a good idea and 3) church usually runs long so there's almost always an unattended child in the room before I get there.

Then there's the hour of Sunday School. I can't leave the room and I don't spend a lot of time sitting because I'm up, I'm teaching, I'm making very excellent points about Bible lessons. 

There is simply no time from the minute I sit in church to the minute I clear the class out of the room to make any sort of personal adjustments.  On the Sunday in question my boy shorts held up through church, but I noticed a little slippage as I walked into the classroom.  not a thing I could do.  And, in the course of the lesson....our theme this year is "Stupid people of the Bible"  (I'm a little bit of a renegade) I started to feel pretty stupid.  My boy shorts slid down my hips, over my seat, and hung loosely around my thighs.  Bonus, since I have a large gut and since people who make pants for fluffy girls believe that any girl with a large gut also has GIGANTOR hips and thighs, my pantlegs are very, very loose on my legs.  So there I was, trying to be serious about how stupid King David was when trying to cover up his affair with Bathsheba, and the only thing going through my head is, "And now your underwear is flapping around your thighs, just like your uncle...IDIOT!"

After that I decided that I'm at an age where it's time to spend some money on underwear.  I need something that doesn't slip or droop or fall down or tear or fail me in anyway. So, here's my product endorsement (and no, I'm not seeing a dime...although I think I should be compensated for this). Several months ago Hubby and I saw an add for Duluth Trading Company's "Buck Naked" underwear.  I said, "Well that's great...I bet they don't make them for women."

Hubby said, "I bet they do."

So we made a bet.  And I lost.  So I had to buy him a pair of Buck Naked underwear.  (They are pretty awesome.)  In the process, I bought myself a pair.

Ladies...this is the best underwear your's ever going to wear.  Yes, it's expensive.  I can't lie about that.  But it's lightweight, it doesn't bunch, it doesn't fall, it's so very perfect.  Click here to check it out!

  Okay, and while we're endorsing products you should be buying, I just want to let you know, if you don't already, my newest short novel, Love is Enticing is ready and available in all reading formats!

A Valentine's Day Hero

Good morning all!  Today I'm sharing a post I wrote a couple years ago, but since it talks about EVERYONE'S FAVORITE HOLIDAY...Valentine's Day...and it mentions my dear Hubby...I had to reshare this one with you.  I will say this, since having children my attitude toward Valentine's Day has softened a tiny bit.  I still think it's stupid, but I really do like heart shaped pizza!

Enjoy!

Happy Valentine's Day!

There, we got that out of the way.  Don't let the fact that I write romances fool you:  I LOATHE Valentine's Day.  I have always loathed it.  I have several very solid reasons why and NONE of them involve a younger, bitter version of me sitting on my couch eating ice cream from the carton and watching sad movies.  I don't do that on Valentine's Day.  I do it almost every other day of the year, sure...but not on Valentine's Day.

Here are my reasons for disliking this stupid made up day:

1)  You just got over the pressure of having the "BEST THANKSGIVING" and the "BEST CHRISTMAS EVER" you spend a month shoveling snow and now you're expected to crap out ANOTHER "BEST WHATEVER EVER?"

2)  If you need an actual day to force your partner into admitting he/she loves you...you may want to take a look at your relationship.  I'm just sayin'.

3)  I've always had a significant other for Valentine's Day.  Seriously.  Since I was about 14 I've never been dateless for Valentine's Day.  That said, I think it's rude for the entire planet to celebrate a big honkin' romantic day and rub it in the face of those who are miserable and alone.  They know who they are.  We shouldn't need to paste a gigantic sign on them once a year.

4)  "You have to bring valentine's cards for the entire class."  Enough said. 


Those are valid points, I'm sure you agree.  However, I am not a heartless piece of stone, regardless of what my children will have you think.  I am a romantic.  Big time.  I know almost every lyric Barry Manilow ever wrote by heart.  I've watched "PS I LOVE YOU" about a dozen times.  I dream of John Cusack holding up a boom box outside my window.  I use candles as a primary source of light in my office when I'm writing. 

Oh yeah:  I'm writing a romance novel!

I think my relationship with Valentine's Day can be summed up in the story I'm about to tell you.  So sit back, grab a heart shaped box of chocolates and enjoy!

The first year we were married, 1990-91, Hubby and I didn't have a lot of money.  (We had more than we have now however...)  He was a parochial school teacher, and he worked across the parking lot from the house we lived in.  I worked as a data entry clerk five miles from home.  To save money, we had one car, which I used during the work week.

That first Valentine's Day we agreed, as we have every year since, that we weren't doing anything for each other.  However, my husband and a gigantic romantic  (eat your hearts out, ladies, he's all mine!)  and I sensed the morning of Feb 14 that he might want to surprise me.

I did not want to look like the schnook on our first Valentine's Day together.

I figured I'd get a card at least.  I left for work early that morning, and took the back roads so that I would pass by my favorite grocery store on the way to work.  (Yes, I have favorite grocery stores.)  It had snowed the night before, but nothing serious.  The biggest snow of the season was long since cleared to the sides of the roads.

Driving our shiny new 1990 WHITE Honda Accord, I set out to get the card and get to work.  About halfway there, I hit a patch of what we in the Northern States know as "black ice."  This is an ice patch you simply cannot see, day or night.  I hit it, and started spinning.  Since I was on a two lane county road, I was spinning into oncoming traffic.

Those who don't believe in a God or Angels have never spun out of control into oncoming traffic.  I was helpless to do much of anything, since it all happened so fast.  I spun once, twice, three times, careened back to my side of the road, and wound up in a ditch, smacking my car into two trees.  One was directly next to the drivers' side door, so I couldn't get out of the car that way.  The other, a much larger tree, I hit first with the passenger side rear bumper and then again with the back of the car. 

There was a horrifying shattering sound then it was silent.  I opened my eyes in silence, realizing  a couple of things right away.

1)  I was unhurt.

2)  I couldn't get out of my side of the car.

3)  I didn't want to look at the rear window, which I was convinced was shattered.

But look I did, and the rear window was intact.  The shattering sound was the pile of change I keep in the dashboard ashtray flying all over the car on impact. 

Amazed that I wasn't dead or worse, I got exited the car out the passenger's door and directly into hip deep snow.  (Remember, I'm in office clothes.  A skirt, dress shoes, nylons....)

Since my first cell phone was roughly seven years away, I had to go door to door to find someone home to call Hubby.  Since I was on a county road, this involved significant walking.  I finally found someone home, and I called the school where Hubby taught. 

Remember, we only had one car.  And that car was sitting in hip deep snow.

He borrowed another teacher's car and got to the accident site in about 15 minutes.  Not one single car passed me in that time.  It didn't take much for him to drive the car out of the ditch.  He asked me if I wanted to go to work or go home.  I felt fine, and I wasn't hurt, so I wasn't about to miss a day of work.  (I have always had this sick need to go to work no matter what.)  So I got back in the car and headed on.  I did NOT get the card.

When I got to work, I was almost half an hour late, so I stopped at my boss's office and let him know what happened.  Dave was a good boss to work for.  He was a fun guy who knew what he was doing and was very gentle in all things.  I haven't worked for anyone that good since.  I really liked working for him.  Anyway, he took one look at me, my nylons were still wet, and asked if I was okay.

"I'm fine."

So I went to my desk.  I turned on my computer, picked up the work in my in box, and sat down.

And immediately began to cry.

You know that kind of crying that's sort of silent at first and then kind of explodes into a full body shake, but you can't breath because if you do you'll make a noise so loud and horse like you'll scare small children, woodland creatures, and your office mate?

Yeah, that.

After sobbing at my desk for about five minutes, I turned off my computer, put all my work back into my in basket, stood up and went to my boss's office.

Still sobbing.

"I-can't-work-today."

Dave was a very sympathetic guy.  "You want to go home?"

I nodded because, well, tears and snot were running down my face and I would've gotten a mouthful had I opened up.  Plus I was still holding back that really awful sobbing noise.

"Are you okay to drive?"

"N-n-n-noooooooooooo!"

If you can picture a small child in some horror film coming face to face with the monster, that was sort of my response.

Let me put this all into perspective.  It's a Monday.  It's the morning.  We're busy doing what...we do.  And I'm in my boss's office basically asking him to take and hour, and drive my car and me home.  Which means someone else has to take time and follow him so Dave has a ride back to work.

And he did it. 

I am so sorry to say I don't remember the name of the man who followed us.  I can still see him, though.  He followed Dave driving my car.  They drove me all the way back home, made sure I was in my house safely and went back to work.

Dave told me later that they drove by the accident site.  I'd missed hitting an electrical transformer box  (You know, one of those things that has all the "HIGH VOLTAGE KEEP AWAY" signs on them?)  by about two feet.  He told me that if a SCUD missile ever came toward Waukesha, Wisconsin  (This was during the First Gulf War.  Scuds were a big deal.)  he wanted to be standing next to me.

Twenty years to the day later, I still think of Dave, and of the guy who helped get me home.  Of course we no longer have the car, I don't have that job anymore, and Hubby and I have moved several times since that snowy Valentine's Day.

But I still have my memories of a regular guy who was a hero to me. 

And that would make February 14 1991 one of my very best Valentine's Days.

Here's hoping you all have a great day, whether you're in a relationship or not.  Keep and eye out...heroes pop up when you least expect them, and when you most need them!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Want to read a romance novel that's a bit less hearts and flowers and more rock and roll?  Give my latest novel a try! A Hero's Spark is on sale now!  

Sarah goes to a party...and realizes she's an idiot.

Good morning!

So last week I wanted to support my friend Jolene in her new Jamberry Nails business.  For those of you who don't know, Jamberry Nails are these fun "wraps" for your finger nails and toe nails. They are very pretty, and, theoretically, they are easy to apply.  Basically, it's really pretty contact paper for your nails.

My fingernails and toenails tend to be a hot mess.  My toenails don't get much attention unless it's sandal season so I've got sort of a weird, jagged hobbit thing going on down there.  It's gross, and I'm a dainty flower of a girl, so I don't like to mention my toenails all that often.  

My fingernails I keep cut very short and my worst problem there is hangnails.  I develop really awful hangnails in the winter.  Again, gross, so I don't talk about it all that often.

I've tried nail polish.  I have.  I try to be that person who, when watching TV, actually does something constructive and beautifying with the nails.  I've tried and I've failed.  I tend to get nail polish on pretty much everything EXCEPT the nail.

So I was pretty excited to check out a nail treatment that was touted to last two weeks without chipping or failing or peeling or looking bad.  

Jolene had her friends and family gathered around her big dining room table and we were all instructed how to cut the wrap strips and buff our nails and push back the cuticles and then put on the nails.

I'll admit it.  I wasn't exactly paying a huge amount of attention.  I mean, the strips looked pretty self explanatory...so I was chatting with Jolene's mom in law and I must have missed a key part of the instructions..like which end was UP on the nail strip.

I cut the thing in half.  I trimmed it to fit my nail length.  I buffed my nail, cleaned it, pushed back the cuticle, heated the strip a tiny bit and stuck it on my nail.  Rounded side up, square side at the bottom of my nail.  As you can imagine...my nail bed isn't shaped with right angles.  So...I had a bit of wrap overlap.

Now, you'd think I'd look at that and say, hmmmm, something isn't right with this.  Nope, I pressed on, literally.  I stuck the other half of the nail strip on another finger, again, rounded side up, square side down.  

I was less than enthused about this look, but I'm a resourceful girl.  Instead of asking for help (why would I do that?) I grabbed a tiny scissors and started cutting off the excess.

It should be mentioned, I've never been terribly good with scissors.

At a point Jolene came down to our end of the table. Her niece and I were bemoaning how we were struggling (and blaming the product, because that's what you do).  She asked what our problems were.  Well, the niece had no problems. Her nails actually looked really beautiful.  Meanwhile I was hacking away at the overlap on my nail bed.  

"What would be really great," I said, "is if the end at the bottom was also rounded, instead of being square after you cut the strip in half.  Because this isn't fitting my nail at all."

Not my nails...yet.

What followed was one of those moments when everything sort of goes silent for me and I realize, along with everyone else at the table, that I'm a moron. I stared at my nails and then made a general announcement:  "I've put these on upside down."

Jolene has a spectacular laugh...and one you can't ignore.  So in about seven seconds the entire table knew what I'd done and was enjoying my blunder.  The upside was I was able to reassure the niece that yes, her nails looked really great and that as long as she sat next to me, no one would ever think she was anything but brilliant and beautiful.

I managed to apply a couple more nails correctly and I'm enjoying them now.  I'm still not a big nail person, but as I go on a job hunt, it's nice to look like I at least put some effort into my look.  

I have always relied on the kindness of readers!

Hello all!

So I'm close to the home stretch for my newest project, the first book in a series about a young woman who is trying to find herself, but finds lost children instead.  I'm using places in the Upper Midwest, starting with Manitowoc, Wisconsin, and I'm using alliteration in the titles.  Now I've been working with the title "Missing in Manitowoc" but as I look at one of the characters, I'm starting to wonder if "Monster in Manitowoc" works better.

Here's a rough draft of the cover:

What are your thoughts?  Which title would you be more likely to look at?

I'm not sure we all agree on what the words "Hairball control" mean.

Good morning!

I have four adult cats living in my house.  Yes, in addition to the other chaos of adult children, other people's adult children, and the occasional complete stranger my adult children rent futon space to in my house, I have four adult cats.  When they were kittens they ran about and jumped on furniture and chased each other, but it was cute because, hey, they were little. They were kittens. Who doesn't love a pack of adorable kittens?

The pitter patter of kitty feet...or a stampede?

Well, now they're grown up.  They're big, they take up whatever living room seating isn't covered by young adults and when they do run amok it sounds like that thundering buffalo herd from "Dances with Wolves."  

When you have this many furry beasts in the house, one of the things you worry about is hairballs.  Hairballs happen because cats clean themselves with their tongues.  Sometimes they swallow hair.  And then, when they get a wad of hair in there, they barf it up. It's gross, it's smelly, and if you happen to see it happen, you honestly believe the cat is birthing some weird alien being from its mouth.


Not that our four cats have hacked up too many hairballs.  Compared to a cat we had years ago, these four are some sort of modern cat miracles because we just haven't found many slimy wads of hair.  BUT, the cats are getting a bit older, all of them are coming up on five years old now, and the thundering of furry feet has tamed down and all of them look a tiny bit fluffier than maybe

We just want to do what's best for our four cats.

they should.  So, in an attempt to 1) keep our indoor cats from becoming some weird PETA headline about overfeeding house pets and 2) avoiding hairballs, Hubby went out and bought "indoor weight and hairball control" food.

Almost immediately we noticed a difference...the cats did NOT like the food.  It looked different, it smelled different, it weighed less.  And all four of them sort of turned it down and ignored it.

But, since this is the food we kept giving them, they finally caved because they are cats and I believe, deep down, they know we aren't going to stress about whether they're eating or not.  It's not like they're the kids and we're going to beg them to eat.  It's not like I'm going to give in and make pizza rolls for the cats.

So at some point last week they started eating the food.  And the changes were obvious.

See, I thought "Weight control" meant they'd eat the food but not get overweight. No..."weight control" to the cat food people means the cats will eat the food which is obviously laced with CRACK and then the cats will run around the house like they're being

He's now making cat food.

chased by the four horses of the Apocalypse. Morning, noon, night, in the wee small hours of the morning, one or more of these beasts run and run and run.  Up the stairs, down the stairs, over furniture, up the cat tree, it's non stop.  And where they once were at least a little careful about knocking things off the end tables or the piano, now, possessed by food born demons, not a one of them even sees books, soda cans, candle holders, lamps on the horizontal surfaces.  I get up each morning wondering just what's going to be on the floor, hoping nothing go broken.

Which brings me to the other major change.  Hairball control?  Yeah, I'm clearly not defining "Hairball control" the same way my cat food makers do.  See, I believe that the words "hairball control" imply that the need to produce HAIRBALLS would somehow be CONTROLLED so that there aren't that MANY.  And just as obviously, my definition would be...wrong.  At least, according to my cat food company.  Since switching to the new cat food the only thing that slows my four hairy actors who are clearly auditioning for an all feline revival of "Rosemary's Baby" all four of them have begun leaving hair laden presents all over the house. Most recently, Skippy sent me a text during church  (we have a rule about texting in church, but it was snowing and both kids were driving yesterday morning so I kept the phone on just in case) that one of the cats had left a pile just outside his door.  

No one's ever accused Skippy of understating facts.  He tends to be a bit dramatic.  Not yesterday. No, whichever of these Linda Blair understudies left the gift, they did such a thorough job that I had to wash not one, but TWO runner rugs and a pair of Skippy's socks because...well, let's just say he's never been one to really look where he's going.

It's to the point that now if I hear anyone coughing I'm on my feet with a roll of paper towel and carpet spotter.  My kids' friends, people who have slowly gotten used to my eccentricities, are giving me funny looks again.  I don't care.  We just got new carpet...carpet almost the exact color of hairballs.  If I don't catch the hairball before it hits the ground, I run the risk of someone stepping in it...and dragging it through the rest of the house.

We're almost to the end of the cat food.  All I have to do is beat Hubby to the store so I can get us all back onto regular food.  I'm willing to live with chubby cats who barf up the normal amount of hairballs.