Excuse me?

I have a mosquito bite.

It's a freakin' forty degrees outside, you nasty, foul little creatures!

Forty degrees.

COLD.

And I have a mosquito bite.

Our house is alive with the sound of music...

Tonight I watched The Sound of Music for the three hundredth time, (almost literally.)

The last time I saw it was about two years ago, when I got my wisdom teeth out, and not only has it been a long time since that precious occasion, I was drugged within an inch of my sanity and having an allergic reaction to the pain medication. (You should try that sometime; it's a blast.)

So, I'd almost forgotten how much I absolutely love that movie.

I really, really love that movie.

And as I watched it tonight, something scary, unrealistic, and majorly disturbing hit me like a ton of chapstick tubes. I am older than all the von Trapp children. All of them. Even Liesel, whom I adored and imitated as much as was humanly possible when I was a little girl. (Playing Liesel and Rolf was my favorite game for a long time after I watched the movie - and watched it again, and watched it again, and watched it again - until Mama banned me from playing that game because I got a little too enchanted with the romance side of it.)

Let's think about this a minute. I was five or so, Gretel's age, when I watched The Sound of Music for the first time, curled up on Mamaw's couch, asking her what on earth were all those women doing wearing black robes and head thingies? Now, I'm grown up compared to the seven children. I'm not Gretel's age anymore. I'm not Louisa's age anymore. I'm not even Liesel's age anymore. But I'm still just as enthralled with the movie as that first time, when I fell in love with the scenery, the songs, the people, Captain von Trapp... honestly, have you ever seen a handsomer man than Christopher Plummer? I think not.

I still get tingles when Julie Andrews spins in front of the screen for the first time, singing that beautiful song with her beautiful voice. I still laugh when the children start to fake cry at the dinner table. (Seriously, the make up artist could have, like, sprayed their faces with water or something.) The moment when the reverend mother lifts Maria's veil for the first time, and the amazing walk down the aisle, (my parents have been to that church, how awesome is that?) always makes me want to jump up and get married. In that exact same dress. To Christopher Plummer. Except that he's old and wrinkly now, so never mind that last part.

I always cry when they sing their good-bye song to Austria, and that last scene, with them climbing the splendid, grassy mountains, always makes me want to renounce my American citizenship and move to Austria or Switzerland pronto.


It doesn't matter that I'm older than the girl I reallyreally wanted to be when I was five and six and seven. A little part of my heart, (this is where I wax cheesy- just warning you -) will always belong to The Sound of Music.

How not to fry dill pickles 101

First, have an unaccountable craving for those delicious fried dill pickles they make at Sonic.

Next, decide to cook them yourself, (how hard could it be, honestly?) so proceed to google recipes. There will be lots of options. Look at twenty of them, and decide they're all way too time consuming. (I have to whisk the egg? Sift the flour? Make a paste? Add cumin? Who on earth wants cumin in their fried dill pickles? Excuse me, recipe makers, I was thinking something more along the lines of "dip the pickle in the cornmeal, place in hot, greasy skillet." Apparently we just aren't thinking along the same lines, 'cause I sure as shooting ain't getting the mixer out to beat the dad-blame fried pickle batter!)

Now, choose to take the easy route, and just make your batter out of all the recipes' common denominator, which in this case turned out to be eggs and flour.

Mix flour and egg together in bowl.

Promptly feed disgusting, yellow, slimy mixture to cats.

Simplify, simplify, simplify.

Dip dill pickles in milk. (Suggested by AnnMarie's caregiver, who was much amused by my efforts.) Roll milky pickles in flour. Fry. Eat.

Thank your stars for ranch dressing, which covers a multitude of imperfections.

To conclude this valuable experience, call Sonic and thank them for their generous service to mankind.

a little madness in the Spring - is wholesome even for the king. ~ E. Dickinson

Today the sun was big and bright and warm.

A bird warbled madly in the tree outside Anna's house.

The daffodil spears are poking up Bravely through last autumn's leaves.

And the wishes and hopes for Spring, which have been bubbling and tumbling wildly about inside me for many days now, reached a fever pitch.

Soon, I will have to dash out and dance in the pasture in celebration or explode with a bang which will make all my guts go flying nastily around.

(See, Spring? I am becoming so dark and gruesome from months and months of cold and clouds and studying Poe and Hawthorne that I desperately need your refreshing. Come quickly!)

Beware the flatterer?

As I walked into the room today -

Phoebe: "Hello, Mrs. Locomotive."

She's right, of course.

Mama: "'Frustrated' is code for 'mad in denial.'"

snowflakes on my lashes

It's snowing again - third time this year to have little feathery white puffs twirling and dancing down from the sky. We usually get one respectable snow per year. And sometimes they aren't even respectable, just barely decent.

Take THAT, you global warming people.







p.s. Go watch the new Emma, now. This minute. Or at least tonight, with a mug of hot chocolate, or dill pickles and cheese, or well-seasoned popcorn and Dr. Pepper. It is by far my favorite adaptation of Emma, which is by far my favorite Jane Austen. Yes, more so than Pride and Prejudice. Take me out and hang me, but it's true. Who could love Mr. Darcy when Mr. Knightly is around?

Anyway, having just finished re-reading the book, I was able to pick up on several of the details this version included which the other movies just skipped.

I do know that Emma is selfish. And snobby. And silly. And somewhat conceited.

Maybe that's why I enjoy reading about her failures and corrections and embarrassments and achievements so much. She's realistic. She has to work on her faults. And it's so wonderful to watch Mr. Knightly encourage and help her, just as every loving hero will do for less-than-perfect heroines.

So, you should definitely watch it.

Love is what makes the world go 'round.

I love:



~lists (in case you hadn't noticed that forever ago)

~happily ever afters (they're so fulfilling)

~Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets from the Portuguese"

~skittles

~brushing my teeth (oh, that wonderfully clean sensation)

~"brown eyed girl" by Van Morrison (Daddy used to sing the chorus to me)

~x's and o's (xoxoxoxoxoxoxo... see? they're so much fun!)

~canceled school days (let's hear it for snow!)

~antique linens

~raspberries (ruby red, tangy sweet... need I say more?)

~my new raincoat

~mama's fabulous strawberry shortcake (you'll hear more about that tomorrow)

~brown, battered packages in the mail (what suspense! what delight!)

~laaaate night talks in the dark with best friends

~The GHOST and Mr. CHICKEN

~napping on the roof in the sunshine

~suntans

~lighted lamps (they create warm pools of light all around the house, and it's oh-so-charming)

~"IF" by Amy Carmichael (you need to own a copy of this. it will encourage, convict, and help you grow.)

~looking at music notes (the way they jump up and slide quickly down, the way the black dots twinkle at me, the wonder of knowing that those small things are symbols for breathtaking sound - it all brings delight)

~splashing in the puddles with bare feet

~homemade valentines

~teacups of every shape, size, and pattern

~scented soap

~reading my Bible in the morning in front of the fire

~daffodils

~being done with my poetry assignment (wow. i really hate writing poems)

~seeing the surprised, slightly scornful look on the carousal's in-charge-person's face when I come up alone and order a ticket just for me

~lollipops

~WORDS (aren't they amazing? aren't you glad we have them?)

~gut-wrenching laughter

~summer (i miss you, my dear. please, please bring your warmness and happiness back)

~freshly cut hay, lying in piles or woven miraculously together in sweet smelling bales





These are only a few of the many little things that make my life so sweet.

I wish it was.

Today, while driving:

Me: "Oh, look at those two beavers in the snow!"

Mama: "Maybe they thought it was Narnia."

Can you say DRAMA?

I just came across this gem while looking for a particular picture and absolutely had to share it.

This was my eleventh birthday party; we dressed up, and...

...well... this was the result.

Needless to say, none of us have gone on to pursue acting careers.


And this is one of my all time favorite pictures of my Daddy. It captures his fun nature and how very much he loved his girls and our friends.

Rudolph's red nose has nothing on mine right now.

Last night I went to sleep in a brown, soggy mushland, and this morning I woke up to fairyland. We had full run of the yard, because the fairies themselves were bundled up in their wee houses, sipping rose hip tea out of acorns and comfortably roasting their feet over a pine needle fire. (If you don't believe me, I'm sorry. It's quite true, however. I myself stumbled across a large party of them throwing snowballs at each other in the cedar tree, snugly wrapped up in fur tippets created from bits of cast off cat fur which they painstakingly collected in preparation for just such a snowy day.)


Laura made a snowlady. I'm quite jealous of her hair.

Mamsie and me.


We convinced my Mamaw to get dressed and come out. Six inches of snow doesn't happen every year in north Mississippi!

Now we're inside, thawing out our stiff fingers, ice-chip toes, and afore-mentioned red noses with soup and hot cocoa, preparing to consume large amounts of snow cream. (Snow cream is absolutely amazing, by the way, in case you're a poor creature who has never had the sweet, creamy delight which I'm pretty sure the gods on Mount Parnassus would have eaten had they existed.)

This right here is what you call history.

::UPDATE:: apparently I shouldn't cheer for a team. apparently I am bad luck. the Saints won. and you know what? i'm really okay with it, because I liked that team best. (plus, their coach is very handsome, and their uniforms are really awesome.) i just liked Peyton Manning enough to cheer for the Colts. 'kay. update ended. except to say I would HATE, DESPISE, and ABHOR to be in New Orleans right now. don't you know they're tearing the town down? oh, and Trey is about to have a heart attack. he really loves the Saints.

I am the TOTAL opposite of a sports person.

Really.

Believe me.

I mean, like, a few months ago I asked Lowell what a quarterback actually does.

Yeah.

My favorite part of ball games, (which I have to watch because I spend a ton of time with Lowell and Anna,) are the commercials, because that means the ball game isn't on.

Usually I don't even know what night the super bowl is, much less which teams are playing in it.

But this time, I have an opinion.

I have a team.

A team I want to win.

And not even because they have the most tasteful uniforms, which is usually the way I pick my teams.

I want the Colts to win, 'cause I really like Peyton Manning. He's pretty great, and he's Archie Manning's son.

So, now you know. I have a definite opinion about sports.

You should be amazed.

Life is really amazing. Do you know that?

I've been down in south Mississippi all week, petitioning for the Personhood Amendment. We have to have 89,000 signatures by the 13th, and right now we have approximately 87,000.

I cannot tell you how much my feet hurt at the end of each day after standing in front of a store for six hours straight, asking hundreds of people to sign my petition. Like, they were begging me to cut them off, burn 'em, and bury the ashes in a remote location. I told them to hush up and be glad I was still speaking to them after they screamed at me for half the day.

I cannot tell you how much it hurt to have hand after hand shoot up in front of my face while their owners coldly walked away as I said the words "pro-life" or "help end abortion in Mississippi."

I cannot tell you how much I wanted to shake people until their teeth rattled ominously in their skull when they said "not right now" or "I'm too busy today." Too busy?! Are you kidding me?? Do you know how many babies are being killed today and will continue to be killed until something is done to stop it?

I cannot tell you how encouraging was every scritch scratch of the pen on the paper as another person signed his name.

I cannot tell you how hot the tears were in my eyes when a lady said as she signed, "I had an abortion several years ago and it has hurt me every day since."

I cannot tell you how many people "didn't know abortion was legal." Well, ma'am, I'm here to tell you it is, will you please sign your name andincludeyourmiddleinitial. And have you been living under a rock for the years since Roe v. Wade?

I even had to explain to about five older people what abortion was. That really hurt. I didn't like saying the words out loud, because they're so hideous. But every time I said them, they became more real, and every time the reality sank in further I realized that I have been building a rock wall up around that area of my mind and heart ever since I knew what abortion was, because I just didn't want to think about it. This week, that wall crashed.

I'm so glad it has.

Because no matter how much rejection stings, no matter how awful the truth is, no matter how stupid some people are, I would rather be out there praying with all my might and working my feet until they beg for mercy than sitting at home pushing uncomfortable thoughts away.

This week, my heavenly Father has taken my weakness and inability, (because I have realized more than ever that I cannot make people do what is right, no matter how much I wish to,) and has shown me more and more of His kindness and strength. I have learned in a beautiful way that when He calls us to obey, it doesn't necessarily mean there will be success, but it does mean that He will guide us.

There will be no success in this unless God blesses our efforts. Please pray with me that He will, and mostly that through this, whether this petition gets to the ballot or not, His name will be mightily glorified in our State and in our lives.




p.s. I got pooped on TWICE by nasty little birds hiding in the Piggly Wiggly letters above the entrance who were obviously pro-choice. Heather was laughing at me, until they decided to give her a little bit of joy too... in her hair.

Also, I have an ink stain on my favorite pair of khaki pants from some dude dropping the pen. How it managed to fall in such a way as to leave an ink stripe on my pants is beyond me. I mean, you probably couldn't even do that on purpose.