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.