I don't know why deer season is such a big deal. Spending all that money on the guns, the licenses, the gear, the camo pants, the sasquatch urine or whatever it is you spray on yourself to attract a deer, the waiting, the watching, the anticipation, the freezing cold temperatures... When all you really need to do is drive my country roads at night in a 15 passenger van.
Couldn't be easier.
Probably could be less messy.
Both for the deer and for the passengers who shrieked like little girls. OK, on reflection, that might've been me.
Time for Turkey Day and I do so hope you all have a lovely one. We're having all the traditional gobs of food here at the Children's Home, just like at your house, only all our recipes will be tripled. Our dining room table already sags on the ends, like a droopy tired old mustache, and it's really gonna be huffin and puffin under all the weight tomorrow. But Gen * I wail * where will I get our traditional Vat O' Mashed Taters without you??? And Mommy, who will I complain to when I have to stir the gravy??? And Lary, who will pour me a glass of wine as we snitch all the clam dip??? Not that I drink wine. Cuz I'm Baptist. I meant to say ginger ale. Ahem.
If I was a better blog writer I would have filled this Thanksgiving post with all the things I'm thankful for, counting down each day, filling you all with hope and cheer and peace on earth, goodwill to men, falalala, and warm fuzzies. But I kinda forgot, and I've been kinda busy, and I know you have too, so suffice to say:
I AM THANKFUL FOR YOU ALL.
Those who read occasionally.
Those who read faithfully.
Those who stumble across it because they hit a typo on their keyboard.
Those who call to make sure I'm OK when I write something a little sad.
Those who send me impatient emails when it's been too long and want to make sure I didn't die a tragic death.
Those who say I should write a book (insane people are lovable).
Those who leave comments.
(I love you most of all).
Those who follow, even though something in my computer is blocking that part on my end so I can no longer see your cutie pie faces.
Happy Thanksgiving, my little fruitcakes!
There's a pesky fire law that says I can't have a REAL Christmas tree in the Children's Home. Pfffft. Pshaw. Stoopid rools, says I. So in lieu of writing about our annual Christmas tree hunt and all the adventure that prevails like I do every year, I guess I'll just re post an old one later in the week.
As I sit dejectedly by my PLASTIC tree...sadly spraying Pine scented air freshener...NOT drinking wine.