Twinkle Shooters

Child, it wasn’t our fault we

were born the wild ones, with

twinkles shooting from us like

quills from porcupines (okay,

quill shooting’s a myth,) but I

swear one day we’ll fly to Cork

and find out who instigated

all this Irish jigging on frozen

harbors and lace bra flinging

into pines and naked maples.

Bet some little old guy leaning

on his cane with extra love in

his blue eye was responsible,

his missus of apple pies and

chicken stew no slouch herself.

So Child, some day when I am

long gone to the angels, when

you’re the light in any gloom,

the niblet of fun among sour

patch grapes, the one bursting

into song or bagpipe tunes for

no visible reason — shoot on,

my little twinkler, shoot on and

know that I’ll be twinkling too.

 (How I got that twinkle effect was by shooting her in front of a Christmas tree through a pair of kids “rainbow” glasses, in case you were wondering.  Nothing too mysterious, alas.)

Notes to self

— just because instead of spending $1.87 a day at Starbucks, I’m now home-brewing a can of ground Columbian which supposedly will yield 724 cups, it doesn’t mean I can up my usual 1 coffee a day to 3 (as I did today, naughty Jannie!)

— dittoes on that gallon bottle of cheap (but oh so tasty,) French “table wine” I snagged for $8.99.

— there IS quite a noticeable difference between a dark navy and a black sock, as many strangers must’ve witnessed on my feet at that recent please-take-your shoes-off-we-just-got-new-carpet party.

— just because Susan Dell goes all day without sitting, including when she’s at her computer, doesn’t mean the rest of us are living meaningless lives if we don’t.  (Does it?)

—  give my sister (sunshine lady pictured above with nephew, Austin,) the password for my WordPress login in case I kick the bucket, so my blog buds will know I’m up drinking beer with the angels.   (Not that I’m planning on “going” anywhere soon but one has to consider these things.)

Holly-Jolly 2008

Merry Christmas, everybody!!!

Her Santa list was…

an i-Phone

an i-Pod

a Wii

$500.00

a bunny

a baby sister

and to be shrunk to 2″ tall.

(She got the Wii.)

A Biggie

Let’s say a couple has a 7-year-old daughter who has twin half-sisters who just turned 26 but the little girl doesn’t know about the twins and vice-versa. 

And let’s say the twins were kept from their biological father since birth, yet their mother regularly sent cards, letters and picture updates of them from Bermuda, pictures that leave no doubt as to who their (very cute) bio dad and (very cute) little half sister must be.  And letters which basically say “I’m sorry.  They are your daughters, but this is for the best.”   (All letters and pictures, including a jpeg of the twins as recently as a few months ago, saved and intact.)

Forgetting all the billions of gallons of water under now the bridge, if you were the father of the seven-year-old daughter, what would you do?

[Guys, this edit comes after my answer to Karyn’s quest, but before I knew the comments from the  Weyrd1 and Lance had come in.   You will see so much more of the details in my comment to Karyn’s.  Thanks.  And although I think you’ve probably picked up on it, the bio dad is only full of love for this whole situation and his wife feels the same.  Neither of them would ever wish the Mom any harm, only good really, and it can’t have been an easy road for her to keep this secret from her children for so long.]

Thankful Unveiling

[Another Update: Jim says it was [actually] a Sunday we met and at the risk of making you puke, he just added “How could I ever forget – it was the most important day of my life.”]

[Edit:  Our date in the pub was not our actual first meeting.  That was at quarter to three on a soft grey October Friday afternoon, 1989.  He was wearing a tweed blazer with leather patches on the elbows and me my blue chiffon.  (Okay, I was actually in my merlot wool suit but I just love saying “my blue chiffon.”)

And dang my math is bad – we got together in 1990, so it’s actually 18 years ago we’ve been manacled in bliss (but I wish it were 19.)  [Or 22.]

[In black below was my originally published post.]

A girl just never knows when she hits it off with a good looking, seemingly nice guy in a pub what could happen.  Will they go on a second date, get married, but soon hate each others’ guts?  Or will she, as I, find herself still happy many (19) years later and falling in love with him all over again?

My man started building this treehouse for Kelly in March (I took the top 2 pix about an hour ago.)  I’ll let the montage speak for what kind of guy I was lucky enough to snag.  And how thankful I am that I did!