It's "Cheer Up, Charlie" Time...

Oh boy, am I ever in a good mood today! Look at what the forecast is**:



Can't see? I'll zoom in on it:


See that, there at the end, under the bright yellow sun under the word "SUN?" Seventy-one degrees! I know, it predicts snow tomorrow--but don't worry. It won't happen. I know it won't. It's the power of positive thinking, see? I learned about it yesterday [actually, I've known it since grade school, but sometimes I don't utilise my positive thoughts to their fullest potential. But yesterday I re-learned how to do so]. I can decide how cheerful my life will be, regardless of the lousy white stuff that might be sprinkling from the sky--which won't...be sprinkling, that is.

It all started when I bought a new pair of tennis shoes (or "running shoes," as Poor Kyle would like to point out they should be called, when their purpose is to run. Not to play tennis. Because I don't play tennis. {But old habits die hard and I've always called them tennis shoes, so leave me alone, PK! At least I don't say SOAR-EE when I try to say "sorry".}).

Anyway, I went on the inaugural run sporting my new cross trainers yesterday. Oh, look, here they are:



And since it was such an exhilarating workout (after which workout I even remembered to stretch [not that it did me a lick of good, since I'm sore like a granny today,]), I decided to further my sportiness for the day. Poor Kyle invited me to go golfing with him, and so I did.

I've never golfed before. But with the power of my amazing new tennis shoes (and after one hour on Mayberry's own driving range and two hours on the nearby course), I was almost passable as a beginner. See?

I know, the girl in that photo could be anyone, but trust me: if I could claim anyone else's body, I might--but we're all about honesty here at Archives of Our Lives. It's me.

Anyway, after all my hard work yesterday, and what with my bad case of The Whooping Cough, I decided to forgo the run today, and walk briskly instead. It was nice outside; there blew a lovely breeze [isn't it funny how, when I'm walking, the wind is "a lovely breeze," but when I'm running, it suddenly becomes tornado-scale gales? I know.], the sun was peeking through the crisp white clouds, and I was listening to this song [currently playing].

So despite recent setbacks in my Canadian residency paperwork, and despite the fact that I may never become an employed member of society, and despite children running amok in the neighborhood, and despite The Whooping Cough that is (ahem) going around...

...well, it's just not worth it not to be happy.

**I just realised it's kind of a personal thing to post one's Mac dashboard on the internet for all the world to see. I bet you're all wondering just what possessed me to look up the exact definition of the word "bequeath," or perhaps why I felt the need to have a French-English translator so close at hand. Well, you'll just have to ask God when you die, because I'll never tell.

If We’re Going to Go Around Adding Days Like This…

Only in a lovely, divisible-by-four year like 2008 could such a good thing as Leap Year occur. Hey Big Sister, is "Leap Year" a proper noun? (She’s good for stuff like that.)

When I was in grade school and my teachers were trying to communicate the theory of the Leap Year [I say “they were trying to teach me” rather than “I was trying to learn,” because, well…that’s how it was], I remember being so angry about it:

“So, what you’re trying to tell me is that all of the months—of which there are twelve—either have 30 or 31 days, except February, which has not 29, but 28 days in it. Am I right? But then, every four years—not every other year, which seems more logical—we add another day to the calendar. To February. So one out of four years, February has 29 days instead of only 28? Well, why don’t we add another day to February that year, if we’re gonna go around adding days like this—that way February can have a nice round, matching number like the rest of the months? What? Why? Because that would screw up the old ‘Thirty days hath September’ adage? Oh. That makes sense…I guess.”

It was all very frustrating for pre-adolescent me. A bit too abstract for me to grasp.

Now that I’m older, though, everything has changed. Yes. It’s true. Not because I am better at abstract thinking—actually, I rather hate thinking outside the box [it seems very dangerous to me]. I do like Leap Years though. First of all, it’s because I grew up and realised how fantastic even years are. Something exciting is always seeming to happen on these years—like presidential elections and summer Olympics (anyone know if Ian Thorpe is coming back for another go? I’m a big fan). And secondly, because a childhood friend of mine was born on a Leap Year. Looking back, it was pretty cool to know such a uniquely-birthed individual. It was always so fun to tease her that she was only four years old when [giggle] actually she was [giggle] sixteen! Then she grew up, got married and had a kid…

...on a Leap Year.

It’s amazing, I know. According to my mom, the odds of that happening are 1 (one) in 800,000 (eight hundred thousand). And she swears that’s close to a real statistic—she’s not just making it up like I accused.

So happy birthday Rachel New-Married-Name and your kid. And happy Leap Year to anyone whose claim to fame isn't being younger than you really are. To celebrate the occasion, Kyle and I are taking a 24-hour drive down to home. Home for me, anyway.

North for the Winter

I'm apologising now for the fact that will soon be made known to you:

This is going to be a short post.

It is so draining to say goodbye to people I love. In the words of my mom...I can't hardly stand it.

I never knew I could love a human child like I love that boy. Truth be told, his was the hardest goodbye. My parents' was sad, too, as was my sister and brother-in-law and grandma.

After that, I gave up. We just skipped town without saying goodbye to anyone else. So if you are in Mesa and saw me there just a few days ago, now you know: I'm gone.

We've just spent 15 hours on the road and have stopped over in a quaint new hotel that has eight fluffy pillows on its king sized bed. In other words, I've died. And gone to Heaven (despite what my heckler might have wished upon me).

And to anyone who lives, has lived, or ever will live in Utah: I just want you to know that I am impressed at how well you all are keeping the billboard business alive and thriving--this stretch of I-15 has been fascinating. I put away my Real Simple magazine and read the side of the road. Truly.

{Thankful}

"Post something," he said. "Entertain me, despite your lack of inspiration."

Fine...

I went hunting with my husband and Ronnie, our neighbor. This was last Saturday at the dim--yet nevertheless early--hour of 7 a.m. Since I am turning green in the environmental sense, I didn't know if I could withstand the pressure. Even though I knew I wouldn't be pulling any triggers, I still wasn't sure if I would be okay with killing an animal for sport [Ronnie was on a quest for a 5 point buck]. Ethics and morals, and what-not.

But I went. I hate the thought of missing out on something fun.

I was surprised once we started the hunt, though--I'd always figured the definition of hunting included actually finding, cornering, and eventually killing something alive. We had no trouble finding things alive, but the cornering and killing aspect of the hunt didn't go so well. We saw many animals. {Evidently Ronnie is a bit picky when it comes to the heads he'll hang on his walls. Go figure.} We even chased one down, but the clever buck eluded us in spite of our efforts--they say that big bucks are big for a reason: they were too smart to get themselves hunted and killed last season.

Here was our prey:

Ronnie spotted.

Ronnie hunted.

Kyle spotted.

Kyle hunted.

Both returned quite empty-handed...

My bed head and I tried to look interested and enthused.
"It's a good thing we aren't pioneers traveling the Oregon Trail and don't actually need these animals to sustain us," I said, "or we'd be goners."


I was more keen on watching the beauty of Alberta.

Nobody shot this little lamb. Nobody even tried. Thank goodness.

I am more attractive than a deer--why doesn't anyone ever try to shoot me and stuff my head for their wall? Hunting doesn't make any sense. I have a lot of relatives who sport heads on their walls, and they will surely mock me for this post. Ho-hum. I bet they'll love me anyway.

On a more pleasant note, I am thankful for these dusty wooden pedestals. I got both of them for $7 at Goodwill. Someday I will paint them black or cream and they'll be lovely in my house. But for now, on this Thanksgiving that's not even celebrated where I live, they do a swell job of cheering me up...