The Dream or the Story

“I had a dream that I was Batgirl!” my five year old told my three year old. As the younger one marveled, I opened my mouth to inform my eldest child that she did not need to claim that she dreamed something in order to entertain her sister. I was going to say something like, “You may tell her a nice story if you want to; you don’t have to dream about it first (or say you dreamed it).”

But then my own voice echoed down to me from the past: “And then you jumped on the motorcycles, and zoomed away!” I could see the bemused look on my mother’s face, and hear my brothers’ excited cheers.

I was probably ten years old when I had the dream. I did actually have one, it wasn’t just something I pulled out of thin air. It was an action/adventure dream, starring myself and my brothers, but, like most dreams, there were strange parts and parts that didn’t make sense, and parts that wouldn’t have fit easily into the feature film pitch my brothers heard. I started telling them my real dream when we woke up, but by the time we were dressed and downstairs for breakfast, I’d begun to fill in the slow parts and invent new interesting scenes, purely for their amusement.

“I think your sister may just be telling you a story,” said my mother. I rushed to make sure my brothers knew that the tale really did have sleep-induced inspiration, but they were already off, pretending a scene from my “dream.”

I smiled while I watched my children play together. The story, whether it was dreamed or invented, was entertaining them, and they were having a great time.

The Struggle

"Did you find them?" my cousin asked, inquiring as to the fate of my aunt's famous delicious deviled eggs.

"Oh, I know where they are," said my brother importantly, then added, in a self-denying tone, "it's really difficult to keep myself from going and eating them all."

My cousin scoffed in amusement. "The struggle is real," she reported, with a glance in my direction: "#firstworldproblems."

Words for the Blog

I answered phones at work all day today, but my boss is awesome so he didn’t object when my brother called me at about 4:30 to chat. “I haven’t written anything for my blog today,” I told my brother, “on Fridays I usually write about crocheting.” I pronounced the last word incorrectly (with a short o instead of a long one), because pronouncing things incorrectly is hilarious.

“What? What are you saying?” my brother said. “Talk to me like I’m a human.”

I assumed a more businesslike tone. “The documentation I have informs me that you are a human;” I said, “is this correct?”

“Yes,” my brother replied, pretending to sound relieved.

“Anyway,” I said, discarding the banter, “I haven’t written any words for my blog today.”

“I’ve got some words!” my brother declared, and without preamble, produced a list:

"And now, I choose to recite a list."

Kitten

Twenty

Forthwith

Heretofore

Inasmuch

Pronto

Salad

Scissors

Withering

Icy

Philandering

Bricks

When he was finished, I said, “Thanks for the words.”

“Anytime,” he replied, “that’s what I’m here for.”

Mist in the Morning

My husband drives the same drive every day, back and forth to work: once in the morning, and once in the evening. It’s a lovely drive, but he doesn’t see it anymore. To him, it’s just the commute. Yeah, there are lovely rolling hills and beautiful river views, but he’s become immune to their breathtakingness.

I think we all get that way, sometimes.

This morning I rode along with my husband to work. We discussed normal, everyday things: future plans, what we were planning to give our children for Christmas. Except for when I interrupted everything with remarks about how gorgeous the scenery was. Mist was clinging to the ground, refusing to be chased away by the light of the rising sun. At one point we went down a hill and under a cloud lying low in the valley of a field. It was awesome. “Is it always like this?” I asked my husband as we pushed through a bank of cloud that obliterated the trees, clouds, and river. He shrugged. “Sometimes... A lot of the time, I guess.”

I wondered how often that sort of thing happens to me. Not that I’m often oblivious to lovely scenery, but it made me think about how often I might be failing to recognize and appreciate wonderful things in my life. I’m not the type of person who overexaggerates every disappointing moment that I experience, but I do have those times when I feel like stomping off to shout, “EVERYTHING IS THE WORST.”

But someone else “riding along” with me might be able to more easily point out the wonderful things in my life: my adorable children, my supportive parents, my awesome brothers (and their families), and my hilarious, hardworking husband. When I’m annoyed or stressed or frustrated, it’s easy for me to miss noticing that not every moment, not everything in my life is annoying or stress-inducing or frustrating. When I feel that way, I need to stop, look around, and notice the wonderful things that are always there, things that I might be too distracted or too used to having that I don’t actually see them.

My life will always have its hills and valleys, its good times and bad. But I hope that I never forget the beautiful things about it: the family I have been blessed with, friends who love me, and breathtaking views of mist in the morning.

Chewbacca for Legislature, 2014

This weekend, I sat down in a chair in my parents' living room and grabbed a bit of newspaper off the side table. My mother is one of the remaining hundred or so people in the world who still subscribes. (Or, in the words of Liz Lemon, "Suck it, I do read the paper!")

The section in question happened to be a very interesting Voter's Guide 2014, in which candidates for today's primary had been invited to contribute. I immersed myself in it, and soon was arguing aloud with the answers some had given. 

"You didn't fully answer the question, sweetcheeks," I said to the picture of the distinguished gentleman hoping to serve our great state. My husband, the only other person in the room, knows my strange ways and so ignored me, dividing his attention between his phone and The Empire Strikes Back, which my father had placed in the DVD player as a special Mother's Day treat.

My brother then entered the room with a plateful of pizza and attempted a spirited impression of Captain Solo's furry sidekick. At the same moment, I finished reading a candidate's answer, one which I disagreed with. "No," I said loudly to the newspaper, as I shook my head. "No."

Glancing at me, my brother tried again, this time actually saying something in Wookie (I don't speak it, though, so I'm not sure what it was). My husband took pity on him and informed him that I was arguing with my reading material. My brother laughed and said he knew, but figured he should give the impression another shot anyway.

I took the Voter's Guide home when the movie was over, to argue one-sidedly with the candidates and decide which to vote for. I suppose it could be said that I should have been doing my own research into the people I hope to trust to run the government, but I would answer that a candidate who doesn't have enough time to answer five questions for the Lincoln Journal Star may have trouble prioritizing their time when in office. (Seriously? It's five questions about stuff you already talk about all the time.)

Don't forget to vote today, Nebraska. I don't know about you, but the thing that will be making me giggle when I head over to vote tonight (aside from the memory of my brother's excellent Chewbacca impersonation) is the fact that I may have referred to a future governor of Nebraska as "sweetcheeks."

Things That Make Me Giggle: Purposely Incorrect

My great grandfather was very smart. He used to tell people that he was going to be president someday. But I don't know if our country could have handled a commander in chief with such an interesting sense of humor.
He used to misspell things. On purpose. He knew perfectly well how to spell them, but he occasionally wrote them incorrectly... because it was funny.
It may be confusing to some, but it sounds hilarious to me.
My brother has a similar humorous tendency. A recent picture he snapped of my adorable nephew banging on the piano featured the caption: "He's friggin' Picasso!"
My brother knows a famous cubist painter has nothing to do with his son's musical talents. That's why it's funny.
I enjoy strange portmanteaus and silly internet slang. Stuff like that makes me giggle; I know how things should actually be spelled, how words should actually sound, but I can't help but laugh when I spell or say them incorrectly.
The amusement comes from knowing that I know I'm wrong.
I realize that not everybody's going to think it's funny, but that's okay. At least it makes me laugh to sometimes say things purposely incorrect.

Sibling Sushi

“The older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.” -Baz Luhrmann

When I was a kid, my brothers were my playmates, my rivals, and my best friends. We ran all over the pasture at my grandparents’ farm, rode bikes around town, and built many precarious and architecturally unsound tree houses. We learned, grew, and got into trouble together. We had ridiculous nicknames for each other and stupid inside jokes that we couldn’t explain to others if we tried.

Then we grew up.

We don’t play together anymore, but that’s because I don’t have any Barbies and their G.I. Joes have been missing for years. The last fight we had was probably in junior high about whether we were going to watch a movie or cartoons. And nobody has dug any holes in the middle of the yard in an attempt to tunnel to the other side of the earth nor nailed boards randomly to the side of any trees for a decade or so.

We’ve still got stupid inside jokes and call each other embarrassing things. We’re still learning together and watching our children grow together while we sit and discuss the difficulties of having a career. We still love to ramble in the pasture at the farm and point out which trees that we used to pretend were our houses next to the dried up pond.

My brothers are still my best friends. I know that if I ever need anything, they will help however they can, even if it requires them to let me talk their ear off on the phone when they call to ask me something.

We love to get together whenever possible, whether we’re in my front hallway talking for half an hour without realizing how long we’d been standing there or hanging out in my parents’ living room, laughing about stupid stuff. But there is one thing we like to do at least once a year, and that’s Sibling Sushi.

Lincoln, Nebraska has several excellent sushi restaurants; every once in a while we pick one and head over, vowing that we will hang out, eat sushi, and high five. We sit and talk about anything and everything, fight over Philadelphia rolls, sip miso soup, and my husband and sister in law laugh while my brothers and I high five each other like we’re the kids we used to be.

Sushi is awesome, and so is hanging out with your siblings. If you’re like, “Eww, gross! Raw fish!” then there’s always Taco Bell. But in my opinion, by skipping the sushi you’re missing out on quite a few awesome alliterative possibilities.

No matter what you eat, hanging out with the people you were close to as a kid is a wonderful thing. (High five!)

Tabletop: Say Anything

Every family has their own brand of humor. I noticed this over the Thanksgiving holiday when we got the chance to play our newly purchased table top game, Say Anything. My husband describes it as “Apples to Apples, only without a handful of useless cards that you just have to waste.”

Say Anything comes with eight whiteboards and pens, sixteen chips for bidding, and question cards that have five question options. The judge picks and asks a question, and the other players write down the answer they think the judge will choose. When everyone is finished writing, the answers are revealed and the judge locks in their vote. Then, the players place their chips on the answer(s) they think that the judge is most likely to pick. When the judge reveals what answer was chosen, the writer gets a point, and any other players who placed chips on the answer get a point as well.

I spent the entire time playing Say Anything in Colorado and New Mexico trailing behind everyone else in points. I think I tied for third place once, but that was only because second place was a three way tie. My husband’s family has their own brand of humor, and while my answers were funny, they weren’t as funny as my brother-in-law’s, at least, not to the other players.

When we got home, my parents brought along my nephew when they came over to hug my children, and my brother and sister-in-law came to pick up my nephew. And since it was dinner time, it turned into an impromptu party, so we got out Say Anything.

I won.

Since I’ve got my family’s style of humor, they were much more appreciative of my answers than my husband’s family was. We wrote a lot of the same answers, actually. For instance, my sister in law was judging the question: “What is an ostrich thinking when it sticks its head in the sand?” My husband won because his answer, “Ooh! Sand!” was the only one that was different: my mom, dad, brother and I all wrote an approximation of “No one can see me/I’m invisible.”

Say Anything is a really fun party game that you can have a good time playing even if you aren’t winning. I know from experience.

Would You Rather...?

Long car trips are no fun. There are lots of games you can play while driving: I Spy, 20 Questions, or Slug Bug. For a road trip veteran like me, license plate spotting is the way to go. I have also had success with Would You Rather, which is very fun but also reveals way too much about your fellow roadtrippers. For instance, as a result of a game I played once on a road trip to a family Thanksgiving celebration, I now know way too much about my brother-in-law’s preferences regarding women’s shoes.

For more ideas for road trip fun, go to
roadtripsforfamilies.com

That first game was played with an actual licensed Zoemondo! deck specifically for road tripping. You can find tons of lists of questions online, but when my brother texted me quite soon after he started a two hour drive yesterday, requesting that I “text me some would you rathers,” I shunned google in favor of my imagination.

“Would you rather eat cake or go hiking in Arizona?” This highly penetrating question was met with an ungrateful answer: “give me some that were not made up in 0.4 seconds.” They must not have understood that the question was situational. If I’m at a wedding reception, I want cake; hiking holds no interest for me. If I’m vacationing in the desert, then yes, let me put on some boots and grab some water and let’s go. Then when we get back we can have cake.

My next question, “Would you rather wear cowboy boots on the wrong feet every day or high heels every day?” was met with approval: “good one.” Obviously he and his friend revealed their inner feelings about footwear to one another and had a bonding experience.

I’m not sure how the probing question “Would you rather only eat bacon for the rest of your life or never eat bacon again?” was taken. They probably needed to do some soul searching, and so asked me for “some sexy ones,” so I provided this whopper: “Would you rather be a dog surrounded by hot ladies or a dude with no hot ladies at all?” and I was rewarded with the uplifting, “that was quite good, quite good.”

The only answer I got to my next question, “Would you rather high five everyone always and FOREVER or NEVER HIGH FIVE AGAIN???” was “yes,” so I’m sure my brother was trying to cheat the game and go for the happy medium, as high fives are a subject close to his heart.

“Would you rather dance in a helicopter or dance in a submarine?” was answered with, “do one about swimming pools.” So I complied with the disturbing,“Would you rather chill in a swimming pool or be hot in a swimming pool?”

After that I got a barrage of requests.

“Witches” were demanded. “Would you rather be a good witch with a puffy pink dress or a bad witch with awesome shoes?”

“Crane elevators” inspired, “Would you rather eat a crane elevator or pay for one?”

“Tar” led to the slightly biased, “Would you rather die in a tar pit or excavate a tar pit and study all the stuff that died there??? (Answer: history is fun!!)”

“Fish bones” produced, “Would you rather paint on fish bones or use them for cleaning your house?” and led my brother to finally give me some more feedback in the form of, “you’re a fish bone!”

The final request was “spaceships,” so I tempted their thirst for fame and pitted it against their curiosity and adventurous side: “Would you rather find a spaceship on land or find yourself spontaneously on a spaceship in space?”

Even though I didn’t get any answers to the questions I asked, I giggled myself silly writing them in the first place. I’m sure this is how the creators of the game felt.  My brother’s final text of the day was, “Thanks, we are almost there. You are the best sister I’ve ever had.” Even though I’m his only sister, I was touched. I dare the original games’ creators to get that kind of positive review.

I guess what I’ve learned from this experience is that I should design my own road trip game. Or at least they should hire me before I steal all their business.

Would you rather be on the road trip or entertaining everyone who is taking it?

MEMORIAL Day

Today is a day to stop and remember all those who have gone before us. To remember their lives and how they lived them, and to thank them for the impact they had on us.

It’s also a wonderful day to rest and think about the great things you have in your life. Like family, friends, and a newly varnished dining room floor.

If you work hard every other day of the year, it’s nice to have a break once in a while to enjoy life and maybe have a nap.

Enjoy today. Go for a walk. Take a nap. And remember that there are many people who make sure that you can live the way you do, and be thankful for them.

Anything but "Fluffy"

My brother got a cat.

First order of business: a name. We brainstormed to try to come up with something awesome. Something musical would have been nice, like “Meowdnight Sonata” or “Treble Cat.” We considered normal human names such as “Pawl.” I proposed using an everyday word as a name, in the style of the most awesome cat name I’ve ever heard: “Haircut.”

Finally, we narrowed it down to three: Socrates (or Socks, for short), The Cheat, and Jacuzzi (Jack for short; which also has the added bonus of telling people you have a jacuzzi back at your place).

All the “Socks” talk reminded me of a book I’d read as a kid, which was a collection of letters written to President Clinton’s family cat, Socks. I recalled this to my husband and brother, and they looked at me, wondering what relevance this could have to the subject at hand.

“What does that have to do with a name for my cat?” my brother asked me.

“Nothing,” I answered, still trying to recall the contents of one of the pages written to the Presidential feline. “Although when you think about it, people have always loved talking to and looking at pictures of famous cats. It kind of explains the internet.”

I continued to ponder while my brother was still in a state of slight confusion, until my husband said something sweet and romantic like, “Don’t listen to her, she’s crazy.”

In the end, I think we settled on a combination of everything. That way my brother can tell his friend that he named his cat after him, “Coda” (with a K instead of a C) covers the musical portion, and he can send his pet out to steal him fresh jam.

Mmm. Fresh jam.

Crash and Bruise

These things suck.
(image courtesy of
wikimedia commons)

Crutches are super fun to play with. You can test your balance, use then as stilts, or pretend you’re a pirate (hook hand and parrot optional).

Crutches as a necessity? Not so fun. They’re bulky, your armpits start to hurt after a while, and you never know where to stash them when you sit down.

The last time I had to use crutches was about nine years ago when I sprained my ankle jumping around giggling and spitting raspberries torturously at my roommate. I was paid out for my folly.

Thankfully, when I sprained my ankle on Thursday, I could still walk on my foot (once the excruciating pain went away, anyway). The doctor took an x-ray and determined that there was no fracturing, and I was so happy that I could have danced. You know, if I hadn’t had a sprained ankle.

I’ve never broken a bone. I am the Accidental Bruise Queen, and have had bruises in a range of colors (including yellow, green, blue, and purple, and once even all of those at the same time), but I have never any broken bones.

My brothers broke their bones all the time when they were kids. Maybe they were just more daredevil-y than me, riding down the hill at our grandparents’ house endlessly on various homemade vehicles of questionable safety, ending up in the ditch occasionally, sometimes with broken wrists or blood gushing out of a knee or two. One of my brothers did this so often that my dad nicknamed him “Crash.”

In sixth grade, one of my classmates broke his leg so badly that he was hospitalized for several months. We sent him videos of us waving at the camera and saying “get well soon!” and gathered on the stage in the gym singing and dancing to “Hey Jude” and “Feelin’ Groovy” (it happened to be during my awesome teacher’s Beatles/Simon & Garfunkel phase). We even took a field trip to the hospital to see him once.

So, as a kid, I could definitely see the advantages to having a broken bone. You got a cool cast which people could sign, your mom and other family members went out of their way (more than usual) to get you anything you might want or need, and everyone paid attention to you.

I could also see the drawbacks. Having a cast on your arm apparently itches. A lot. You can have people sign your unbroken arms or legs anytime, really. You don't have to break them to get an autograph. Having people wait on you hand and foot gets frustrating after a while, especially if you physically can’t get up and do things for yourself. And I’d rather have people pay attention to me because I’m hilarious or because they actually like me than just because I’m injured.

This thing is a work of art. Purple, blue,
green, orange, yellow... It's like having
my very own sunset to walk around on.

Having a sprained ankle might suck, but at least it’s not broken. If it were broken, it’d take more time to heal and probably hurt a heck of a lot more. This way, I can hobble down the stairs and do the laundry or put the dishes in the dishwasher without my husband fussing at me too much to go put my foot up.

And at least I don’t have to deal with the annoying crutches.

Bag Count: 57

I had a lot of projects to work on this week: Bag the Bag, Bag the Bag Part 2: the Electric Boogaloo, writing and addressing college graduation announcements for my brother, assembling new props for my awesome photo booth, and getting items ready to sell at a consignment sale.. I had to prioritize, so everything with a deadline naturally came first. The clothes went off to be sold. The wording for the announcements was decided on, and I scribbled names on the envelopes. And the Bears superfans that I’ll be taking pictures of this weekend are going to love the orange and navy flags I made.

I was able to work a little on Bag the Bag (and Part 2: the Electric Boogaloo), but it was only as an “unwinding while watching TV” project. I brought P2EB with me to our Financial Peace University class on Sunday, since a majority of the class time is spent watching a video. One of our classmates asked, “Oh, what are you making?” and soon as I was finished explaining, the leaders, both of whom attend the church where the class takes place, burst out with, “that looks just like the project our women’s group just finished!”

“What?” I cried, leaping out of my chair. One of them opened up the doors and turn on the lights of the fellowship hall, where six or seven huge plarn blankets were hanging along one wall. “They’re going to donate them to the homeless,” one of the leaders informed me as I snapped pictures. “All of the blankets are very creative,” said the other, “one of them even has a heart pattern worked into the middle of it.”

Nice job, Gretna UMC crafters! These
blankets are huge!

The clever crafters had also made sure the blankets were
easy to carry.

Looking closer, I could tell they used a big,
thick, crochet hook. Like at least a P/15mm,
if not larger.

When we returned to the classroom, I declared, “those pictures are going right up on my blog!” (Another classmate asked, “you have a blog?” so maybe I gained a new reader! If so, Hiiiii, Wendy!)

When I get a second to think about how much work I’ve done on Bag the Bag, I think I’ll be surprised how far I’ve come since last week. The comparison pictures say it all.

Bonus: Bag the Bag Part 2: the Electric Boogaloo; Bag Count: 14

Bag Count: 57

Bag the Bag

Bag Count: 9

Bag Count: 17

Bag Count: 30

Bag Count: 35

Bag Count: 44 

Bag Count: 50 

Bag Count: 63 

Bag Count: 70 

Bag Count: 80 

Bag Count: 86 

Bag Count: 87 

Bag Count: 88 

Bag Count: 92 

Bag Count: 94 

Bag Count: THE END

Boston Thoughts

The 2010 finish line (from an article on boston.cbslocal.com)

Everyone reacts to a horrible event differently. Some people are glued to the live feed and can’t get enough of watching videos and looking at pictures of the victims and their families. Some people hate to think that terrible things can happen, so they close themselves off and think about anything but suffering innocents. Some people respond by donating to every charity that could possibly impact the situation, either the Red Cross or other charities benefiting those who suffered.

Everyone has to grieve in their own way.

Yesterday I stayed glued to the radio. I knew that there would probably be some wild reporting, so I didn’t want to depend on anything I heard as fact, though I still wanted to listen for one thing.

I wanted to know why.

We still don’t. We may not know for some time. There were reports yesterday that a person of interest was detained, that bomb squads had found three more undetonated devices and were looking for some kind of a pattern or maybe some fingerprints or other evidence to show who could be responsible.

I waited in silence while listening to Boston’s fire marshal during his press conference. I shed tears during the President’s speech, especially when he said things like “victims” and “people of Boston” and “justice.”

Last night my brother and I popped the cap off the top of a couple of Samuel Adams beers. I clinked my glass of White Lantern with his Boston Lager. “To Boston!” we said.

In situations like this, after we learn the where and when, we want to know what happened, we want to know who did it, and we want to know why. And after living through several of these incidents, Americans want to know how we can help.

We don’t know why, but we will. The President said, “justice.” The most important thing we can do right now is to not let terror take us. Don’t be afraid, America. Do what you can to help. Give blood. Donate your money. Send your thoughts. Pray.

Clink your beer.

A Fine Day for FareBall

Some people dislike major holidays. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter... they don’t like them because it usually means that they have to go home and spend some time with their parents and siblings. Some people are judgmental and competitive and like to compare their lives to those of their extended family, and determine their own self worth by how well they are doing and how well their family members are doing.

Not my family. We recognize that we all have different strengths and abilities. One of my brothers can teach anyone to appreciate the mechanics of a sonata. The other can teach anyone to appreciate the mechanics of mechanics. And I’m always inflicting historical knowledge on my family members, like reasons why my dad’s ancestry DNA test came back 38% Scandinavian (VIKINGS!).

We have a good time when we get together, and it doesn’t always have to be on national holidays. We hang out, talk about stuff, make arrangements to hang out some more or watch each other’s kids when we want to go on a date with our spouses (or when we just want to chill with our siblings’ awesome kids). We also eat together (DUMPLINGS!) and partake of our parents’ wisdom.

Easter isn’t usually gorgeous and sunny, but this Easter was. While I was slaving in the kitchen to produce enjoyable food (a fusion of my mother-in-law’s culinary wizardry and the deliciousness that is my grandmother’s cooking), my brothers and husband escaped with a frisbee to the backyard. When I was finished, I looked around and found no one in the kitchen; my sister-in-law was feeding my nephew and my parents were playing with my daughters in the other room.

I went out in the backyard. “Hey!” I shouted. “Nice job leaving me to do all the work!” My husband objected with the observation that if he tries to help I shove him out and tell him he’s getting in the way anyway, which is a valid point, so I shrugged and joined in their game.

It was kickball. Sort of. It was “every man for himself” kickball. If you could get all the way around the “bases” (corners of the yard), you’d get a point for yourself, but if the guy in the middle got a point if he was able to get you “out,” either by catching the ball when you kicked it or by throwing it at you and hitting you with it. Oh, and there was no pitching, just the person who was “up” kicking the ball out of their own hand.

My nephew finished his snack and my sister-in-law brought him outside to enjoy the sunshine. My mom came out to watch the game, and sat on the bench under the tree making sure my three year old wasn’t getting into too much mischief. My dad watched from the driveway, with my one year old all bundled up in her jacket.

The rules of the game kept changing. “So if you kick it on the roof or over the fence into the driveway it’s a home run,” one of my brothers said, “and don’t chase the ball down the stairs because if you go too fast you’ll break your ankle,” the other added. “And if you kick it and someone else gets in, then you get half a point,” my husband decreed. “And if you hit a baby you’re out!” my mom shouted, as my one year old toddled across the middle of the yard.

The ball was terrible. It sat out in the yard all winter and was lopsided and half deflated and didn’t go where you wanted to when you threw it, even if you were a foot away from your fleeing husband. Kicking was problematic because of the tree branch that hangs across one side of the yard, not to mention the electrical wires that stretch from the pole on the other side of the fence to the house next door.

We had a great time. I’d kick the ball and take off as my brother or my husband went after it, and as I ran for the nearest corner of the yard that we’d designated as first base, I’d scream, whether my pursuer was nearby or not. My husband would make fun of me, making faces or taunting gestures at me. My brothers would pose dramatically before each kick, pointing off into the distance where they expected the ball to majestically arch, even though they knew it probably wouldn’t. Sometimes they’d point in two different directions. Mostly, we ran our butts off and had an awesome time.

The next day I sent my brother a text message: “HOLY CRAP I am so sore!” He texted back, “Me too, I have to keep stopping to stretch.” I responded, “We either need to never do that again or do it all the time.”

My family has a great time when we get together. Sometimes we sit and watch a movie, sometimes we hang out and talk about electric vehicles, and other times we make up a game and run around in the yard getting muddy and displaying how out of shape we are. It doesn’t matter what we do, we always enjoy hanging out with family, even on days that it’s yucky and cold out.

But it’s always more fun when it’s a fine day for FareBall.

Bag Count: 35

This is part of an ongoing series in crafting some crazy stuff. Read on at your own peril.

When I arrived home on Monday, there were plastic bags sitting on my porch.

Wal-Mart bags.

As I carried things inside the house, I wondered who could have left them there. My sister-in-law? My brother? Soon, I had my answer, as my brother walked around the side of the house and, with a mischievous glint in his eye, declared, “April Fool’s!”

“Hooray!” I said, “more bags! I just ran out of the Wal-Mart kind!”

To which he replied, “April Fool’s!”

I still don’t get it.

He washed the bags and rinsed them out (they had been in a stinky bachelor kitchen), and I dried them by toweling them off and then flipping them all over the place to knock the extra water off. Then I cut the bottoms and tops off and put them all in a pile to cut.

Now I’ve got almost as many to work with as I did when I began! Hopefully, this amount will get me to the top of the bag.

While I’m overjoyed to have more of the same kind so that the whole thing can look the same, the drawback has been that I haven’t had much time to actually crochet, since I’ve been cleaning and sorting and cutting out new bags. I haven’t made much progress on the bag itself.

See? Same. Well... almost the same. 

Maybe I’ll have all the bags cut and tamed by this weekend so that I can really get going.

Bag Count: 35

Bag the Bag

Bag Count: 9

Bag Count: 17

Bag Count: 30

Bag Count: 44 

Bag Count: 50 

Bag Count: 57 

Bag Count: 63 

Bag Count: 70 

Bag Count: 80 

Bag Count: 86 

Bag Count: 87 

Bag Count: 88 

Bag Count: 92 

Bag Count: 94 

Bag Count: THE END