Dart Tournament

It is a fateful day when I agree to play in a Couple's dart tournament with Dart Guy. I think I was under the influence of too much sleep, a rare happening in our household. So here we are, entering the smoke-filled Dart Bar (it's like Texas--a whole other country), and I shutter seeing a large crowd of dart-playing connoisseurs milling around tables littered with all manner of dart paraphanalia. I live with one, but, even so, I feel decidedly inferior holding onto three darts and stepping up to the line to take my first throw. That's when I decided I need a drink. Or a few drinks. So I gulp some wine and try and stay near the "tip" case, which, unfortunately, is not a case containing a nicely prepared notebook filled with an array of helpful dart hints; but, instead is the case filled with extra plastic tips for when one or more errant dart throws creates a sensation all across the bar by violently slicing the short, black tip of your dart away from the steel shaft. My darts are a little wild today, or every day, to be honest, and they rush toward the electronic boards like rogue missiles destined to place me in war crime tribunals. I have a particularly disturbing image in my mind: me standing before a panel of somber, dart experts that deluge me with all sorts of terrifying, hard questions--Did you practice for today? Do you want to win as bad as Bruce Jenner wanted to win the gold in his hey day? Can you add numbers quickly in your head to determine the proper target on the board? At this point I begin to stutter and stammer and wish for a starbucks to wisk me away to lovely esspresso land. I go outside and take a sip of my Frappacino in the car. We lose our first match, since I cannot decide what end of the dart should be pointed toward the board. Dart Guy pretends that I do not frustrate him., and I am reminded of why I married him. He puts our team on his shoulder for the second match, dragging us to a win. His throws are graceful, perfectly aimed miraculous events. Five hours after this all began, we lose our last match. Though I have not really performed any great athletic feats here, I am ready for bed. We pick up Destructo and Spitfire from Grandma's, where they have created the world's largest House of Clutter, and enthusiastically enjoyed it. And that's the end of my bi-annual Dart Adventure. I leave the real dart playing up to Dart Guy, for which I think, he breathes a great sigh of relief.

Oklahoma Weekend

Spitfire and Destructo inside the Giant Windmill Wing
Aunt Kianna, Cousin Kalie, and Gpa Donnie standing by

Feeding the chickens--Spitfire called them stinky

Spongebob!!!

Growing up, I didn't really notice the wind in Oklahoma--that's how oblivious I can be. After this week-end, it is apparent to me why the part of Oklahoma that I grew up in, is the site for 98 HUGE, space-age looking wind mills. But the gales are welcome! They stave off the heat and allow us to enjoy family time on the porch. We watch hummingbirds flutter cautiously to the feeders. Later, when the hurricane calms some, Spitfire and I giggle at the sound of the them--miniature helicopters whizzing by us. We all have a good time visiting my sister, her hubby, and my niece (age 13 and bound for the WNBA or modeling at 6 feet tall and with beautiful, high cheek bones!) who drove the thousand hours in from West Virginia! Although I do have a mild panic attack when Destructo lands barefooted in fresh cow poop, Uncle Ron saves the day, scooping him up and carrying him straight to the kitchen sink (because no amount of germ juice can effectively remove a party foul of this nature, even though it was close by in my pocket).

On Sunday, I witness the transformation of my Dad from genteel farmer, to agile marathon runner, when he has to herd an errant, disgruntled group of the neightbor's cattle from his garden. Unfortunately, about half of the corn, potatos and onions get trampled--a sight sad enough to make a grown man cry. Though I didn't see any tears from my Dad, I do feel pretty sure he uttered a few choice words during the chaos. Spitfire loves the sight of lazy, eyed cattle up close until the big, lumbering, noisy bull comes into view, which is a little scary to behold.

She also loves the sound of "Jack," beloved donkey from a neighboring pasture, speaking distinctly to us while the cattle mew and complain at the rude interuption of their feast.

A great big thanks to Gma Janet, Aunt Glenda and Uncle Albert for hosting a great gathering and birthday celebration, and especially to my cousin Jennifer, who labored on an, absolutely, perfectly-rendered Spongebob cake. We all had a marvelous time. I am convinced there was something "extra" in that cake, which caused Destructo to engage in an impromtu striptease, complete with throwing his shirt into the crowd.

It is lucky that Dart Guy is unusually tough and pain tolerant--he can take all kinds of kid excretions, muddy, back-yard throw-downs, and, even the longest drive home in the history of drives home. While I commend the kiddos for pretty great behavior all week-end long, the streak is broken during 41/2 hours in the car back to Dallas. Aptly-named Spitfire is spouting off sass faster than I can comprehend it, but Dart Guy keeps his calm, even though our first inclination is to pull over and sass back. Cudos and love Dart Guy! Check out more pics below, and thanks for reading.

-C

One of the miniature helicopters

"Jack"

Strawberries and Blackberries

Garden, Pre-Cattle trampling

Up!

The plan for today is to pick up Spitfire's good friends Ben and Emily and go see the new Pixar flick, Up, at the mall. Excitement brews. When I pick up Spitfire, she is wearing a pair of Destructo's jeans, the hem of which reaches to just above her ankle. I question her about this particular fashion statement, and she tells me that Dart Guy is responsible, then refuses to change. Considering my history with certain items of her clothing, namely the recent ballet-costume faux pas, I decide to let it go, and we are out the door. There are smiles all around when we pick up Ben and Emily at their school. The first thing the three conspirators do is say that our car stinks! Like cheerios and diapers. Ugh! I take a wiff but don't get that specific combo. Off we go. Here is the conversation on the way to the movie:

Emily drops her cookie on the floor.
Spitfire: I think a frog will jump inside and eat that cookie.
Me: I don't think frogs like cookies, do they?
Ben: (in deep thought) Well, I've never seen a frog eat a cookie. . .
Emily: We did see a turtle in the road one time!
Ben finishes his cookie and Spitfire tells him to just throw the packaging in the floor.
Spitfire: It's ok, there is already 130, 000 stains in this car.
Ben: Mmmm. I think there is only 200 stains in here.

There is a definite trend on the subject of our car. . .

During Up, Ben is zoned into the movie, Spitfire wants to engage in a rather loud running commentary, and Emily peacefully eats popcorn beside me. All of us enjoy a really great movie, which has some teary-eyed, sweet moments, as well as great, adventurous animation.
Thanks to Ben, Emily and Spitfire for an evening of stellar preschool company.

Sunday Cook-Out

Thanks to friends and family that joined us for our cook-out/b-day gathering on Sunday! It was great fun, and our family looks forward to the planned pot-luck dinners over the coming months! Although we had already celebrated Destructo's b-day in Illinois while on vacation, we did get a really cool cake from Central Market and made it a partial birthday celebration. Spitfire was responsible for picking out the cake, and her choice may give some indication as to the type of cuisine we have at our house. I asked all the kids what the cake would taste like--a hamburger or a cake, and got a withering, you-are-silly-of-course-it-tastes-like-a-cake answer. We missed the Cullums! Hope you are feeling better, Melissa. :)

The Amphibian Issue

It's just a frog--I caught a number of them as a kid--but does it have to share dinner with us? Does it have to sit with beady, frog eyes staring at us while we chew mexican casserole and mixed veggies? I cringe inside every time the scaly green legs jump up and slide in oozing stickiness down the glass wall of its cell, while the kids exclaim with excitement and delight. Spitfire does not want said frog more than two centimeters away from her. I do not want said frog more than two centimeters close to me; and therefore, the line is drawn in the sand. The frog survives over night, sitting intimately close to Spitfire on her nightstand while she sleeps, and I catch a giant fly that is buzzing through the house and set it loose in the cage--my thought being that even poor, captive frogs need comfort food. But when Spitfire begins carrying our adopted amphibian around in the palm of her hand, and then generously allows Destructo to join in this stellar activity, I have to give the executive order to Free the Frog. It's just like Free Willy, I suggest--frogs do not thrive while incarcerated, and Mommy does not thrive while her kids handle a possible salmonella contaminated creature. Of course, all this falls on deaf ears, and I am going deaf from listening to the piercing sound of Spitfire wailing about the injustice of it all. I know I rode around completely unbuckled, even lying in the back window of my parent's car on vacations, busily making honking motions to passing truckers--and survived. I spent time scratching dirty bellies of chunky pigs in backyard pens, lived precariously without any contact with hand sanitizer, ate strawberries unwashed, picked straight off the vine. But still. . . I want slimy, warty, dirty frog to take a hike, and there is nothing that can console Spitfire when she hears the decision. Only time, and the arrival of a co-cospirator from across the street finally quiet the shrill sadness. As for me, I am relieved to eat dinner beyond the watchful eyes of frog, and hopeful that most amphibian poachers like him keep a very low profile in our yard.

Confessions of an Ungirlie-Mom

I'm not sure if I could have botched Spitfire's ballet recital event any worse than I did, but I will undoubtedly try again next year--I may not be girlie, but I am definitely bull-headed. On Tuesday night, I am preparing to take both kiddos with me to the dress rehearsal, for which I have decided that putting Spitfire's hair up in a bun consitutes enough of the "dress" part of rehearsal for me. She is wearing her jeans and ballet shoes, and I am fine with that. Sadly, she is too (already she must be duplicating my un-girlieness). She hates sitting still for my amateurish attempt at a ballet bun and protests soulfully for the ten-minute procedure, then we are out the door. I have to wrestle Destruco into his seat since he does not appear to be interested in anything related to ballet, but finally, we are on our way. When we arrive, I am immediately aware that we have come to the wrong venue--and that's not due to keen intelligence--it's simply because there are no cars in the parking lot! This is when I get that sinking feeling in the stomach and begin to weakly tell Spitfire we have five minutes to find the right auditorium. I make calls but don't reach anyone, so we drive home. Spitfire first angrily announces she will not be going to recital tomorrow (we won't if I don't find out where it is, I say naughtily), but then decides that being able to release the thousand bobby pins from her hair is not such a bad thing. For once, I am happy for the attention span of a five-year-old--it is all water under the bridge now, and a story to tell.

On Wednesday night, I labor on the bun again. Spitfire says she has never been more bored and I tell her to hold still and we repeat this about a million times. When I am done, I discover that the bulk of my work is resting oddly on the right side of her head, but I rationalize this--who said a bun has to be in the center anyway? My friend who lives across the street is kind and says it looks fine. We are dressed and ready to go. Spitfire's good friend and neighbor is going with us, but we decide to leave Destructo at home this time with Dart Guy, who breathes a sigh of relief.

When we arrive, there is no parking so we leave the car in front of a nearby house and walk. Inside, I step triumphantly up to the check-in desk, two highly excited girls in tow beside me. And that's when I hear the tiny voice--a little girl's voice just to our left--she tells us that Spitfire has her outfit on backwards!! I examine Spitfire critically, with eyes glazed over from years of ungirlish behavior. I just don't see it, but get an afirmative, mirth-laced, sympathetic nod from the check-in lady. Unable to find the bathroom, I strip her down behind a large, wooden door, then go back to the desk. The show must go on, right? Spitfire dances with her good friend, smiles all around. I get down on my knees in the front to take pictures, shamelessly clicking away, bending this way and that to get a view. Dart Guy shows up with Destructo, announcing that he wouldn't miss watching his girl dance. He is our hero, as always. We both enjoy watching Spitfire being just a little girlie.

Vacation Pics

Mark Twain's Mississippi

Gpa and Gma Tiark's House in Decatur, Ill
Gpa Ed's Big Golf-Course Back Yard
Our Very Own Monkey
John Deere Birthday for Destructo
Lovely Peacock
Sea Lion Show at St. Louis Zoo

Spitfire and Destructo on the move at the Zoo