In honor of (the too many to count) friends whose torsos are overtaken in the Human Growing process--and those (also too many to mention) recently reclaimed-- May 21st will hereafter be known as

Torso Gratitude
Day.

I love my torso. Do you? Then SHOW it!

Let's hear it for torsos! Torso! Torso! Torso!

**A special thanks to Heather for making me count my very movable, unoccupied torso in my blessings today.**

Attentional Blink

Meet Attentional Blink, my latest State of Mind.

Attentional Blink loses track of time easily,

is inconsistent

and fails to post regularly in order to properly document Life.

BUT….A.B. produces multitudes of photos and is found occupying its most recent prey in various and enjoyably sundry activities.

(Enjoyably now granted Word Status in my world...)

Like Belly Puffing

and Headdress (and ear tube) Donning,

Winter Doffing,

and Cavorting About the House

while the Snow Falls

and the Rains Drop.

Luckily, the side effects are fairly harmless.

Witness Protected: A Shamelessly Belated Easter Tale

These eggs knew. 

They knew about Easter and needed proper protection and hiding.  

As a result, we were forced to change their appearance altogether.

But sadly, in the end, the disguise was not enough protection from the likes of these eager Easter Egg Private Eyes…

  

or their assistants.

    

The Office

Quotes of the Week

"Is that the program where the puppets live in the barrio?"

--Dwight, speaking of Sesame Street

"He's not really a snappy dresser...reminds me of Easter."

--MIchael, speaking of Andy

A hearty welcome to the newest Delicious Word, my good friend,

Blather.

Feel free to use it in a sentence. Or say it over and over in varying pitches and tones.

Not only is it sheer fun to repeat, but by doing so, you are employing the pure defination of the word. :)

This morning, I woke to the sound of this

and the smell of this

and thought to myself, “Am I in Heaven? Maybe England?

Ahhh…doesn’t matter—it’s all the same.”

Happy Rainy Day to....me.

Snail Trails

On the rare occasion rain fell on the scorching New Mexico ground, an Underground Snail Scene emerged.

Our driveway would be cluttered with water-deprived snails and their iridescent trails, luxuriating in the puddles left behind by the in-and-out storm.

I was always first on the scene, mixing and mingling with the Snail Folk, picking them up, studying their reflexes and following their slime trails.

Recently, I’ve noticed trails around the inside of my house, but they’re not from snails—they’re from little boys.

I would like to say that following these trails has not led me down slimy paths, but, you know boys….sometimes slime is involved in what would be an otherwise slime-less pursuit.

Nonetheless, these Little Boy Byways remind me that snails are not the only ones to leave reminders of their presence…

Slothin’ It

I’m taking my sloth-hood vows…

“Finally, the sloth replied,

It is true I am slow, quiet and boring.  I am lackadaisical, I dawdle and I dillydally.  I am also unflappable, languid, stoic, impassive, sluggish, lethargic, placid, calm mellow, laid back and well, slothful.  I am relaxed and tranquil and I like to live in peace.  But I am not lazy.  Then the sloth yawned and said, “That’s just how I am.  I like to do things slowly, slowly, slowly.”

From Eric Carle’s Slowly, Slowly, Slowly Said the Sloth

Chuffed to Bits

My Anglophilia is acting up again.

I blame Eliza. Yes, Eliza Doolittle and her little friend, Enry Iggins.

At a tender age, they sucked me into their English world, entranced me with their accents, both proper and improper, charmed me with their culture and as a result, I transformed into a full-blown Anglophile at the age of five.

Lest you shudder at this supposed malady and keep your distance, I assure you Anglophilia is a good thing.

A very, very good thing.

Here, I’ll even save you a rendezvous with the dictionary and define my “situation”.

Anglophile:A person who is fond of English culture and England in general.

I would submit that ‘fond’ is an excessive understatement and unabashedly admit my monstrous addiction to all things English.

Pondering the upcoming one-year anniversary of my trip to the Motherland has caused my Anglophilia to flare up and while I’m immensely proud to be an American, I just can’t get over things like this

(Speaking of good manners—how helpful can they be?)

or places like this or phrases like this

and stories by writers like these.

So don’t worry about catching Anglophilia from me because I’m not giving any of it away.

I will continue to think in an English accent, watch American Idol just to hear Simon speak, save my pennies to convert into Pounds for my London flat, write novels with English main characters and attempt to eat with my left hand, like my lovely mates in England do.

I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? Banishment to the Motherland?

Cheers!

P.S. For the record, I used Gloucester font in the making of this post. :)