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Apparently Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to compose a complete story in six words. His answer, personally felt to be his best prose ever, was
"For sale: baby shoes, never used."

I took on this challenge a few nights ago at Mike’s request (he had some really good ones he was entering in a contest)
and so I came up with a few of my own:

“Love letter remains sealed. Died alone.”
“Two enemies. One weapon. No survivors.”
“Husband missing. Garden flourishing. Mystery solved.”

I enjoyed my quirkier ones, though not quite stories:
“Freaky carnival girl: my ‘fair’ lady”
and
“Sick of the airport - terminally ill”

Did this for a few hours. Began thinking in six word phrases.
“Getting really sleepy. Time for bed.”
“Your mom called. Please call back.”
“Laundry is done. Will you fold?”
“What’s for dinner? Whatever YOU fix!”

You get the idea.

Then Kacey and I turned it into a game that we played by text.
“Name that movie in six words.”

“Wish granted. Mother, daughter trade lives.” (Freaky Friday)
“Silly actors wear big Mexican hats.” (Three Amigos)
“Theme park dinosaurs escape. Eat tourists.” (Jurassic Park)
“Sleepy writer. Stolen story. Shoot her.” (Secret Window)
“Teens play video games with military.” (Wargames)
“Metal flowers. Blush, bashful. Kidney failure.” (Steel Magnolias)
“Shark attack. Gonna need bigger boat.” (Jaws)

Then we had fun doing only Will Smith movies:
“Impoverished Will Smith kicks advertising butt.” (Pursuit of Happyness)
“Lonely Will Smith kicks epidemic butt.” (I Am Legend)
“Robots attack. Will Smith kicks butt.” (I, Robot)
“Aliens attack. Will Smith kicks butt.” (Independence Day)
“Aliens invade. Will Smith kicks butt.” (Men in Black)
“Aliens invade. Smith kicks butt again.” (Men in Black II)


We started to sense a theme.
Game seemed pointless. Exercise in futility.
It was late. Time for bed.

May you dream in six words.

nursing on peppermint sticks

Most of you who know me know this story, but it's the season, so it bears repeating.

I did not feed my children sugar until they were 2. Even then it was more of an extended family thing than a mom thing. My theory: why give it to them when they don't even know what they're missing? Anyway, the Christmas when Kevin was 11 months old, Kacey wanted to decorate the tree with a candy-cane motif. We hung shrink-wrapped candy canes, strung peppermint garland and made a huge bow for the top from red & white diagonally-striped wired ribbon. Cute!

Kevin, (having never had a nursery, nor a crib because we're "family bed" people) was, what I call, a "wandering baby". You never knew where he was going to be when you woke up. One particular morning during the holiday season (I believe it was "8 Maids a-Milking" day), I woke to funny little noises coming from the living room. Those funny little noises turned out to be my barely-steady-on-his-toes baby boy, standing as high on tiptoes as his footie pajamas would allow, neck outstretched like a Serengeti giraffe, nursing the end of a peppermint stick. Apparently he had sucked the plastic off the end of one, then continued to lick and slurp it to a sharp point, and the funny little noises were his grunts and groans as he neared the end of his height range in relation to the dwindling candy cane. The look on his little face told me what his lack of verbal communication could not: "Me like sugar."

As a wandering baby he did many other funny little things like sleepwalk, almost pee on his sister, and sleep in the kitchen cabinet. Oh, other stories for other days!

an E.P.T. failure

We had been married just over a year when I got pregnant with our first. Though we weren’t planning a baby, we sure couldn’t say we were surprised.

First: I had stopped taking the pill. I had to or I was going to kill someone . . . and it wasn’t going to be me. The hormonal state that Ortho-novum kept me in played “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” with my emotions. For example, my husband would walk in the door after 12 hours of playing soldier. I would say, in my sweetest Donna Reed voice, “How was your day?” only to follow it up four minutes later with a Linda-Blair-exorcist-like, “Get Outta My Face!”

We figured even unplanned parenthood had to be better than that.

Second: the husband was an Army Lieutenant stationed at Fort Richardson, Alaska. He was away doing field training. A lot. For long stretches of time. He was gone from Oct. 18 until Nov. 8, left again on Nov. 10 and didn’t return home until the first of December. Hmmm . . . doesn’t take quantum physics to figure out that one.

So, I found myself pregnant. Entirely too young. 4,000 miles away from my mommy. The first of all of our friends to fail the “E.P.T.” test. And more than a little terrified. I felt like Prissy from Gone with the Wind: “Why, I don’t know nothin’ bout birthin’ no babies!” My preference: Schedule a C-section, take some heavy drugs, and hope for the best. Oh, but it’s not that easy for a do-it-yourself junkie. You see, I read. And read. And read. And Alaska is not exactly the kind of place where you are encouraged to follow the crowd. Unless, of course, the crowd is a bunch of earth-mother, hippie-wanna-be, save-the-earth do-gooders. (And I mean that in a good way!) So I found myself reading Mothering Magazine and Ina May Gaskin's “Spiritual Midwifery” and Rahima Baldwin’s “Special Delivery” and all manner of natural, wholistic childbirth propaganda. By the time August 13 rolled around, I was enduring a 32-hour labor at home with a couple of midwives.

Now, the birth itself did not turn out exactly picture-perfect. But I did end up with a beautiful daughter, and a passion for pregnancy and childbirth that can only be described as a part-time obsession. More about that at a later date.

The worst part of my first pregnancy: Not having caffeine
The weirdest craving during my first pregnancy: McDonald’s cheeseburgers (ewww.)
The strangest side-effect of my first pregnancy: Sporadic, but uncontrollable giggling (Again, another story for another time . . . )

dissecting frogs in the car

Did you know the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary?

My kids love to pick on each other. I don't know where they get it from, but regardless . . . the last weekend Kacey was home, Kevin had her convinced he was left-handed. (Kacey is 21, Kevin is 14) She was so befuddled that she got out of bed, marched into the den with her hands on her hips and said, "He is NOT left-handed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IS HE?????" Of course, he is not, and she KNEW that, he just made it so convincing that she began to doubt herself.

So, Kevin was talking to Kacey, this time on the phone the night before our road trip to Texas. He was moaning about all the school work he was going to have to do in the car. She was telling him to suck it up and do the work like a man, and he said something like,
"That's easy for you to say . . . you don't have to dissect a frog in the car!"
"You don't either, you goofball."
"YES I DO!"
"Kevin, you can't dissect a frog in the car. Why don't you just do it when you come back on Monday?"
"Because I have to label all the parts and make a diagram and email it to ReighAnne (biology teacher) by Friday night!"
"Kevin, you are such a liar!"
"Kacey, I'm serious. I've got to dissect this stupid frog in the car on the way to Texas!"
"Seriously???"
"Yes, Kacey. Oh, and by the way, I'm left-handed."
At this point, I can hear Kacey giving him "what for" for making her feel gullible yet again. I thought it was a riot! Is it okay to be proud of a kid for being a good liar? Probably not, huh?

To preface this next story, I almost never wear sunglasses. They make me feel claustrophobic. But I bought a new pair for this 12-hour car trip, and I put them in my purse which was in the floor at Kevin's feet. After a few hours in the car he wanted to stretch a bit, so he put my purse in the back seat. I said, "Before you get too comfortable, we're about to turn west so I'm going to need my glasses out of my purse."
"Huh?" was his response.
So I repeat myself, speaking slowly this time, "We're . . . about . . . to . . . turn . . . west . . . so . . . I'm . . . going . . . to . . . need . . . my . . . glasses . . . out . . . of . . . my . . . purse."
"WHY do you need your glasses when we turn west????" he asks with a quizzical look."Well, Kevin, a SMART person would KNOW the answer to that question. Why DO YOU think?"
"I don't know. Do the letters on the signs get smaller in the west?"
At this point I start laughing hysterically, as I realize the whole conversation he thought I was talking about my EYEglasses and I assumed he knew I needed my SUNglasses!

Communication is a wonderful thing, ain't it?

award-winning cockroaches and beached manatees

This is my bedroom.
I like my bedroom.
It's dark and cool.
It's comfortable.
The mattress is firm.
The pillows are fluffly.
Getting into bed is a wonderful end
to most days -
not an olympic event.


This past weekend, however, while we were in Fort Worth for the cowboy's "Sadde Boy" competition, we bunked in the horse trailer. (No, not WITH the horse! The back 3/4 is the horse part, the front 1/4 is "living quarters") I use the term "living quarters" very VERY loosely. It was more like sleeping in an aluminum shoebox on wheels. The floor section, which is shaped like the state of Nevada, only had enough room for Kevin's military-style cot, the step stool, and one standing human. As you can see from the picture below, the interior has been gutted, so the walls are bare except for the lovely remnants of brown wood glue. Everytime we turned the light on it threw a breaker. Our "camping spot" was on the gravel parking lot wedged between dozens of $100,000 motor homes - we looked like the embarrassing Arkansas cousins.

One aspect of the weekend I particularly enjoyed was the 2 block hike to the bathroom which was located upstairs inside the dormitory of the Swine Building of the Will Rogers Equestrian Center across the street from the National Cowgirl Museum. Yee Haw. When I first stepped into the seemingly abandoned and unlit concrete shower, I was startled by one of the hogs from the prior weekend's judging that had been left behind - no wait, that was just a prize-winning cockroach. He and I did NOT get along. It was a quick shower.

The most entertaining part of the weekend, for those lucky enough to witness it (Kevin), was my trying to get into the sleeping bunk of the trailer. Even with the step-stool, I was only waist-high to the metal platform. After numerous and wildly unsuccessful attempts to fling my leg up onto the platform, I finally had Kevin stand on his cot, and lift the air mattress up to the ceiling. This allowed me to bend over at a 90-degree angle and roll my entire body onto the platform under the air mattress, much like an injured manatee rolling himself onto the beach. I then rolled the opposite direction until I was against the wall so Kevin could drop the mattress. At this point I got onto my hands and knees and crawled onto the mattress. Lying down, there was a good 7 inches between my face and the ceiling. Now to get undressed. What???? I couldn't lift my legs - no room. Tried lying in a fetal position and wiggling. No luck with that either. No matter what I did, I couldn't seem to manage the removal of my clothing. Why didn't I get my pj's on BEFORE I clamored up there? I DON'T KNOW. But I sure as heck wasn't getting back down and then up again! So I called down to Kevin,

"Kevin, help me pull my pants off."
"Yeah, right, mom."
"Please, Kevin, I can't do it."
"Like that's gonna happen. I don't think so."
"But Kevin, I need help!"
"Suck it up and sleep in your clothes, mom!"
"Kevin, please please." (Imagine a whiny, cartoony voice at this point.)
Kevin begins to giggle hysterically at the thought of my not having enough room to perform this function for myself, and at the thought that I would even dare ask his help with undressing. Then, of course, there was the mental image of him actually helping me with this, which, I have to confess, was really really funny to both of us.
"Keeeeevvvvviiiinnnn, pleeeeeaaaaassssseeee!!!!!"
More giggling. This time from both of us.
This went on for about 20 minutes until the giggling turned into full-out laughter.

After we fell into a good sleep, we were awakened by an 8.3 earthquake. No, wait, that was just the cowboy backing his truck INTO the trailer. Luckily, the only thing he broke was his passenger side mirror.

Extreme Mustang Makeover 2008 - reservations are already secured at the Hyatt Regency downtown Fort Wort.

elvis, mom, and graceland

We moved Kacey back to Nashville, this time not into the dorm, but into her own apartment. The back of the truck and her car were both brimming over! (Granted, we did take a bed, a desk, a dryer, 2 chairs, a futon, a partridge in a pear tree, and 371 flip-flops!) We arrived to a roomy apartment, 2 lovely Christian girl roomies, and a huge fish tank the other girls had bought Kacey as a birthday surprise. They named the fish: Ophelia, Paul Anka, Marcus Aurelius, Freboga, and something weird I can't remember.) I couldn't be happier with the situation . . . unless, of course, Kacey was a baby again.

That brings me to Elvis. Yesterday, August 16, marks a 20-year anniversary for Kacey & me, and a 30-year anniversary for Elvis. According to history, Elvis died on August 16, 1977. (Now, like all good conspiracy theorists, I have my doubts. I believe him to be inhabiting Hitler's old getaway in Argentina. Anyway . . . ) Twenty years ago yesterday, she and I flew from Anchorage, Alaska to Seattle, Washington, to Memphis, Tennessee, and then, ideally, to Nashville, where my grandparents were to pick us up and drive us "home home" to my parents. Well, there was a delay in Seattle, and by the time we got to Memphis, we had missed our connecting flight to Nashville. (No biggie, right?) Let me list the complications:
1) This was in the pre-cell-phone days. Heck, this was pre-answering-machine days.
2) My parents were out of town and didn't know I was "surprising them."
3) My grandparents only lived an hour away from the Nashville airport, so by the time I landed in Memphis, they were already on their way to pick me up, and I had absolutely no way of letting them know I wouldn't be there.
4) I didn't have a credit card, so I couldn't rent a car.
5) I had a 12-month-old daughter with me, along with large carry on bag and diaper bag the size of a canoe. (This was also pre-9/11 days.)
6) and this is the big one . . . I was in Memphis. On August 16, 1987. The 10th anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley. Graceland is Mecca for the King and his followers, the result being "there were no rooms in the inn." Not a single empty hotel room in the city. Seriously.

In the meantime, I am using payphones to call my husband (who is 4,000 miles away). He is on the phone trying to track down my grandparents, my parents, and any Delta airline official who can somehow be held responsible for us being stranded without proper escort in the Memphis International Airport. To no avail. A strange man offered to take us home. I politely turned him down. As the hours got later and later, and the airport became more and more desolate, I stole a spoon from the cafeteria (so I could feed Kacey the organic homemade baby food I brought in my carry-on), and barricaded us into a large women's bathroom by pushing an old couch in front of the door. (Having, at this point, given up all hope, and now just biding time until my death, or tomorrow morning's 8 a.m. flight, whichever came first.)

I fed Kacey and got her to sleep, read "Anna Karenina" for awhile, realized there was NO WAY I was going to sleep in there, washed my hair in a public sink and "blow dried" it with one of those wall-mounted hand dryers - this would have been easier had I been a gymnast. After these eventful few hours, I hear a faint "s...t...e...p...h...a...n...i...e..." from somewhere in distance. I listen. Again, I hear it, but this time louder. It's my mommy!!!! Now, I don't care if you are a 23-year-old parent who lives 4,000 miles from home, when you need your mommy, you need your mommy! She and dad eventually got the news and drove straight from wherever-they-were to Memphis to rescue me. Yeah!

On the return flight a couple of weeks later, I almost got stranded in Minneapolis. Again, as the result of a flight delay, I was late for my connecting flight to Seattle. When I got to the gate, they were rolling back the walkway. I met the exiting airline worker as she was walking back into the terminal. She told me I was too late. To this point in my life, I don't believe I had ever stood up for myself. My usual, a-bit-shy self, afraid of spending another sleepless night in an airport, looked her dead in the face, stuck out my pointer finger and demanded, "Either you roll that walkway back out and let me on that plane, or you, personally, will be paying for my hotel room tonight." Kacey and I made it back to Anchorage as scheduled.

Twenty years full circle. 1987: Kacey and I were stranded together in the home of "the King" trying to get to Nashville. 2007: Kacey and I part ways as she moves into her first real "home" and I leave her in care of "THE KING" in Nashville.

(Thank you God, that my Graceland is wherever You are.)

twinkle-ding-dong, nerdy eggheads

Homeschool kids general fall into four basic categories:
1) Nerds. (I use this term lovingly, as I know some of these.) Wildly overprotected; “tucked in” tee-shirts; have actual desks and maps and bulletin boards in a schoolroom in their home; willingly, and sometimes annoyingly, initiate lengthy conversations with adults about their recent science experiment involving hydroponically-grown melons.
2) “Twinkle-ding-dongs.” These are the offspring of the leftover hippies. They draw unicorns for biology, play non-competitive games, build all-wooden, multicultural toys, eat a lot of tofu, and write music for wind flutes. (The “Twinkle-ding-dongs” were much more common in Alaska than they are here in the good ol’ South.)
3) Classics. These children are well-behaved; well-versed in home economics and American history; involved in scouts and 4-H clubs; competitive; and for some reason, they are almost always “morning people”.
4) Egg-heads. You know the type: Articulate in three languages; fluent in oboe and violin; can do advanced math on an abacus; can not only spell “flocculent”, but also define the word and give its etymology.

We never did seem to fit into any of these categories. We rarely "tucked in", the car was our school room, my kids thought 4-H was punishment, we never baked anything we could buy at Kirchoff's Bakery, and neither of my kids could spell “flocculent” - though they could easily come up with three creative, off-color uses for the word!

When people asked me why we homeschooled, my answer would vary from year-to-year. Partly because I'm a notorious "do-it-yourselfer". Largely because we just didn’t have time for regular school - we were too busy learning stuff. But primarily because I LOVE hanging out with my kids.

We had a “loose schedule” and followed it loosely as well. Our curriculum was always a hodge-podge of books we found fascinating. Our classroom was wherever we were that day – the den couch, the car, the church building, the park. Our activities ranged from the high-brow Symphony Children’s Choir to very loud guitar and drum lessons, from gymnastics to baseball and volleyball, from community theater to lots of community volunteer work. We had days we just couldn’t face the idea of “school”, so watching “Jeopardy” and and going to Kroger and mowing the yard became current events, economics and P.E. I think we even managed to go swimming and find a way to call it “marine biology”.

We never missed an opportunity to have a meaningful conversation. We talked. A lot. We read. A lot. We played games. A lot. We laughed. A lot. We slept in. Yeah, a lot. And I guess we did okay. Kacey managed to receive several academic scholarships and a 27 on her A.C.T. (not an egghead score, but quite respectable!) She will be a college senior this year and has maintained a 3-point-something GPA while serving as an R.A., small-group leader, Student Government senator, etc. (Kevin exhibits all the signs of being even more intelligent than his sister, but until we can decipher his handwriting, we cannot be certain of this.) My kids are well-rounded, responsible, funny, and far-from-perfect. I am so glad we chose to homeschool. I wouldn’t change a thing.

A Metaphor is Like a Simile

A metaphor is like a simile.

Except, when used in this sentence, the metaphor becomes a simile.
So, if the metaphor IS now a simile, that, in turn, makes the simile a metaphor. Yeah, I know I'm weird, but this makes me laugh.

the scarlet letter

I went shopping this morning at my favorite "big girl" store. I always go straight to the back first, 'cause that's where the clearance racks are.

I couldn't help but giggle when I saw a turn-around carrying "Fat Girl Fitness Clothing" tucked away in the back corner! No joke. A true oxymoron if ever there was one.

Anyway, closer to the front of the store, I discovered a cute top - 3/4 sleeves, v-neck, had an all-over design that looked French - coffee cups, Eiffel Tower, fleur-de-lis. "Fun!", I thought, so I pulled it out. Strategically scripted acrss the left chest was the word, "Chocolate." But I just couldn't do it. Obviously, I'm as guilty of loving my pure chocolate as Hester Prynne was of "loving" her Puritan minister, but do I really need to wear the symbol of my plus-sized shame emblazoned across my clothing like a scarlet letter? Methinks not.

girl interrupted

Okay, my alone-time girl night was rudely interrupted by a 30-second thunderstorm and subsequent routinely-expected power outage. So I:
8:10 Scrounge around feeling for a working flashlight.
8:14 Give up hope of ever finding a working flashlight, scrounge around for matches and a candle that still has a wick.
8:19 Light said candle.
8:22 Put ice on finger-burn from lighting too-short jar candle.
8:26 Look up phone number for electric company.
8:31 Go on "blind man's bluff" scavenger hunt for glasses so I can see telephone number to electric company.
8:33 Call electric company and report power outage.
8:34 Press "1", say "yes". Press "2" , punch in phone number. Repeat.
8:42 Attempt to read by candlelight.
8:45 Realize "It was the pest of fines, it was the worms of fines" is probably not the first line of "A Tale of Two Cities" so scrounge around Kevin's bedside looking for booklight, since candlelight is not cutting it with my 40-something eyesight.
8:57 Get distracted and beat on drumset in the dark for five minutes. Hit rims more than heads.
9:03 Call back electric company to check on status of my service - they are aware of problem.
9:11 Remember Kacey left her laptop here!
9:18 Pop "Runaway Bride" into laptop. Watch until Richard Gere gets hair tye-dyed like a clown before screen goes blank and battery dies.
9:34 Wash black tank top in sink and hang in shower to dry.
9:41 Set candle in fridge looking for something to eat.
9:44 Decide to make tea from hot sink water.
9:47 Decide to dump out tea made from hot sink water.
9:48 Call electric company a third time. They report electricity is back on.
9:49 I report it is not.
9:53 Look out windows to see distant neighbors sitting in air-conditioned, brightly-lit rooms watching end of "Minority Report" on ABC.
10:00 Call mom so somebody will know I'm sitting alone in the dark and feel sorry for me.
10:15 Clean out purse
10:23 Carry candle outside to light way to car.
10:24 Drive to office, noting the rest of my neighborhood is lit up like a holiday movie starring Chevy Chase.
10:35 Review middle school Bible lesson for tomorrow.
10: 50 Call electric company a fourth time. They report "a crew is currently on site attempting to restore power." Sure.
10:58 Blog and whine.
11:15 Check email and eBay auctions.
11: 30 Edit whiny blog.
11:37 Go back home and hope power is on so I can go to bed.

ice skating with the devil

Back in January, the cowboy made room in our 24x28 garage for me to park the car. We've lived in this house 12 years and this is a first. Now, I never minded NOT parking in the garage, but it sure is nice when the temperature is in single digits, or I've got a trunk full of groceries to haul inside. My point being, now that I can park my car in the garage, I have no need to go outside. Not even a desire really. In the winter it's too cold. Or too windy. In the summer there are bugs, and weeds that need to be pulled . . . not to mention the "odeur de equine" when the wind blows northwest from the barn. I'm just an indoorsy girl at heart. Give me a bookstore or a museum and I'm happy as . . . well, as an girl in a bookstore or museum!

My husband, on the other hand, spends almost every waking not-at-work minute outside. He comes in the house after dark to eat and sleep. If he's not working with his horses, he is cutting down trees, or disking up fields, or hauling hay, or chopping firewood, or . . . you name it.

So, he comes in from the mailbox the other day, the latest edition of "Saddle Boy" magazine in hand, proclaiming, "I have found a place for us to go on vacation!"

I glance at him skeptically over the top rim of my reading glasses. One, because we never go on vacation, and two, because we never agree on anything, much less recreation.

"No, I'm serious," he assures me.

I'm in a good mood, so I bite.

He proceeds to describe what, to me, has the vacation appeal of Yemen and ranks right above Chinese Water Torture on the fun-o-meter: a working dude ranch. Now, I've seen "City Slickers", thank you very much, and there ends the extent of my interest in Big Sky Country and, for that matter, Jack Palance's acting career.

So, once again I glance at him over the top rim of my glasses. This time with less skepticism and more sarcasm, "Are you kidding?"

He then conveys all the perks: You get to work with horses, cut down trees, disk up fields, haul hay, chop firewood, and, if you're lucky enough to have double-X chromosomes, you also get to help fix the chow! And, let us not forget - YOU get to pay THEM for the experience! The cowboy cannot seem to grasp the concept that THIS IS NOT A VACATION. Not for a sane person. But to him it sounds like heaven. To me it sounds distinctly like something I plan to do right after I go ice-skating with satan . . .

monogamy (in a handbag)

For the last three years I have been in a serious monogamous relationship . . . with my purse. I have carried this faux-leather sensible black handbag (with a frivolous lime-green lining) through better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, forsaking all others and remaining completely faithful to my beloved handbag “until death do us part.”

We are very much alike, this handbag and I: practical, oversized, generally organized, and a bit whimsical (reference the lime-green lining). We have, for all practical purposes, been inseparable.

Regrettably, my $30 pleather partner had a lifespan rivaling the career of an American Idol winner or the shelf-life of an incandescent lightbulb. “Until death do us part” turned out to be about 32 months, thus I found myself in mourning.

After her untimely demise, I must admit to a brief rebound relationship with a cute little buckle-bag, but at only 5” tall, it turned out to be much too shallow for any kind of meaningful relationship. I’m ashamed to also admit to a lust-based one-night-stand with a metallic copper number. However, it proved to be nothing more than a vacuous tote, a hollow single-compartment chasm in which I could find nothing.

My grieving phase has ended, I’m happy to announce. I am once again in LOVE. My new purse is practical – large enough to hold my slimline NIV, but small enough to fit in the console between the front seats of my car. It is designed for organization – 3 compartments (with magnetic snaps!) eyeglass pouch, and small interior zippered pocket. Mostly, my new bag is a bit whimsical – black and white polka dots and stripes. It’s nearly perfect . . .

I'm sure I could draw some sort of spiritual analogy here about how we were all created for a specific purpose, or about the wisdom of choosing good friends, or about the how our physical bodies are just transient, but, after all . . . it’s just a purse.