If You Are Jack

Jack got a cheapie, cheapie digital camera for Christmas, and we've just uploaded his pictures from Christmas to the computer. Pretty funny/blurry/and sometimes just odd, really. Anyway, this is what Christmas morning looks like... if you are Jack.

Jack, himself

The biscuits we had for breakfast

His sister and his Grammie

His Mom

His presents, of course

Himself, again

His Dad

His smoothie? Really, Jack?

Aaaand we're just not sure about this one, honestly.

We Wish You a Merry Christmas and a Happyyyy Birrrrthdaaaay!

Merry Christmas from us. As you can see, Santa did honor the number one item on Jack's list. The Santa suit was a big hit.

Happy Birthday today to Jack. A whopping six years! Oh my goodness. Some day he'll be a fourth grader, and that is just amazing. For his birthday, the poor little guy woke up with the flu. We'll have to postpone the cake eating, I believe.

Happy holidays to you all.

Those Crazy Hoodenpyles, Always Elfing Themselves!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

On Hitting a Deer

Here's the end of the story first: Everyone is okay. The car is damaged. The deer is dead. How very Tarantino of you, Whitney.

Last Thursday morning on the way to work, I hit a deer with the car.

Actually, if you get the story from Jack, he would say that the deer waited on the side of the road until our car came along and then decided to jump right in front of the car. Upon telling the story this way, he'll then ask you over and over WHY the deer did that. I have not encouraged the "deer suicide" theory, but he's apparently sticking by it rather than the "it was running through the field and didn't look both ways for road traffic" theory that I've gently suggested.

Anyway, deer come in twos (at least). And when you narrowly miss the first, you might as well squint your eyes and brace for the second.

How very, very sad. Leave it to the Hoodenpyle boys to take the edge off of the dreadful parts of this story though...

Jack immediately wondered aloud, "Will God give that deer's family another deer so that they won't be so sad?" And then cue Jim. He came along with his truck only a few minutes behind me, observing that someone had promptly picked up the deer from the middle of the road. "Maybe you just gave a hungry family their Christmas dinner. Let's think of it that way."

Thank you, boys.

Happy "Surprise Your Friends By Taking Their Picture At Random Moments" Day

9:48: "Surprise Your Friends By Taking Their Picture At Random Moments" Day is born in Whitney's mind. Ashley concurs... It's a good idea! Danavee agrees that it must become an annual tradition. So.... here we go.

11:57: "Surprise Your Friends By Taking.... " Day is dang harder than one might think. Mental note... next time I make up a holiday involving stealthiness at the expense of my colleagues, I will NOT shout it from the mountaintops.

12:07 I would not make a good spy.

1:24: I have quite a collection now. It's going well. I believe I am winning this game. Why am I whispering?

"Whitney, why did you just take my picture?!"

"Whitney! WHAT are you doing?!"

I'm cackling. Can you hear me cackling?! Let's show some additional pieces from my collection...

"Noooooo!"

This is Danavee's chair. This picture would've been more pertinent to the game if she had been sitting in it. I don't know where she is. She is not here.

Espionage is difficult work. Sometimes you must hide in the nearest poinsettia plant.

Hiding in a resource room is also good for surprise hallway popping out.

But I am no longer satisfied with surprise pictures. Let's do a movie!

Classicly Whitney-botched. I did not account for Ashley needing to go to the bathroom. Poor spying skills. Poor spying skills.

I Woke Up Annoyed

Last night, I was the passenger in my car. Jim was driving. It was slightly icy, and we came to an intersection. As we came to a rest at the red light, a car with a load of what I thought were college aged boys came sliding toward us from the lefthand, cross street. They were showboating and sliding... whooping and hollering the whole way. Even as their front end came sliding into our left side fender, they thought it was great fun!

I was MAD. It was me who then leaned out of the car and gave them a piece of my mind for being so irresponsible. I believe I was even shaking my fist in the air. And then I paused and looked more closely at the passenger seat. Brad Pitt flashed me his very Brad Pitt-like grin through the windshield. And he was smacking his gum while grinning... you know, the way that he does. Anyway, upon realizing that he was the Brad, I settled down and got back into my car.

As the two cars drove away from each other, the scenario suddenly turned into a paparazzi style Brad Pitt chase. Jim and I followed Brad and his irresponsible entourage at high speeds with our now damaged vehicle. We weaved and dodged. Jim would speed around Brad's vehicle, and I would lean out the window, holding out my camera, clicking away. When I later checked my images, Brad and his crew were making silly faces in every single, blasted shot.

Dangit, Dream-Brad! Grow up, would you?

"Santa Doesn't Have a Mailbox!"

Jack insists that Santa couldn't possibly have a mailbox. He wrote a list just because we wanted him to, but he thinks it's much more efficient to simply squint his eyes shut and announce to the air around him, "I wish I had a _____. I wish I had a ____."
He always does this aloud for his sister too when he feels that SHE must want something from Santa. And I think that's pretty cute.

On Jack's list:

1. a Santa suit with a fake beard (he's a strange child)
2. dominoes
3. checkers
4. roller skates (the kind with 4 wheels, NOT "all in a row" wheels)
5. a remote control Wall-E toy

On Emma's list:

1. books

What Would Thumper Say?

"Kinda wobbly, isn't [s]he?"

But wait! What's this?!

I recently received a decent slinging of 'anonymous' hate mail. Surprised? Yeah, me too.

A) I hadn't realized I was conducting an argument with anyone. And B) I was not at all aware that I was worth such major creativity. On the off chance that the author of the messages in question reads this blog, I guess I should reward them with at least a nod.

I try to imagine the author, brooding and worked up. I honestly think it might be disappointing to get absolutely no feedback if I were in their shoes. I feel for them, and so I wish to reward the effort. I'm not really sure what to say though.

I guess I'll go with, "Way to go! The messages were written with a voice that seemed vengeful, but only just approaching harrassment. Just the right mix."

Shrug.

A more significant side note is that my attention has been called to the totally nifty website(s) that these messages came from! I had NO IDEA you could send anonymous email! I'm super excited about this, and I highly recommend it for the use of spreading niceness in the following way:

Picture it. You're checking your email. You're filtering through some spam. You're unsuspecting. Yada, yada, yada.

But wait! What's this?! 'Anonymous' loves the blouse that you had on today!

I love it!

He sings!

I've always been into music. Mom tells me the story of how, as an infant sitting in my highchair, a song would come on the radio and I'd start swaying to the beat. My first grade teacher complained that I was disruptive at my desk as a constant hummer. In fifth grade, I took up playing the clarinet and experienced some success with it. And as a teenager, I'd shut myself in my bedroom and get lost in the lyrics of sad and pathetic lovesongs. It's no wonder I always swooned over the idea of playing the guitar or someone who put just the right words to the notes.

Some things never change. I still get lost in lyrics and often find myself singing along with an annoying television commercial. I sway to the beat of background music while Emma refuses to eat in her highchair. There is cause for celebration, if you ask me, when a song that is particularly narrative of one's own life comes over the car's radio. I find every excuse possible to sing my ordinary, everyday sentences to the tune of the A-Team themesong. And although I've dropped the clarinet as an instrument, I do play a darn good Yankee Doodle Dandy on the piano.

So, isn't it odd that such a music-loving person would choose the mate that I have? Jim doesn't sing. He doesn't dance. For the most part, he ignores the stories in the lyrics and chooses a tune based strictly on whether or not it has a decent beat for exercising. He says he thought high school band was completely stupid and only chose to stay in it because I was there. He often changes the station just when a song gets to the good part. So ughhh, right?

This morning, though, as I was lugging along with me a fairly down-in-the-dumps mood, it suddenly occurred to me that Jim sings! He does it in an unconventional way, and one who doesn't listen is likely to overlook the tune or the meaningful lyric. He's on vacation this week, and even so, he got up early just to iron my clothes for me. He took the kids to school so that I wouldn't be late. He encouraged me to eat a good breakfast. He removed the coke from my hand and put orange juice in it instead. He makes me laugh when I surely wouldn't otherwise. He helps me out of these stale moments of life when I'm wasting time feeling sorry for myself and makes me stop to listen.

You can't miss it - he's singing his heart out, folks.