John Hancock Henry

Right as if moving isn't hard enough I was told that my signature wouldn't hold on my lease. The bank rejected our application and as far as we can tell we signed where appointed and printed where appointed. The advice we were given: "They want that fancy cursive, not print."

When can you tell someone their cursive signature isn't good enough? Now in 2010, when we've ditched the quills, tipped the ink and type all day every day. OHHH maybe we won't have great penmanship in this age. And maybe if it's a signature you accept it regardless if it's legible. (Half of you reading this know you almost complete the first letter of your name and hurriedly scribble out the rest.)

Mine in fact has all letters. Just for fun try it. Breanna Hall. Doesn't look horribly different in cursive.

In the heat of the moment I'd like to go over a list of things you can't refuse.

1. Signatures.
2. A fight over your original eye color.
3. Mother Nature. She's not going to change her course because you want to wear flip-flops.
4. A break up. Watch Aladdin, the Genie says it perfectly--"I can't make someone fall in love with you."
5. Your biological parents. It's a two-for-one special. Embrace it.
6. It's a John Hancock, not John Henry people! American Heritage 101.
7. The fact that this list could've been longer but my hand's cramped from getting that cursive right.

P.S. Later, when I'm feeling cheeky and no longer want to agree to that lease I can honestly say it's NOT my signature.

Spooktacular Spinning

No, I'm not holding a thread, or wire. We stumbled onto this scene during a little nature walk (the others took it to be more of a recon project for future hunts). I think we have the huge Illinois spiders to thank for illusion. Enjoy!

Pee or Pinch

In all my 18 years living in Lamar (bug capitall of Colorado) I never suffered anything more than a mosquito bite. Really quite a few of those. I had no idea how painfully annoying other bites were. Moving to Utah I put thoughts of unwanted bugs into neat file in my mind called Home. Utah's nickname, The Beehive State, didn't clue me in. Instead I dreamed of honey fountains, and it worked for nine years.

The first sting happened while I held a semiautomatic weapon in my hands. Trying to shoot a can from 50 yards sounded like a good time and was when I heard the bang of a hit. What I didn't know was that as I stared down my target I became the target for a nasty, multiple inch wasp. As it landed on my shirt collar Skip tried to warn me, "Don't move," he whispered. Thinking I had done something wrong with the gun I tensed up for the backfire.

Zing!

Fiery hot and through a thick polo collar the wasp's stinger barely got me. Ohhh but it itched and suddenly it felt like the temperature jumped 30 degrees. I declared war on insects. They heard my cry and planned their attack.

Five months later I returned to The Bug Capital. Skip was instantly aware of the giant roaches, grasshoppers, flies...and wasps. I was more interested in showing off my dad's green thumb and our aspen grove. Walking barefoot across our lawn I heard Skip caution, "you aren't wearing any shoes."

Double ZING!!!

I looked down in time to see another giant wasp crawling towards the top of my foot. He'd done his damage on the soft side near my arch and grinned evilly before flying off. I wish he'd been a bee and would've died. Weeks later the puncture is healing, the swelling is down and the itch has left, but my foot is dry and scaly.

Now in Peoria I fear a spider will drop on my head or snip at my toes while I sleep. But I was ready to see the beauty in the millions of lady bugs fluttering by. I imagined my bug-hunter nieces visiting with their nets and quick hands. I smiled to myself and reached for a black spotted creature. I watched it crawl up my arm. I drew in a sharp breath remembering that they like to pee on people. And then I felt the innocent ladybug bite me. I didn't even know they did that.

My white flag is raised and this is my song. The war is over.

75 Days Later

Last night I got a text about a sexy tie. Not the first text I've received on that subject. My youngest brother had the gift of a lifetime courtesy of my wedding: a Sexy Wedding Tie. A tie he chooses to wear to work on occasion. Normally I'd support this with cheerleader style, pom-poms and all. Since he works at the MTC and there really aren't any girls seduce I can only give a golf clap and sly smile.

His text last night held the weight of the supernatural forces of Halloween, love, and maybe even divine intervention. Perplexed by what tie to slip on he stood in front of the closet, closed his eyes, felt a little tug at his heart (after all his favorite sister just moved across the country), reached out and grabbed the Sexy Wedding Tie. If that weren't enough to make your skin tingle he then did some fancy math and concluded it was the 75th day anniversary of my wedding.

I'm not sure he thought we'd last this long.

So girls, here's Dano in his new sexy tie.

Midwest Ghosts

We've been driving and driving and driving. Sure we stayed with friends and family along the way, but the point in this post is the driving and more driving and the wrong turns at the end of our journey (I should not ever be leader). It was the wrong roads, the road food, the creepy truck stops, swollen eyes and gypsy lifestyle that had me on edge. What pushed me over was a scene that could be found in Amityville Horror.

A charming farmhouse near Peoria, Illinois, my new home, looked warm and inviting. The spiders also thought so and decided to move from the newly spun webs on the patio to the bathtub and kitchen. Welcome! or not. As I sat on the toilet I couldn't avoid the eye-level hint scrawled into the wall   LEAVE.

Right. Can do. Can't go. Creepy tree shadows everywhere. Spiders falling on my head. Black cats and bats and a witch cackle drifting in the wind. Spooky! 

At Last

Enter Happily Ever After

A little late I know, but I had to wait for a new, better computer as my trusty Vaio has multiple glitches and Skip was always using his for "work" and such nonsense, like he's a writer or something. Then he got a new computer for work, left the country for 10 days and told me to work out all the kinks. I took that as code for relive our wedding by making a video. And it was good.

Grunt It Out

I don't usually like to make fun of others, especially on a public profile such as this where a handful of people might read, but after volleyball this past Thursday I have no choice.

Let's start with a little review of tennis. Watching it on TV you might notice that people grunt, a lot, when they hit the ball across the court. I don't know if it's involuntary or if it's intimidation. Tennis, a weird world I don't understand. Volleyball with its similar ball over the net concept I do, or thought I did.

The team we played against in our first game had plenty of vocalization. "Mine, yours, go, in, out...uhhnechaaa" or in my terms the longest loudest grunt heard during indoor coed volleyball. One tiny girl made that noise  every time she touched the ball. She hits uunng, she digs uuhhhaaa, she serves grruuuhhh, she sets oopphhh, she passes easily uuuunnnhhhh. Except it wasn't that fluid. Reread that sentence like this: She hits, someone sets, she expresses her efforts verbally.

The grunts had a two-three second delay which caused me to laugh hard, uncontrollably and when she served into the net. I think she noticed because the grunts became inaudible afterwards.