Someone's In The Kitchen With Sally

I was met by A Modest Proposal in the play kitchen this morning. I have to stop reading those Jonathan Swift classics to the children.

T Minus 10 Weeks

Well, almost ten more weeks, and we still have no name choices for Bun. Rob and I thought that by now we'd be old pros at picking a name, but each selection process has gotten harder.

Since we didn't know the gender of any of our children until their big entrance, we have always had a complete set of names for each of them. We figured that we could just recycle whatever name we didn't use, but now it feels like we are warming up the leftovers.

I know. We are weird.

What about you? Have you reused names from previous children? Do you start from scratch each and every time? Did the name of your child come to you in a dream in the tenth grade or has it changed weekly until your child was actually born?

You only have ten more weeks to offer an opinion . . . .

PS: Stay tuned for our famous HomeFront baby pool, coming in the next few weeks. Maybe it's not so famous here on the internet since I didn't have a blog when I was pregnant with the other three, but in our minds, it is legendary. And it's really fun.

Santa Gets Sacked

One of the unmitigated joys of childhood is the frantic ripping of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. One of the unmitigated chores of parenthood is the careful wrapping of all those gifts on Christmas Eve. Until three in the morning. While slurping eggnog so fast your head spins.

Oh, is that just me?


Anyway.


No matter how organized my Advent is (or is not), I always seem to be left with more than a few gifts to wrap in the eleventh hour. If I'm lucky, then I'll catch It's A Wonderful Life or A Christmas Carol on television while I'm working. If not, then I usually end up seeing something like The Terminator. 'Cause nothing says Christmas like a robot from the future on a deadly mission, right?


So this year I decided to take a page out of my parents' playbook because why mess with success? I'm giving up the wrapping paper, and I'm using a Santa Sack for each child and one for myself and the Mister.


A Santa Sack is a large cloth sack that can hold tons of goodies, with not a single one of them wrapped. Sort of like a giant stocking, I guess. It maintains the surprise element since the kids can't see through it, and we go even further and only allow the child to snake one little hand in and withdraw one gift at a time.

Another good thing about Santa Sacks? They are reusable for years, and that makes my frugal heart happy.

Oh, and they are also great in those days after Christmas when all of the little gifts and toys that were so neatly stacked under the tree become a foot ensnaring booby trap to unsuspecting passers-by. You can easily tell the kids to put all their things back into the Santa Sack and haul that puppy out of the living room.

And wait, wait! Don' forget that you are saving trees when you don't use all that gift wrap. That was one advantage thought of by my tree-hugging daughter.

So far, I'm not seeing a downside to these little beauties.

We used these when I was growing up, and I have so far suffered no deleterious effects of a wrapping paper-free Christmas. I still have my childhood Santa Sack, and it is still put to good use every year.

The sacks that I bought for the kids are from LL Bean, and they are wonderful: very sturdy and very large (My five year old can fit into his sack). Plus, they only cost $10.50 for the large size. And double plus, LL Bean has free shipping going down until Christmas. When you consider the fact that they are used for an entire childhood, you can bet you are looking straight down the barrel of a bargain, my friends.

I also got each sack personalized with my kids names (for an extra fee), so that Santa would know which bag belongs to which child. Very important details. (You can also go the way my mom did and write your child's name on the front in a big black marker. She's got great handwriting, so it looks pretty, and it serves the same purpose).

Let's review:

Santa Sacks = no wrapping paper, tape, or scissors, no bad movie-watching, no eggnog hangover, no wrapping frenzy induced exhaustion on Christmas morning, no tree killing, and no big piles of new toys laying on the living room floor waiting to get broken.

All of the above = saving money, time, and sanity.

So according to the Transitive Property (if a=b and b=c then a=c), Santa Sacks save money, time, and sanity.

And, apparently, they help me remember math.

Works for me.

The Hooligans Say Cheese

This weekend has been particularly productive, and quite frankly, I am shocked. This time of year is fun and beautiful and meaningful and bittersweet, but it is not usually known as the time of year to get anything done in an effective manner. This is the time of year when the days fly by like minutes, I go slightly insane, and The HomeFront Corp teeters on the brink of implosion. By the time the new year rolls in, I am fast asleep because I am too stinkin' tired to watch some ball drop and drink something bubbly with Rob. Hey, it's still the new year in the morning.

While I harbor no notions of changing my New Year celebrations -- I know I will be in some sort of recumbent position in order to accommodate the almost full grown human I will be toting around at that point -- I have been pleasantly surprised at our smooth arrival in the holiday season. I've picked the turkey clean, made some delicious leftovers, ordered our Christmas cards, and put out all of our Christmas decorations, except for the tree. Boy, it's really hard to type all of that while I am knocking furiously on wood and petting a rabbit's foot. Oh, I kid. There's no rabbit's foot.

I know we have another week until Advent, and I normally hold out on the decorating, but this year Rob was home on the day after Thanksgiving, and you know what they say: Carpe Tall Guy Who Lifts Heavy Boxes. I have finally admitted that I am in no shape to be climbing ladders and decking the halls this year, so I've had to settle for the position of Project Manager. (Did you hear that? That was the collective sigh of relief from my mother, my mother-in-law, and my husband. Just don't tell them that I still do all my own housework stunts.) As a person who is firmly entrenched in the philosophy of If-You-Want-Something-Done-Right-Do-It-Yourself, being a Project Manager is not an area in which I excel. I'm letting go, but I'm not a quick study.

We even did the family Christmas photo. Oh, yes, my friends -- the Big One. The one where people lose their minds and contemplate tying the children to a chair just to get them to sit still for the space of time it takes the shutter to click. You can easily just toss a festive throw over them to hide the restraints. Not that I've ever tried this option.

I sort of shot myself in the foot with our family photo session from last year, because now there's the pressure of having to live up to 2006: The Year of the Awesome Family Christmas Picture. Last year, I tortured dressed the kids in costumes and staged a little Holy Family Photo Op in my living room.

Francie, our resident dramatist, was into the whole idea, and she kept asking to make adjustments to her Mary costume. I told her that I was pretty sure that Mary didn't wear glittery headbands or bangle bracelets, but she was a teenager, so what do I know?

Fiver was not into the whole idea, mostly because he doesn't like costumes. Especially ones that involve headgear. He also doesn't like bathrobes, which was his whole costume. Except for the annoying headgear, of course. His smile was more of a pained and confused expression, but I let it go. I figured that Joseph was probably pretty pained, and more than a little confused, about having to make a gazillion mile journey with his super pregnant wife, who ended up giving birth - to GOD - in a place other than an actual, you know, establishment for people. I'm just saying that maybe Fiver had the expression right after all.


I don't know how Sally felt about the whole thing. I just seized the opportunity of her underdeveloped baby motor skills and plunked her in swaddling clothes right between Francie and Fiver. She was powerless to stop me, but she must have sensed the gravity of her role because she looked very calmly at the camera the whole time. She's a total method actor anyway.


After a only a few clicks, I had the picture I wanted. I played around with the color on the computer, settled on a sepia tone, slapped those babies in cards and sent them off in the first week of December. A well-oiled machine, my friends . . .


This year, I was just hoping to get them all facing the same direction. A picture with these three is like herding cats, especially since Sally cries at the injustice of having to sit for a picture without getting a chance to examine the camera. And by examine, I mean slam it on the floor. All I wanted was one piece of tangible evidence that my children can sit with each other without any of the following:

• pinching
• licking
• breathing too loudly near a sibling
• staring at aforementioned sibling
• drooling
• puking
• picking their nose or that of a sibling
• grabbing their crotch (Fiver, I'm lookin' at you)
• biting (Sally, this one's for you)
• over-emoting with the cheesiest smile ever (Yup, Francie, you know it)

I know what you're thinking. It's a tall bill, especially since my camera's batteries were dying, but I am an optimist. I went into the whole thing with the thought that I was all right with people seeing the kids just as they are. I didn't even bother to dress them in cute clothes. Bring on the gritty film of reality.

Imagine my surprise when the whole event was finished in eleven minutes.

Rob and I plunked them all down on the piano bench as a staging area while I got the camera ready. That staging area was a stroke of genius because the kids all started playing around on the piano. With smiles on their faces. Faces that were actually turned to the camera at the same time. It was a pre-Christmas miracle, my friends.

In accordance with my Edict of Internet Shopping, I uploaded the photos and ordered my cards on line this year. Why, oh why, have I not done this before? They were twenty percent off, and I got free shipping. I heart saving money while wearing my slippers. Will the wonders of the internet never cease?

Now I just have to write The Letter. You know, the one where I recount all the mundane things we do all year. It's terribly exciting to read -- not unlike this blog. I better do it while I'm buzzing from the rush of the good picture and the free shipping. All it takes is one tantrum to bring the whole thing crashing down.

Like I said, it's all about the gritty reality this year.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends! I am live blogging here at the hub of Turkey Day festivities, otherwise known as my kitchen. There is a twenty four pound bird in my oven because I am compelled to live up to our family motto: Go Big or Go Home. This is shaping up to be a fine day indeed.

I know I've been scarce around these parts lately, but it hasn't been for lack of trying. This week has just been one big ball of activity, and I am grateful for every single minute. Well, maybe not the time Sally dropped a full cup of juice on the freshly washed kitchen floor, but you get my drift.

There are so many things for which I am grateful that I don't have the time to enumerate them all. Those sweet potatoes are not going to peel themselves after all.

There have been several salient moments this week that have filled my cup of blessings to the brim; moments that have brought home to me just how good my life is, with all its little bumps.

• I am grateful for the opportunity to volunteer at Fiver's preschool Thanksgiving feast. Where else would I learn that the Pilgrims came to this land to escape religious persecution? And that once they were here, they were blessed enough to meet a helpful Native American named Sock-Ho?
• I am grateful for the perfectly clear fetal echocardiogram of Bun's heart. It's amazing to see that little heart thumping away while Bun is busy sucking his/her thumb and yawning. I guess gestation can get a little boring on both sides of the womb.
• I am also grateful for Bun's clear growth scan and a normal result for my glucose screen. All of those things add up to a healthy baby, so far.
• I am grateful for my family who enabled me to host Thanksgiving in my house without doing much of the cooking myself. I could so totally get into this catered meal thing.
• I am grateful that my church does not employ bouncers. Let's just say that my three children are hooligans and leave it at that.
• I am grateful for those three hooligans more than I can say.
• I am grateful for my husband - who ran out to the store on Thanksgiving morning without complaining. And then brought me a toffee bar just because he loves me.

May your Thanksgiving Day be as full of love, laughter, and blessings as mine, and I will see you all when I can next roll myself to the keyboard.

Global Warming?

Well, here we are. We are still home at eight in the morning because we have a two hour delay. Because of snow. Before Thanksgiving.


The kids are beside themselves with joy, and I am just beside myself. I was caught unprepared in the hat/mitten/boots department, and my children have not missed a minute of bringing that maternal shortcoming to my attention.


We could go out on the driveway, if we had boots and mittens. You know, the ones Mom forgot to buy. So you've got to go out in your too-small sneakers that are nowhere near water-tight. Sue me. At least you're not going out in your Crocs, which are the only other shoes you own (besides the sacred school shoes).


And another thing, if you are under the impression that I am running out to the mall for boots and snow pants after I drop you two monkeys off at school, you better think again. I'm not heading to the mall when LL Bean has their free shipping mojo going down. You can just wait three to five days like the rest of us.


Besides the weather man says that in three days it's going to be fifty-five degrees out again, so you don't really need the boots right now anyway.


Of course this is also the same weather man who did not breathe one word of impending snow all weekend, but I guess you can never tell when an Alberta Clipper will clip you.


Where is my hot chocolate?

Sah-weet!

Oh yeah, baby, it's come around to my favorite time of year again: Thanksgiving. I used to be a Christmas kind of gal, but as I get older, I realize that Thanksgiving is really the holiday that gets me in the old heartstrings. I'm not knocking Christmas in the least; I just seem to have a very soft spot for Thanksgiving.

Maybe it's because I like to cook and have my family around me; maybe it's because Rob proposed to me on Thanksgiving, lo these many years ago; maybe it's because there is no expectation of gift giving, instead you honor those things for which you are most grateful. I think the answer may be D. All of the above. And so much more.

This year we are hosting my parents, my brothers, and my sister for the big feast, and that alone is a reason to give thanks. With Rob, my mother, and my sister all working in a hospital, it is nothing short of amazing that no one is working on the holiday. Of course, they all go back to the salt mines the next day, but since we've saved many plates of food over the years it will be nice to have them all around the table at one sitting.

I've had a relapse with my office supply addiction, because this time of year always calls for such huge lists. Color coded. With highlighter. And tiny Post-it's for the cookbooks. It's all about baby steps, my friends. Since I am in the throes of my recipe gathering, and because my sister-in-law made a request for it as well, I'm going to share one of my favorite Thanksgiving recipes with you: The Sweet Potato Puff.

I'm not kidding when I am telling you that this side dish will change your life, even if you don't like sweet potatoes. This is like pie that is masquerading as a legitimate dinner course, and it is so delicious that you will want to put a serious hurt on anyone who tries to move in on your second helping. The Puff has brought people to tears and fisticuffs, so make sure you have enough to go around.

Sweet Potato Puff

3 cups cold mashed sweet potatoes (no butter or milk added)

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup butter, melted (the recipe also mentions margarine, but that is sacrilege in this house)

2 eggs, beaten

1/3 cup milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 cup flaked coconut

Topping (the part that I need a straight jacket to stop myself from eating):

1/2 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 cup chopped pecans

2 tablespoons butter, melted

1/4 cup all purpose flour

Beat sweet potatoes, sugar, butter, eggs, milk, and vanilla until fluffy. Stir in coconut. Spoon into a greased 2.5 quart baking dish. Combine topping ingredients until well blended and sprinkle over potatoes. Bake, uncovered, at 350 for 35-40 minutes (or until golden brown) Yield: 8 servings. Or two and a half servings. Whatever floats your boat.

Also, here are two helpful tips gleaned from years of cooking and eating this dish:

1. The potato mixture can be made the day before and refrigerated, but the topping tastes best when you add it right before baking.
2. It is very easy to sustain third degree burns on your tongue by eating the topping as soon as you pull it out of the oven. Don't say I didn't warn you.

This is obviously not a non-caloric recipe, but all the beta carotene more than makes up for the fat. You will have eyes like a hawk, which will come in handy while you are watching the football games from your treadmill.

And if you are very faithful to your treadmill, then you may be interested in the recipe for Rob's favorite Thanksgiving dessert: Apple Cranberry Crisp with Eggnog Sauce. I'll have to ask Rob if he'll let me share it with you. He gets a little possessive of The Crisp, but I think the spirit of the season may prevail.

If You Are So Inclined

Hot on the heels of my "anti-mall on a Saturday afternoon" rant, I have to tell you that I have discovered something very handy and important for my family.

Since I am doing most of my shopping on the internet this year, I am spending more time than usual clicking around different sites for better deals or interesting products. Last night, as I was shopping for my little brood, I found myself on a tangent that lead me back to one of the best support sites for Sensory Processing Disorder, the SPD Foundation. I've been to this site before, but since I get all of their updated information delivered directly to my email, I haven't been to their homepage for quite a while.

I scrolled down and clicked on "Support SPD" just to see how they are coming along, and I was excited to learn that if you access certain vendors through the SPD website, the foundation receives a certain percentage of your purchase at no cost to you.

They don't have a huge list of participating vendors, but Amazon and Target are on the list. You just need to go to the website and click on the logo before you go shopping. Then shop as usual, all while supporting SPD reasearch. And, as many of you have pointed out, there is much free shipping to be had at this time of year. My fear and loathing of S&H may come to nothing if I play my cards right!

I'm not trying to be pushy about supporting SPD research; I just thought that this seemed like a relatively painless way to try and help some struggling kids (wow! I sure over packed for that guilt trip - sorry!) I am sure many other worthy places do the exact same thing; this is just one foundation close to my heart for so many reasons, so I thought I'd throw the idea out there.

Happy shopping, my friends.

The Price of Shipping is Worth My Immortal Soul

I've been in a funk lately, and I don't know why. It's probably hormones, and since I usually start to get this way toward the end of my pregnancies, this is probably a sign that I should pop in to my friendly neighborhood family doctor to head off my inevitable future problems with postpartum depression.

But instead of doing that, I went Christmas shopping by myself. On a Saturday. To the mall. The mall that just opened a phalanx of fancy new stores. For five hours. I should have just paid someone to shoot me.

I must have been on crack, or swallowed some Aqua Dots, because I usually avoid the mall in general, especially on a Saturday, with the grand opening of all those fancy stores a mere week in the past. This weekend was no better; it was like Grand Opening II: The Plastic is Burning.

You see, Rob was home with the children, and that alone was incentive enough for me to head for the hills. The children hate shopping, I hate shopping with them, and so the whole escapade turns into one giant lose-lose situation. Every trip to the mall with the children includes these three things: vehement, hissed whisper-yelling through gritted teeth; greasy soft pretzels from the Auntie Anne's pretzel stand knock-off; and an urgent trip to the disgusting "family restroom" nestled deep in the creepy back corridors of the mall. I am usually informed of the necessity of this trip when I am finally next in line for the register, naturally. The child in question then hops and moans and clutches all through the transaction, which includes at least one item that is not properly tagged and requires a price check. The whole trip is a study in exhaustion.

I try not to even start shopping until after Thanksgiving, but this year I've got too much going on to wait. We usually get together with Rob's family for a party and gift exchange during one of the weekends before Christmas. It's fun and it gives everyone a chance to be in their own homes and not travel on Christmas if they choose, but it also means that I need to get my act together and make sure that I have all the gifts for my in-laws first.

As always, Rob was unfailingly generous when I told him that I needed to get out or die tryin' pick out a few more things for his family Christmas party. He said, Go! Have a great time and don't hurry back. We'll be fine and you should enjoy a little quiet time. Love you! (And all of this is said without sarcasm or his arms crossed against his chest, so completely unlike the send-off I usually give him.) You can see how easy it was for me to skip to the car with visions of fancy coffee at the new bookstore dancing in my head.

I will cut to the chase and tell you that I did get a good chunk of shopping out of the way, but it wasn't pretty. People were surly, lines were long, parking spaces were few and far between, and we haven't even hit crunch time yet, my friends. I did manage to retreat to the bookstore for some hot chocolate and in-depth US Weekly magazine perusal, and I stayed for forty-five minutes. Forty-five whole minutes of sitting at one table, drinking a beverage while it was still hot, and not wiping a single thing off of myself or the person next to me. It was heavenly, and I felt sufficiently fortified to face the throngs again.

As I left the bookstore, I held the door for a woman who was wearing her lingerie as a shirt. This was not a real-shirt-that-looked-like-lingerie kind of shirt. This was a satiny teddy. In forty degree weather. With high waisted, acid washed jeans. While still wondering about her choice of fashion, I was almost trampled by a gaggle of teenage girls who were wearing skin tight, midriff baring tee shirts while hugging their arms and complaining about the cold. Where are Stacy and Clinton when you need them?!

While I walked to the car, I could hear an engine slow behind me and I turned and saw that I was being tailed all the way to my parking spot, which was so far out that it might have been in the next county. I waddled my way there, turning every once in a while to see a woman my age chatting on the phone while she trolled along in my wake. It was like a scene from Shark Week and I was the chum.

I knew, as I pulled out of the parking lot and saw a car almost hit someone pulling out of another space, that I was done with the mall. I am turning to the internet, even though I loathe paying shipping for an item I can get at a store a few miles down the road. When Christmas shopping becomes a near occasion of sin for me - when I have to fight temptations to anger, greed, unfair judgements, pride - I'm willing to pay a little shipping and handling for some peace.

My Exhaustion Knows No Bounds

This week has kicked my butt. And then it turned around and came back and kicked my butt one more time for good measure. Just to show me who's boss.


I even missed The Office last night because I was asleep. By 7:30 pm. The Office is one of the few television programs for which I will prop my eyes open if need be, but I was powerless to remain awake.

And I have no TiVo or DVR or any other fancy schmancy television recording device. And the Writer's Strike means that I may only have one or two more new episodes before the only fresh programming will be "America's Next Top Dancing Survivor Idol is Smarter Than Your Dad." I may be alone in saying this, but I think that most reality television is a scourge upon the land. Surely it is a sign of the End Time if that is all that is available for viewing pleasure. I'm starting to see my habit of falling asleep at 4:30 in the afternoon as a blessing.


This is big-time exhaustion, my friends, and at 27 weeks, I have only a few more days to enjoy the Golden Middle Trimester. I was supposed to get so much more done around here before the aches and pains of trimester number three set in, but here it is, knocking on my door. And by knocking on my door, I mean knocking me flat on my butt with crippling back pain because that is what is going on here. I even had to send Rob grocery shopping for me, and, if you know me at all, you will realize that this is just one more sign of The Apocalypse. Let's just say that I have a little trouble relinquishing my list.


Compounding the exhaustion is the cold that has taken up residence in the sinuses of myself, Fiver, and Sally. We are just stumbling around the house, coughing and sniffling and whining. I'm whining because there are no medicines that I can safely ingest, Fiver is whining because he can't breathe and suck his two favorite "sleep fingers" at the same time, and Sally is whining because she can. She is sixteen months old, and her intellect outpaces her vocabulary a hundredfold. She is also stubborn and independent, and, if this is any indication of her temperament these days, she likes to sit on the floor and hurl herself backwards, screaming, if anyone offers to help her. Luckily for me, I distinctly remember this phase with Francie, so I know that time will heal all tantrums. I also remember this phase as being the one where I vowed Francie would be an only child. I'm about three kids too late for that plan . . .

I will dispense with the whining now, and I will leave you with something that amuses me to no end. No end, my friends.

(Warning: this may be a trifle risque for this blog, so I apologize to anyone with delicate sensibilities. Not that they read this blog, but you know . . .)

Fiver (holding the Halloween candy bucket): Mmmmmmm .....

Me: See something you like in there?

Fiver: Sure I do. I see Titsie Rolls and I really like Titsie Rolls.


Have a good weekend, my friends!

Way Better Than Vomit

I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that I did not win anything in the Fall, Y'All giveaway this year. I know this sounds pathetic, but I still check my email hoping someone forgot to let me know that I've won something fabulous. Or even something slightly less-than-fabulous, like dental floss.

In true Navel-Gazer fashion, I started to ponder why I wanted to win. It wasn't the stuff that I really wanted (although a new blog design would have rocked). What I really wanted was to be picked, even by a random number generator for a pack of dental floss. It's all just a massive high school gym class field hockey flashback, really. And volleyball. And basketball.

So imagine my surprise and delight when I saw that the ever-generous T had nominated me for this!:




She nominated me based on this post about my little chatfest with my hormones, and, really, I don't know if you can imagine my surprise and delight. Sadly, the human mind may not be able to encompass all the delight.

I've seen these little award badges on other blogs, and, although I know what ROFL stands for, I've always thought of it more as an onomatopoeia than an abbreviation. To me, it sounds like the noise my kids make when they are busy throwing up on the carpet and not in any one of the strategically placed "spit-up buckets," trashcans, or, heaven forbid, an actual tiled, wipeable bathroom. Not that we have problems with that or anything.

I am very tickled by this. Almost too tickled, to tell the truth, but let's face it: this job is not known for it's glowing performance evaluations. Sometimes it seems like the better mother you are, or try to be, the more your people despise you. At the HomeFront Corp, eye-rolling is tantamount to a 3% pay raise. You know, if you got a paycheck. The more huffing and stomping, the more I am assured that I am on the right track. It's annoying.

To hear that someone, especially a lifelong friend, was fleetingly amused by something that I spouted off on a whim -- well, that just makes me smile, my friends. Especially since I spend some portion of each day washing off fluids that my own body did not produce. Motherhood ain't for punks. Or sissies. Or the squeamish.

Thanks, T.

And the WinnerS Are . . .

You read that correctly, I said winners, with an "S". As in the plural of "winner."

Because you all came out in droves for this CD, I decided that I would give away two copies! Plus, our mall just opened a fancy new Barnes and Noble, and with my membership card and their coupon, getting another copy was a steal.

I loved all of your comments, but I really did go for the blind pick. I used Random.org, a random number generator, to select two winners, since I'm feeling a little under the weather and I couldn't muster the energy to write over one hundred numbers on little slips of paper for one of my kids to draw out of a hat. Plus, I don't even know where all our hats are, so you can see how it would have become a huge process.

Without further ado, I give you my Fall, Y'All Giveaway Winners:

Saralyn of The Place Beneath

Barb of SFO Mom

Congratulations, ladies, and may your families become as tormented as mine by the constant repetition of this CD. I will drop your (unopened, I promise!) copies in the mail as soon as I get your addresses.

Rock on, my friends!

Listen Up

****This is a sticky post. Scroll down for new stuff, if there is any . . . ***

Well, I've gone and done it. I've added myself to the increasingly ginormous list of bloggers participating in the big Fall, Y'All! giveaway hosted by Shannon from Rocks in my Dryer. This is shaping up to be tons of fun, my friends, and if you haven't heard about it, you can head over here to check out all of the details.

This whole idea is like one giant swap meet, except we are swapping fabulous new treasures instead of old blenders or macrame plant hangers. In other words, I've been sucked right in. There are over three hundred participants right now -- that's three hundred people who are giving away really cool things! Do yourself a favor and try to win something.

I am giving away a copy of an awesome new CD; Raising Sand by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss. Shhh, don't tell Rob, but I bought it for him as a welcome home gift, and I couldn't stop myself from listening to it. It has become an addiction. Frankly, I think he'll appreciate the fact that I love him so much that I wanted to make sure he was not getting a dud CD as a welcome home gift, don't you?

Anyway.

Yes, it's the same Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin fame. And yes, it's also the same Alison Krauss of country and bluegrass fame. Sounds like an odd mix, right? I thought so too, until I heard it. I'm telling you that it's magical, almost haunting. It's folksy and bluesy and gospel and rockabilly, and I am wearing out the repeat feature of my CD player, my friends. You can go here to listen to some of it, but I know you will get hooked and you will be forced to come back here to try and win it. And if you can listen to the last track while thinking of a loved one and not tear up a little, then you might be a cyborg. All I'm saying is that the autoharp is an instrument that sounds like a heart breaking, so consider yourself warned!

To enter this contest, all you have to do is leave a comment on this post. This one right here. Any comment will do, since I will be drawing a winner at random, but feel free to tell me that my hair looks nice. Especially since it doesn't.

I will leave this post at the top of the page until Saturday, November 3rd, and I will announce the winner on Sunday, November 4th. This drawing is open to any commenter in the US, Canada, or those at an APO/FPO address (you know my soft spot for the military). You do not have to have a blog to win, so all commenters have an equal chance.

Good luck, my friends -- and I promise not to open the winner's copy as well!