Wednesday, December 14, 2011

The Cost of Avoidance

I have a plethora of nieces and nephews scattered around in different states. Not a single one lives close. Logistics being what they are, I don’t know these kids as well as I’d like to. Sure there are a few of the older ones on Facebook and we enjoy that strange and distant virtual closeness that’s so part of today’s culture. But the younger ones—well, our relationship is reduced to those two phone calls a year: “Thanks for the birthday/Christmas gift, Auntie Linda.”  Followed by a brief, somewhat formal conversation. Far from the tight relationship I enjoyed with my own aunts and uncles when I was growing up. Heck, they and my parents were practically interchangeable.  

Anyway I’ve fallen into the habit of getting all these kids the same thing for Christmas. There’s two parts to my gift. The first (and in my humble opinion, the best part) is a signed book from one of the writers conferences I attend earlier in the year. I try to find a book and author who would be best for each of my nieces and nephews at their particular ages. And I love doing this for them. I like to think that I’m being a good auntie by introducing them to such greats as John Scieszka and Norton Juster, Judy Blume and M.T. Anderson. I can only hope that the kids appreciate these personally signed books as much as their obligatory thank you call implies!

But, since I can never be sure, there’s the second part to my gift—a small gift card usually to Walmart where they can buy anything they want. But this year I decided to avoid the big monolith. And I did my Christmas shopping at local vendors and shops wherever I could. Which was all well and good. But what to do about those gift cards? Running short on time (all these things have to be packaged up and mailed) I ended up deciding on Visa Gift Cards. What I learned is that, unlike Walmart gift cards, the Visa ones cost $3.95 each! Basically I had to pay for money? Which, of course, is ridiculous and I will never do again.

Did I mention how I like to wrap them up all cute before sending them off?  



Anyway . . . next year’s gifts to the distant sibling and sibling-in-law offspring will look a little different. Sure, there will still be the books . . .  personally signed by authors I meet. But there is likely to be far less plastic involved.    



Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Sometimes doctors fix ya and sometimes they don't


It was some seventeen years ago when I had a caesarian section. At the time I was under the impression that they were done rarely and only in cases of absolute need. At the time I thought mine was one of those. Since then I’ve learned how pitocin (given to induce labor) actually induces stress in the fetus creating a need for C-sections. (Google Pit to Distress). If mine had been an actual emergency, my C-section would have happened as soon as they discovered the stress in my baby, not three hours later, after office hours, when it was more convenient for my OB.

As a result of my unnecessarian, the muscles cut in my midsections are weaker than they should be, an imbalance that’s caused seventeen years of lifting, standing, running and walking incorrectly. Not totally responsible but certainly contributing to the arthritis I’m now sporting in my lower back.

As a result of my arthritis, I went to another kind of doctor, a rheumatologist who assured me that certain pain meds were safe if taken with food and bla, bla, bla . . . etc. etc. etc . . .  all advice I followed to the letter. “If they stop working,” he advised, “we’ll find something else for you.”

Well, they never stopped working, they kept me happy, pain free, and functioning normally. Until the day I wound up unconscious on the floor and had to be hauled away in an ambulance. Turns out I had three bleeding ulcers and had lost two pints of blood. Turns out NSAIDs are actually responsible for some 16,000 deaths a year. (see previous post about that.) 
  
While I was in the hospital getting my bloody stomach fixed, I was assigned a GI doctor who I like immensely (in spite of the places he’s been). He helped heal up the holes in my stomach and then kept seeing me for regular check-ups. Every time we talked he asked if anything else was going on. So I eventually got over my embarrassment and told him about a certain “other” chronic problem I was having (and I’ll spare the details here).


I told him how doctor number one (the OB) had suggested that this "other problem" is caused by a tilt in my uterus and the sure-fire fix would be to take the thing out . . . said I’d be fine without it since my baby making days were over and I didn't need the thing anyway. He said artificial hormones would compensate for what I’d lose and they’d be safe as long as I took them according to directions. And bla, bla, bla, . . . etc, etc, etc . . . 

Gee, where had I heard that before?

In the long run, my GI doctor (did I mention how much I adore him?) has suggested certain dietetic changes and other sundry, natural stuff that has everything working as it should. No surgery, no drugs. Just me, my weakened ab muscles, my arthritic back, my compromised stomach, and my diet.

So yeah, I have some back pain. I have some issues with my posture. I have a few regrets—okay, maybe lots of them. But I also have a big strapping seventeen year old boy. And what could be wrong with that!?

And I have a much more cautionary relationship with our "healthcare" system.


Friday, November 18, 2011

Walks along the bayou

One thing I like about Houston's suburbs is its sophisticated system of channels that drain the once copious amounts of rain away from the thousands of homes that live here. They're not really bayous . . . that's just my pet name for them. My dogs love them as much if not more than I do and they pry me away from my computer for their daily romps. It's an interesting enough adventure that I've taken to carrying my camera along.

Here are some of the things I see during my adventures on the bayou . . . lots of birds, lots of turtles and lots of water.

Day after a big rain














Piper LOVES chasing the Blue Herons and the Ibises (or sould that be Ibi?) 




Such are our walks on the "bayou." Lots of exercise for everyone. Even, begrudgingly . . . the birds!

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

I found Jesus!

It's true! And you'll never believe where!

My family went to the Texas Renaissance Festival last Sunday. Actually we go every year, sometimes two or three times. So yeah . . . as weird as it sounds, that's where I found Him - at the Renaissance Festival right here in Texas. The place where chain-mail clad women strut around wearing next to nothing. Where jousting and head lobbing are daily occurrences. Where wine flows freely (oh, but Jesus is used to that) and where two men compete by diving face first into a mud filled pit. That's right . . . face first.


And THAT is exactly where I found Him. Right there in the Sturdy Beggers Show.

You can check it out for yourself... it was right at the end, right after they'd taken their last dive into the mud, right after the one begger actually wolfed down a mouthful of the stuff and then kissed some unsuspecting audience member (no, it was NOT me this time!). But that's not what we're talking about here, is it?

No, we're talking about finding Jesus. And finding Him in the least likely place. You'll just have to see for yourself and let me know if you agree.

This is the image that squeezed out of the mud as the Sturdy Beggers made their final exit, ending the last show of the day.








So... what do you think? Jesus? 
Or just too much wine? 



Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Let the Buyer Beware!

Today's post is brought to you by way of Fred Haas Toyota out here in Houston, Texas--a store I will henceforth avoid. 


See, last month I bought a truck for my son . . . his first vehicle! LAST MONTH! Excited for him, anxious about this next step toward adulthood. Intentionally opting for a truck, something used, something I wouldn't be too upset about if he wrecked, being a new driver and all. 


And okay, so I'm a naive shopper. Okay, so I trusted the young man with the nice, honest looking smile. And so what if I thought he was listening when I told him how special this vehicle was for my son. 


And what if I've always had an underlying belief that all people are inherently good. 


And yeah . . . it didn't quite work out that way this time. Hindsight, I should have listened to my husband who wasn't as enamored with the truck or with the "deal" as I was. But I didn't . . . listen to him. Instead, I got to learn something! I learned that a warning indicator, one that suggests the catalytic converter has gone bad, can actually be temporarily reset. Go figure! And sure, I'll never know whether it was the dealer who reset it or the previous owner. 


But none of that really matters now, does it? What does matter is that I'd much rather be the kind of person I am, one who believes in the inherent goodness of people, than the kind of person who cheated and misrepresented the value of the truck. And yeah, sure, my mistake hit me in the pocketbook. But at least I still have my ethics intact. 


And here's a funny thing (see how I'm trying to find humor in all this!): the dealership actually wanted me to leave the truck with them to do the repairs! Are you kidding me!! What's that saying? "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." 


I do have to admit though . . . that's a pretty sharp looking container for a shiny new catalytic converter! 


Parting thought: My new mechanic says that any time a car salesmen opens their mouth, they're lying. 
I'm gonna have to remember that from now on. 

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

girls and Shoes!


What is it about women and SHOES?

I could end this post right here and everyone would know exactly what I’m talking about. But I feel the need to elaborate.

See, the other day I went running errands—dragging my unwilling hubby along with me. He was okay going to the HobLob for baskets and other sundry foofie items to girl up our newly remodeled bath.  And he was okay going to Target for matching towels. And it was actually him who suggested we pop into the shoe store that was boasting a 50% off sale. (But here I think it was more his reluctance to pass up a bargain than his tolerance for shoes.)

So, while what I really needed was an upgraded pair of fancy flip flops, what I found myself curiously drawn to were these: 
  

And these:


Okay, maybe even something that looked like these: 



Now I ask you . . . are these flip flops? 

I think not. 

I tried on a pair, hobbled up and down the aisle a few times, wondering where in my shockingly simple style of living would I possibly wear them. This from a person who thinks “going out for the evening” means margaritas at Willies Ice House followed by a good movie. And could I possibly wear these shoes there and not be looked at askance? Of course I couldn't. Not that being looked at askance bothers me, mind you.
   
And yet, still I wanted these things! It was like some long smoldering shoe lust had suddenly manifested itself and come to a raging head within my feminine psyche. I felt an uncontrollable desire to possess me a pair of these ridiculous things regardless their lack of practicality and the high probability that they would sit in my closet, collecting dust until I eventually offer them up in a garage sale. (Can you tell that I’ve succumbed to shoe temptation before?)

And my wonderful husband? He goaded me on! “Oh, honey, those make your legs look great. And look at that perky butt. You have to get them. You just have to!”
   
I’m like, "fine… will you take me somewhere shoe-appropriate if I buy them? And if so, where?"

But he had no answer. See, my husband is just as comfortable at Willies in flat shoes as I am. Made me wonder if he was hoping I'd strut around the house in my perky butt shoes just for him.
   
I’m a little baffled by the whole experience. Even a little embarrassed. Not to mention infinitely happy they didn’t have them in my size! Else I would have impulse-bought my way into a pair of shoes I’d have to dust.

Breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Living in a "project"

No . . . not the projects. Rather, a remodeling project that took roughly three times longer than was promised. I began thinking of it more as a lifestyle change than a remodel, what with boards and tarps covering the hall carpet. What with all my toiletries tucked away in various boxes and me living out of them for ten weeks. What with men climbing in and out of my drawers—wait, that doesn’t sound right—in and out of my cabinets all day long.

But it’s finally winding down. The cleaning crew just left, taking ten weeks of tile shavings, granite fumes and carpet dust with them. Okay . . . so there are no lights yet or knobs on the cabinets. And there’s no glass door on the shower. But all those things are on their way and should be here and installed by the end of the week. And then finally I’ll have some undistracted time to myself when I’m not either waiting for a crew of worker dudes to show up or sharing my space with them.

You’re probably thinking: “how spoiled can one suburbanite get?” To be remodeling a bath during these times of economic turmoil when I’m lucky to even have a bath to remodel? And I’d totally agree with you! What room do I have to complain? And the answer is . . . none.

None whatsoever.

So I’m not going to. I’m just going to share what it’s like to FINALLY have some peace and quiet in the sanctity I can call my own.

It sounds a little like this:

Ommm . . .

I kid you not! J  

P.S. Pictures to follow shortly.  

Friday, October 14, 2011

Dust Bunnies . . . where do they come from? what are they made of? and why won’t they go away!?

I admit I’m not the best housekeeper to walk the face of the earth. Maybe not even the state of Texas. Or the city of Houston. Or my subdivision. Probably not even this cul-de-sac.

I am, however, the best housekeeper of this house. Of that I can be proud.

Even so, I know my “skills” (which were never stellar) have waned over the years. Oh sure, there was a time when I was maniacal about a spotless house. But with the mellowing of age, came the shifting of priorities. I no longer have the time, energy or desire to polish stuff on a daily basis. Oh, did I say daily? More like weekly. And lately . . . monthly. 

Even that was put on hold when we decided to invest in a three week project to remodel our two baths. It didn’t make sense to clean when the worker dudes would be traipsing in and out all day, trashing everything in their wake. So, what meager housekeeping I used to do was ignored during the remodeling.

The promise of three weeks turned into five, then seven, then nine. Next week will mark the tenth week of our three week project and, while I have dusted and cleaned in the rest of the house, I’ve neglected the areas being worked on . . . and I had the dust bunnies to show for it!

I couldn’t believe how they’d taken advantage of my neglect. They were everywhere! And they’d grown . . . I had bunnies the size of my Boston Terriers! If I’d waited another day, they might have taken over the house. Then who'd be here to enjoy those new bathrooms? So this morning, even with the shower door and lighting due Monday, even with the cleaning crew coming on Tuesday, I just couldn’t take one more second! I had to break out the Bunnie Buster!



I’m left thinking that Dust Bunnies, whatever the heck they are, earned their name from their ability to breed like rabbits. And I’m eternally grateful for my Dyson with it’s amazing bunnie busting capabilities.

All clean . . . again J  

At least for a month. 

Or so.  

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Those !@*& Worthless Piss Ants

Today’s blog is brought to you by the Pharaoh Ant, aka the sugar ant—or piss ants as my uncle used to call them. Specifically the ones roaming my kitchen cabinets this morning. I can't help but remember my uncle's joke where the kid is sitting on the sidewalk, using the lord’s name in vain and swearing at the uselessness of piss ants as he methodically squishes them one by one under his thumb. Along comes a priest (of course) and lectures the boy on how nothing in God’s good earth is useless. The kid’s answer is far from politically correct so I won’t share it here. Suffice to say that it’s that punch line that filters through my head whenever I get pharaoh ants in my house. This morning’s object of their teensy, little affection was the honey I keep tucked up in my spice cabinet, delicious on my morning oatmeal.

Now, I love our multi-legged friends as much as the next person. I even saved a cockroach the other day. Saved a cockroach! ME! I kid you not! He was outside scurrying along the sidewalk on some mission of utmost cockroach importance. My husband went to step on it but I stopped him . . . I mean -- what’s one more cockroach in a city where they outnumber us a gazillion to one? The key, though, is that the cockroach was outside, right where it belonged. Unlike those piss ants, crawling in and out of my spice cabinet, lusting after my honey. MY honey! I got stingy with those ants, thinking hey . . . get your own honey, this is mine! But then I realized . . . that’s sort of what they were doing.


Anyway, here’s my breakfast . . . the same one I have most mornings. Some fruit and steel-cut oatmeal drizzled in honey. And sometimes seasoned with teensy little piss ant bodies. 


Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Yoga and toes, Yoga and toes--they go together like toga and clothes

Well, okay, I don’t have a clue what that was all about. It's just that lately I’ve been getting the biggest darned kick out of myself and the things I say! Like the other day when I couldn’t stop laughing at how funny the word ‘DIRT’ sounded and how funny I sounded saying it! 

But dirt is not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about yoga. 

And toes. 

I know, I know . . . yoga is not about the concentration on one’s tarsals at inopportune moments. Yoga is about connecting mind, body and spirit. It’s about re-learning the fine art of breathing. About losing yourself in the flow of the practice. It’s about building muscle memory, about toning the body, about calming the monkey mind and exploring a path toward inner peace. It’s about focusing on one thing at a time—one breath, one thought, one pose. It’s about centering.

It’s not—definitely not—about toes. Or at least not exclusively.

So then why is it that I’m often distracted by the condition of my own toes? I’ll be forward folded into Utanasana and find myself thinking, Dang! How’d that middle toe get so darned crooked? Is that the one I broke kicking a rooster back when I was in middle school? Yeah, it must be that one.

Or, I’ll be in Down Dog, another toe-staring pose and think, Wow do I ever need a pedicure! 

Or, in Clam pose thinking, Hey, I didn’t know I had a freckle on the end of that middle toe!

Sometimes, while I’m teaching, I’ll vocalize my concerns. Mainly to see if anyone else is thinking the same thing I am. “Is it just me or does this pose over extend the toes?” Sometimes I’ll get a nod of agreement. A grunt or two. Maybe a giggle. But more often than not, it's just stone silence and I end up thinking, “yep… just me.”



Barbara, my friend and yoga mentor, asked me once whether my toes were changing as a result of yoga. So naturally (and since Barb and I are always barefooted when we’re together) I looked downward, toward the objects of our discussion. Sure enough, the darned things did seem different! They’d spread a little further apart as a result of their extensive use. And I can't help but wonder whether it was her comment that made me focus more attention on them. I keep wondering how much longer, more crooked, less groomed they’ll become over time. I keep wondering why on earth I’m even paying so much attention to them!

So, tell me, is there any more useless thing to call one’s attention to than toes? Have I just wasted two minutes of your life by asking you to read about my fixation on the things? Two minutes that you’ll never get back! If so, I’m sorry. But you have to think of me! Obsessed to the point where I’m actually writing about the darned things. 

I suppose this is where I say how much I really need to get a life. Okay, fine . . . you say it.  

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Excuse: n. a plea offered in extenuation of a fault or for release from an obligation

I haven’t blogged in a while. You’d think I’d have time. I mean . . .  I don't work outside the home. I’m kind of a lousy housekeeper so there’s not a lot of time spent in that useless, never-ending endeavor, I don’t lounge in front of the soaps in the afternoon—in fact the T.V. is never on during the day. The meals I cook are healthy yet simple so there’s not a lot of planning or prep time.  So yeah . . . you’d think I’d have tons of time to post a blog or two from time to time.  

Oh, but wait . . . I have one of these: a Senior Varsity Football Playing Boy Scout. Yep . . . I've got an SVFPBS. And because I have an SVFPBS, I’ve spent my potential blogging hours in different ways. Like running kolache /doughnut interference for a bunch of sweaty Boy Scouts as they sawed, hammered and screwed boards into frames. See, Ronnie’s Eagle Project was to build three cages for the Texas Wildlife Rehabilitation Coalition. 

Which was a pretty cool project! And while the boys worked, I made sure they were fed and hydrated, found myself schlepping filtered water in and out of the house because basically, I refuse to buy a bunch of plastic bottles . . . they’re the bane of  our current existence. I was also responsible for spraying the boys with the concoction of their choosing,

“Bug spray anyone?”

“How about sunblock?”

Next it was a whole day of installation. I was designated historian, out there in the 100 degree temps taking pictures while the boys delivered and installed the cages they’d built. Each cage took a little over an hour to assemble in the yards of the selected rehabbers.  The pictures will be installed too… into the Scout Scrapbook I’ve been working on . . . as soon as I find time for that!  

I turned my attention away from scouts on Monday and attended a Project Prom meeting, signing up for a couple of fund-raising teams. If you’ve never heard of Project Prom here’s a little bit about it: it was invented by some brilliant parent a long time ago who realized that kids have a tendency to go out after prom and work on perfecting their partying techniques. Teenagers being what they are, this sometimes means drinking. And sometimes driving. And sometimes this night of celebration can turn tragic instead. So Project Prom provides a safe place for them to hang out after prom. The kids get bussed to a large lock-in where they have all night to play all sorts of games, win stuff and have a bunch of fun before being bussed home, tired, happy and best of all, safe. Project Prom is a ton of work and cost a lot of money but . . . hey, we’re saving teenagers! Definitely a worthy cause!

Later in the week, I donned my creative thinking cap and created a JPG file from a picture of Ronnie when he was just a baby, all diapered up and reaching for a football. I added some verbiage to it, cut it to the right size and then grayscaled it for an ad that will display in the program for local varsity games.  

Concurrently, I was rushing to the dollar and craft stores for stuff to use to decorate the Varsity locker room before the first game. I bought a bunch of crepe paper and football themed party stuff. And I spent a bit of time making about 90 cute little magnets for the boy’s lockers.  



Then, on Wednesday night, some of us moms and dads sneaked into the locker room and gussied it up a bit.  First thing we did was to hang about a gazillion of those little scented trees because, well . . . ewwww! I learned that we actually are supposed to do this for every game! Great.


Thursday night we were at the first game of the season which didn’t end until after 10:00. (Our guys kicked butt by the way). It was out for a quick dinner till 11:00 or so, then home, exhausted and having to get up at 5:30.

So that’s my excuse for not blogging . . . it’s all because of my SVFPBS. Even though I’m actually blogging about the fact that he’s the reason I’m not blogging. Hmm . . . sort of nullifies the whole excuse thing, doesn't it? Guess I'll have to come up with something else.  

Sunday, August 21, 2011

What Was I Thinking?

It’s funny what you learn about yourself while cleaning things you haven’t cleaned in some nineteen years. That’s how long my husband and I have been in this house. That’s how long we’ve had to fill every nook and cranny of every drawer and cabinet. Okay, okay…  I’ve already admitted to how we are a couple of packrats. So you know I have a tendency to “keep stuff.” I think I got that from my father whose collection ran more along the line of farm equipment and other rusty, old mechanical stuff. Dad had more room than I do so his collection was far more magnificent than mine. I remember one day when he came home all excited because he found a fire truck for sale. A fire truck! Mom wouldn’t let him buy it though. For obvious reasons.

Dad collected lots of other stuff though—stuff folks thought was pretty useless and didn’t want anymore. And he’d usually find a way to put his miscellaneous assortment to work. Like the time someone rolled their car on the curve that ran in the front of the house. See we lived on a really sharp curve. One that people would constantly misjudge. We saw a lot of accidents while we lived there and somehow dad (always the negotiator) would find a way to capitalize. So there was the time of the rolled Corvair. The engine was good but the body was trashed. So Dad talked the owner out of it, tossed the motor into one pile and the body into another. Long about the time I was to get my license, Dad ran across another Corvair owner, one who’d blown his engine. So he talked the owner out of that too. Then he put the two good parts together and made my first car.

Dad was like that. Practical. Me, I just save stupid stuff. Like the things I ran across when I was cleaning out the master bath. Apparently, I’ve saved every “extra button” that came with every garment I’ve bought in the last nineteen years. Just tossed them into an extra drawer.

And those tiny locks that go on luggage when you travel? Seems I bought a new one every time I had a need for one. 







And then there are the more curious aspects to my adventure in cleaning. I mean . . . really? How many pregnancy test kits and condoms does one pre-menopausal woman need anyway?

Regardless of whether I got my hording hormone from Dad, it seems pretty clear that he was better at it than I am. At least he got to do something with most of the stuff he collected. But me? Pssshhh

Anyone need a button? Or a lock? How about a fifteen year old condom? I think I'm finally going to toss them . . . going . . . going . . .

Oh, maybe not.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Are these things funny? Or is it just me?

There were four of us out to eat that first night in L.A.—Mary, Tina, Dana and I. We’d gone to Rock Sugar, an Eastern cuisine there in the mall close to the hotel. The food was outstanding and we got a chance to share some of it with Dana’s son’s dragon (the one who hitched a ride in her purse). The dragon ended up having many wonderful adventures and met some pretty famous writers during his trip. 
Dragon

But that’s not what this post is about. It’s about funny things people say and the even funnier way other people interpret them. 
Linda, Mary, Dana, Tina



For example, as we were leaving the restaurant, we decided to get a picture in the lounge. I was shooting my three friends when a nice woman came over and offered to get all four of us in the shot.

“Perfect!” I said, and “Thanks!” And I handed her my camera.

So she shot a few pictures and while she was still shooting, one of the nice waitstaff walked over and offered to take the camera from her so “we could all be in the shot.” 

We all laughed. I mean, can you imagine! It could have gone on and on with me having all sorts of strangers in my picture.

Four days later Dana and I shared a flight home. It might as well have been a red eye since we got into Houston so late . . . pretty much the middle of the night. After a really long, brain sucking day, we were pretty fried. Very tired, very giddy. So when we landed and the flight attendant was making all of his normal announcements, the last thing he added set us off way more than it should have.

“Hope you enjoyed your flight and have a pleasant stay here in Houston. Or wherever your final destination may be.”

That was all well and good but then he added: “Whoever needed the wheelchair can come on up and get it.”

Now how the heck was that supposed to happen? 

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

The eyes have it . . .



I ran across this nifty little tool on my laptop. It's called a snipping tool and you can take little cuts from any image that crosses your screen, morph it with whatever morphing app you have and then do other stuff with it. Or you can just leave it native to how it was snipped. 

Since I've been spending a ton of time lately in the BIC position (butt in chair), I got to watching for images and then snipping out their eyes. It sounds a little morbid putting it that way. You'll have to just trust me though . . . no images were harmed in the creation of this post!  

A close friend I grew up with. I ran across a candid picture that his dad had taken one day when we  were all at the races together. 


Holly in our Skype session.. such fun!

Holly's self portrait.

This is Piper, my Boston. She's wearing a beanie cap complete with propeller and everything. It was really just a sticker I stuck to her head. But she wore it well.  


This is my other Boston, Sampson, when he was just a puppy. It was that one blue eye that drew us in!
Sampson has an evil side to him!
Here's Sampson in Holly's watercolor family portrait. 
And here are Ronnie and Ron in the same watercolor! 





So that was a bit of fun. Stay tuned for future posts featuring other body parts, taken harmlessly from friends, family and critters who happen to wander across my screen.