... and THAT is why I won't miss Alabama.

Husband and Katie are standing in the driveway near the Jeep.  A massive Budget truck the size of several small states is in front of their house. The carpet men are working in the background, the morning is crisp. Ryker is doing nothing in the car because he still can't sniff out the crazies for us. A woman in a Ford Explorer pulls into their isolated dead end street and turns around in front of their house. Husband and Katie watch in surprise. No one pulls into their isolated dead end street and turns around in front of their house. 

A kind appearing middle aged woman with gray-blonde hair and a clean outfit climbs out of the drivers seat. She waves and heads towards their pile of garbage a few feet away.

Woman: Hey! How are ya! Moving, huh?

Husband: (in a somewhat perplexed voice that seems to ask who-is-this-woman?): Yep. Heading out soon.

Woman: Oh, that's great. Going out of state?

The Woman begins to sift through their jettisoned cardboard box. She lifts up a discarded bag of packing peanuts to see what's underneath as the conversation continues.

Husband, with several blinks of doubt: North Carolina.

Woman: Oh, that's great. You must be military?

Husband (With his head tilted to the side as she lifts up a see-through bag of garbage and rotates it to peer through the contents.) : Yep.

Woman: My husband was in the military, all that moving! Definitely not fun.

Katie: Looks like it is for some.

(Just kidding, Katie didn't really say that. She just stared and blinked in confusion as the woman continued to pick apart the garbage pile.) Husband casts Katie a look that asks is-this-woman-really-making-casual-conversation-while-sifting-through-our-garbage-pile? and then walks to do something in Rhode Island, I mean, the Budget Truck. The woman sets aside a few more piles of packing peanuts and lets out an exclamation.

Woman: Phew! My exploror stinks.

Katie (with her hands in her pockets as she makes herself comfortable on realizing the woman is there to stay.): Oh no, that gasoline smell is from the lawnmower box there. Yep, that one. Gas spilled from it. Apparently the tank wasn't as empty as we thought. We went ahead and mixed it with laundry detergent.

Woman, laughing in reassurance and revealing the fact that she doesn't know laundry detergent and gasoline are incredibly explosive: Oh good! (Picks up another bag of trash to inspect through.) What a relief! Thought it was my car!

Katie: Oh no, your car is safe. (Our garbage isn't, however.)

The woman makes a little more small talk, but dismayed by the overwhelming power of gasoline that pours from the rest of the filth, eventually straightens up in defeat.

Woman, with a friendly wave: Well good luck to y'all! And travel safe!

The woman drives off in her Explorer to make more friends and Katie walks away to the snicker of the carpet men.

I don't really like you, Ahnold...

What is this, you ask?

This is the face of a man becoming a little boy. The happiness of watching a man movie like The Expendables 2 has him shouting advice to the actors and laughing with delight as the .50 cal's come out.

There's so much testosterone in the room I'm going to grow a beard.

Nice To See You Too ....

Conversation. Of. The. Day.

Katie gets out of car to walk towards Husband who was been gone for a month, she hasn't seen in two weeks and hadn't spoken too for over seven days in a row. She's dressed up with a skirt and curly hair for Husband's graduation ceremony. Her make up is great and the morning beautiful and frizz free. She's so, so excited to see him again.

Katie: Oh hi hunny! It's so good to see you! I've missed you!

She's beaming, he looks so handsome, if not very tired. She holds out her arms for a hug.

Husband: Hi. Nice boots.

Katie stares at him with a sudden and very real understanding that he's been in testosterone land where macho army men gather in masochistic groups and grunt. She smiles sweetly, thanks him, gives him a hug and...

Redeems her revenge via blogpost.

Happy Hour Indeed

BEST. DAY. EVER.

I got three cherries in my happy hour diet cherry limeade from Sonic.

&*(#$)(*#%^)#@)!!!!

I'M SO ANGRY.

That's why I'm yelling at you in capital letters.

I'll spare you too many gory details, but the situation went down like this:

I was at PetCo with Ryker, walking around so he could get in a few smells and I can recall with fondness the days when we could buy him the cute toys. The ones he destroys in 15 minutes. A lady walks up to me, and the conversation goes as follows.

Crazy lady: Oh. My. Gosh. A vizsla. Where did you get him? How old is he? He's adorable! Ohcomeandgimmesomekisses!

Ryker wiggles happily over. He's too young to sniff out the crazies.

Me: His name is Ryker. We got him from a breeder in North Alabama.

Concern creases her face in an instant. She stops petting Ryker and looks at me in anxiety.

Crazy lady: Which one?

I tell her, and she stands up.

Crazy lady: You're going to have health problems. And have you fixed him? Yep you have. That was wrong, you shouldn't have. You should have waited until 18 months. You're a first time owner, aren't you? I can tell. This is why you need a Vizsla contact like me. You've done things wrong. But you didn't know.

Stunned, I stare at her and try to answer.

Me: Really?

Crazy lady: Aren't they great to train? The six month rescue I just took in, I've only had for a week and a half, and she's already squared away and totally obedient. It's just that easy, you know, when you know what you're doing like I do. Do you run him? How far?

Me: Sometimes on leash, mostly off leash. If it's on leash, only 2-3 miles. But that's not very often.

Crazy Lady: You're running him too much. You're going to damage his growth plates. I know, I have six Vizsla's and a rescue. They call me the crazy Vizsla lady around here, isn't that right Ed? (She yells at an employee walking by. He nods politely and continues on his business because HE can sniff out the crazies.) I've had them my whole life. Let me give you my information, I'll hook you up with every single Vizsla owner or breeder in the business around the world. That's what happens when you've been in the business as long as I have. Ask Ed, he knows. I'm here all the time. That energy he's got is pretty typical of Vizslas, can you handle it?

At this point my blood is bubbling in my skin, and I can't take it anymore. I unleash on her all the fury of a first time mom to a stranger who dared educate her on how to raise her perfect child.

Me: Excuse me, but who are you to question if I am qualified to take care of this dog? This is MY dog, and I have done a damn fine job of raising him, and I'll continue to do a damn fine job of raising him without your contacts or help with it, thank you very much. Don't you dare tell me there is something wrong with him. He's a perfect dog, from an excellent breeder I plan on buying from again despite your incredibly rude reference to them. Who are you to know anything about me and my dog? I hope you realize you have just pissed off the wrong unemployed woman with a lot of time to raise hell in your life. You're lucky there's not a lake around, or I'd throw you and your narcissistic self love into it you southern biddy!

The woman stares, flabbergasted. Then, with tears in her eyes, she profusely apologizes and takes her leave with her metaphorical tail between her legs. Ed strolls by and gives me a high five, whistling as he goes and disappearing at the end of the aisle.

OK FINE.
It didn't exactly end like that.

More like me excusing myself after she handed me a paper with her facebook, her email, her phone number, her social security number and the library of congress reference number to the book she wrote about how great she is. In my passive-aggressive rage I crumpled it up in my fist once outside and threw it in my car with a cry of rage and the wish that Husband had been around to open his can of Army Infantry kick ass.

Then I did the only thing there was left to do.

I called my mom.

Stupid Little Rattles.

Husband and I have great ideas.

The problems come when we drag other people into them, like Husband's parents.

This picture is a summarization of the view while on the partial night hike we took them on this weekend, in a sincere attempt to show them a good time.

Our style.

When Dahrl was here in August we went on a hike at Pine Mountain a little later than expected. It ended up getting dark, we stumbled our way through the last mile via moonlight and had a great time. We've been talking about doing it again ever since.

Except Husband forgot to check the lunar calendar.

To say that Cindy-Mom and Father Stephen were troopers would underestimate it. The stumbled through an hour and a half of nothing-to-see-blackness. (Except for the little red light attached to Ryker's collar that bobbed incessantly as he ran... non stop.) They even laughed when we got lost, found out we were on a horse trail, and had to double back.

To say that Ryker was tired would overestimate it. He was fine.

To say that the suspicious little rattle that began as soon as Ryker began sniffing out a certain spot with particular interest didn't worry me, would definitely underestimate it.

I'm not overly fond of suspicious little rattles in a dark southern wilderness during a month known for snake to be mating when you can't see the ground and your dog is overly curious.

I thought, and still kind of do, that hiking in the dark is a new sensory experience. You pay attention to everything, (especially the prancing red dot that's leading the way) in a way you don't when you can see. Like the sounds of the forest in the wind, or the sudden whisper of birds taking off. The milky way coats the sky in a fog when there's no flashlight to blind your night vision. If you stop, and listen, you can hear the leaves fall.

But then I thought, meh. It's just a walk in the dark and a few lost toenails after all.

It's Katie's Turn!

Conversation. Of. The Day.

Katie and Husband are at Kohls, after a three-month struggle over trying to get Husband a new suit. (He's still wearing his pre-mission suit. At 28. Pre-Mission suit. At 28.) After intense 2 month debate the two agree that they will shop for at least an hour, no more, or until a suit is found within said hour. The clock is ticking. Husband knows that. He dawdles. He talks on the phone. He does anything but walk towards the door so they can go look at another store.

Katie, with a frustrated breath snaps her fingers and says out of pure, frazzled motherly instinct,

Katie: Ryker, come!

Husband stares with an open mouth, as Katie dissolves into giggles, reassures him it was an accident and promises a blog post.