I know I've been scarce, but there's been an awful lot going on around me, lately. It's just been an unusual couple of weeks with some people in my life needing a little extra from me. That happens to all of us, sometimes, and we just have to stop and do what needs doing. That's just a woman's way.   

So, with a kind of a random trail of thoughts, this might best be described as a stream of consciousness post.

I believe we haven't really talked since my birthday/Mother's Day week. My 51st birthday week was one of the best I've had so far. It even spilled over into the next week and those are always the best kinds of birthdays. I've already learned that there are some things you just can't do over 50, though. Like get up off the floor quietly, tell yourself, "I don't need to write that down", and leave home without checking your chin. We packed so much into my birthday weekend that I went to church without the usual 10x mirror inspection. To my horror, I discovered, the following Monday, that I'd attended Mother's Day worship looking like Fred Sanford. I also was reminded, that week, that it's best to mentally establish that you're certain of both parties' names before you set off into an introduction. Over 50s can run into trouble halfway through the process.  
I was scrolling through Facebook, last week, and saw my younger brother had posted this picture of his feet after running a 35 mile race in his running sandals.
And this was a couple of weeks after seeing the next picture of him after biking in a race in the Pisgah National Forest with its climbing terrain and, obviously, wet conditions. Meanwhile, my older brother drove to New Mexico for the weekend to hunt turkeys. Never mind that we have turkeys a-plenty here and I came within a couple of feet of hitting one in mid-flight with my car right here in Mississippi on that very same weekend. That's typical of their weekends, though. Traveling long distances to hunt or fish for something or to pedal a bike up a mountain, all at the expense of sleep. Continuously, reports of their pursuits accumulate; making a girl, who enjoys lunch dates, historical biographies, and afternoon naps to begin to question her parentage or, at the very least, marvel at the wonders of genetics.
I attended orientation with Carson at Mississippi State, last week. He's a transfer from our community college and we went to get all of his affairs taken care of on the day, which was designated just for transfers. At check-in, the parents were given maroon Mississippi State tote bags full of information and the students were given black bags for all of their paperwork for the day. The people with black bags walked around drooling with stars in their eyes; thirsty to drink from this cup called freedom. Meanwhile, the people with maroon bags looked hollow-eyed and appeared to be doing a lot of math silently in their heads. Basically, the black bags met all day about the services and amenities the university offered them and the maroon bags met all day about methods of payment for the services and amenities to be rendered to those with the black bags. And, perhaps, most ironic, how the financers with the maroon bags would need to acquire permission from the non-paying black baggers to access their academic information. You can't make this stuff up.
We've been through the car buying process since we last talked. I got a new vehicle, a few weeks ago. Enjoying the ever so fleeting new car smell and still learning all the buttons. I'm still in that stage of car ownership when you park it far away from the crowd. This is always a short-lived period, which should pass as soon as it receives its first ding. Technology has come so far since our last car purchase that I'm not even real sure I could ram my car into yours even if I wanted to. I'm sure that is a good feature in most situations, but you never know when it might become a hindrance. Perhaps, though, in my case, the most life-altering feature is the keyless start. Up to this point, I have spent a considerable percentage of my life digging in the bottom of my purse for my keys. Now, I am looking for a new hobby to fill all this extra time, which I find spilling from my hands.

This being our first summer with Ruby, we are just learning that she has a low tolerance for heat. Perhaps even as low as her mother's. A fan has been purchased for her sleeping quarters as I certainly understand her plight. It's gotten hot fast, down here.
Now that my kids are grown, though, I'm feeling like a young mother again with her around. Ruby and I have had the all familiar talk parents have about how we're not going to lay around in the house all summer, but that we're going to go outside and play. So, she's in and out, all day. In and out. I let her out and she's back at the door in 5 minutes with her friends, Izzy and Olive. They're wanting a slurp out of the water bowl or to get a snack aka Milk Bone. There they are. The high dollar corgi and boxer, and then our Ruby, from the Out of the Pound Program, looking up at me; reminding me of the days of my red-faced kids and their friends begging to come in for Kool-Aid Jammers and Goldfish crackers. Davis and I even put in a pool aka bought a plastic kiddie pool, so that Ruby can host parties, this summer. May start looking like an episode of Girls Gone Wild, over here. You know, some parents will do anything to assure their kids will be popular.
We've lost a long fought battle with Ruby, though. Our sweet neighbors' son works at Chick-Fil-A and he keeps his pair of required black work shoes in their garage. Ruby, fascinated with the chicken- flavored slip-ons, has made it her daily objective to go and get the shoes, one by one, and bring them over to our house, where she stores them in a hiding place reserved for her most treasured possessions. We have found everything from dead birds and other dogs' water bowls, to extraordinarily fine stick specimens amongst the most revered pile o' things. Many-a-day, the neighbors have called or texted to see if the work shoes were over here and we'd go hauling them back across the street so that the young man could report for God's work down at the Chick-Fil-A. Sadly, though, despite our disciplinary efforts, we'd have to repeat the process again and again, because, well, you know.....Out of the Pound Program and all.

Well, I drove up in the driveway, yesterday, to find she'd gotten the chicken scratch 'n' sniff shoes and was in the front yard literally consuming them. They looked as if they'd been for a ride through the chipper. We gave the neighbors our apologies and money for the shoes, but you really can't blame Ruby. No one can resist shoes infused with the smell of a Number 1, no pickle, with a sweet tea. A dog's will to refrain can only take her so far.        
Well, I just had to catch you up on a whole lot of nothing, I suppose. I hope y'all are having a great start to your summer!

Talk soon!