Wanderlust

I've read that some breeds of dogs are great escape artists. Since we have no means of containment Kea has become a wanderer; calling her an escape artist would imply she had to do more than walk away.

And she did. She must have had a grand old time sniffing whatever she wanted for as long as she wanted without me hurrying her. In the book, "Great Dogs, Good Owners" the author calls all of the sniffing "reading the doggy newspaper." Kea loves her some reading.

So our beloved super happy, super wiggly yellow doggy decided this morning would be a good one to freak me out. Ryan went to Lowe's to get something for some home project and on his way out the door he told me he was letting the dog out and to remember to let her back in. Sure thing. About 5 minutes later I went to the front door and poked my head out called her name. Nothing. I called again. Nothing.

I wasn't phased at this point. She likes to poke around the yard and is super slow to come inside. I figured I would catch her being naughty so I walked down the stairs in my bare feet to the sidewalk and over to the alley to see if I could catch her in the act of leaving the front yard.

There was no guilty looking dog in the alley, no dog in the side yard and no dog in the back yard. Uh-oh.

I dashed inside and put on some shoes, grabbed my cell phone and put Gavin in the Ergo baby carrier. Off we went, me in my grungy pink lounge pants and class of '95 ratty sweatshirt, to find the dog.

"Kea!" "Kea!" "Kea!"

Everyone who passed me or was within shouting distance was asked if they saw a yellow dog wandering around. Nope.

Since Ryan left his phone at home I called Lowe's and asked them to page him and have him call home. After what felt like an eternity Ryan called me and I broke the news that Kea was gone. He came home just as Gavin and I were walking back up our street. I hopped on-line and went to petfinder.com, findfido.com and missingpets.com and craigslist. I posted to all three, sent out a duplicate message to my neighborhood listserv and called my vet to have them activate her microchip.

I was getting ready to go to Staples to print out a bundle of flyers when a neighbor 6 blocks away called to tell us they had Kea. Thank God for the tags on her collar! From the time I realized she was gone until she was located was a little over an hour. One very long hour.

Whew.

An hour after that Ryan was at Lowe's buying material for a fence. He's outside installing it right now. Try escaping now, my little doggy!

Shattered Hearts

I learned of a little boy at my former church that has terminal cancer. All of his treatments failed. The cancer is in his brain and it is growing so fast that it was noticeably larger from a scan he had in the evening to a scan the next morning. His doctors said medicine wasn't going to help him anymore so now he is on hospice; he was given only a few days to live at the end of October.

Little Ben Towne is only 3 years old. He is hanging on but is heavily drugged to keep the pain at bay or to make it tolerable; I'm not sure. I don't know the family other than seeing the father, a pastor at the church, speak a few times. Even though I don't know them and have never met little Ben I frequent the website their hospital has set up for them in hopes of an update and while I'm reading I cry and cry and cry. I brace myself for the worst but so far there have been few updates - he is alive but is obviously deteriorating. I don't know how his parents are making it through each day other than to spend every last second they can with their sweet baby.

What would Ryan and I do in this situation? Ryan would quit his job and we would sell this house and we would move into our rental and live off of our savings so we could spend every last second with our baby. I would sell my wedding ring, our TV, our furniture - what ever it would take to get a cure. What would have any value if your baby died?

I pray at night while I'm nursing Gavin at bedtime for little Ben. I pray that God will eat his cancer. Every time I pray for Ben I ask God to eat the cancer. I don't know why I think of Him eating it. Maybe it's because it is so tucked away that only God can get to it? The only thing that will save Ben now is the hand of God. I keep thinking, "What are you waiting for, God? Just heal him already! Please!" Then I hold Gavin a little closer and pray that God keeps him healthy and whole.

The church I was raised in taught us that we are in control of our own lives. If we get sick it could be from an attack from Satan or we could have brought it on ourselves through our own lack of faith. We are also capable of being healed through our faith - we tell God to heal us then if we believe with 100% unwavering faith then we will be healed. If our faith wavered for even a nanosecond then we would have to start all over.

I now believe that theology is wrong, wrong, wrong and that it has warped my view of God and myself. I don't know what I would do if something were to happen to my children. Would I blame myself? Would I think it was because of something I did or said? Or have I been out of that place long enough to see the truth?

Here is what I've learned from reading the bible: God can and will heal the sick. And God can not heal the sick. Good people can die young and evil people can live to be old. Life isn't fair; God never promised us a fair life; He did promise to love us and to give us eternal life with Him at the end of the life He gives to us.

What am I doing? I didn't write this to attack my former church but I can't write about illness and not dredge up those ways of thinking that were beat into me for so many years. Also, when something dire happens like is happening with Ben I want to believe what they taught me all of those years that if we pray long enough and hard enough and sincere enough that he will be healed. Because if I do all of that then Ben will live.

I do pray. I pray and I hope that God will answer this prayer for Ben's life to be spared. Thousands have prayed for him and thousands continue to pray; will you join in the fight? Will you pray for little Ben Towne? Will you, in your own way, ask God eat Ben's cancer?

8

If you were quite enough this morning, around 7:57 Pacific Time, you may have heard the faint singing of a chorus of heavenly angels. The sound of the heavenly hosts singing Handel's Messiah had a long way to reach our earthly ears but to hear them singing, "King of kings!... and Lord of lords!... and he shall reign, and he shall reign... forever and ever!" in the wonderful answer and call between the men and the women was as sweet as could be. Ah, it brings such a smile to my face. Their beautiful voices fell from Heaven and pierced the dazzling blue sky dotted with white fluffy clouds to make my morning much more joyful.

OK. It was dark, gray and a bit gloomy and threatening to rain but it could have been raining cats and dogs and my happiness would not have wavered, not even a bit for I was well rested and it was at 7:57 am that I heard the contended sounds of my baby sweetly babbling to his plush doggy over the baby monitor. What a way to wake up. No harsh alarms and no screaming baby to jar me awake just his cute baby voice talking to wake me. And when I did awake I realized I wasn't tired and I felt rested. Well rested! Me! Rested!

Do you hear me world?! I was well rested! Slumber, sweet, sweet slumber was my friend for EIGHT hours last night. My old friend, Slumber, has not been visiting me recently - he has been gone since March. He was busy elsewhere and sent a work associate, Grumpy Pants the Stingy Sandman, to visit my baby. Well, Grumpy Pants the Stingy Sandman and Slumber can not co-exist in the same household; where one is present you will surely not find the other. For some unknown reason Grumpy Pants the Stingy Sandman decided to take a hiatus for a couple of days this week and Slumber made friends with Gavin and re-kindled our friendship in the process.

I know that Grumpy Pants the Stingy Sandman will be back and kick Slumber out of the house again but I do not know when. Will it be tonight? Or will it be when Gavin has molars erupting or maybe when he has a cold or learns about monsters (or the shadows that look like monsters). Until he returns am going to make the most of my time with Slumber.

It is my earnest prayer that Grumpy Pants the Stingy Sandman stays away for a long, long time.

Water Torture

There are many things I like about my house. It is cute as a button. I like that. It has period charm. I like that. It has fantastic crown molding and large baseboards. I like that. It has vibrant colors that pop against the stark white moldings. I like that. It has a beautiful kitchen with lovely counter tops and a pot rack. I like that.

There are a few things I'm not so crazy about, too. It has a small kitchen. I don't like that. It has an unfinished stairway/stairwell leading to the basement. I don't like that. The basement has low ceilings. I don't like that. The floors are kinda sloped in the basement. I don't like that.

There is one thing I hate about my house. And I mean h-a-t-e. Hate. The original 1927wood gutters. After 81 years of service they have seen better days. The downspouts were updated sometime in the previous century but they are still rusted out, rickety things that don't all connect with the gutters. The fascia board on the front of the house is rotted and it leaks. It looks like crap. But its appearance is the least of the things I hate about the gutters; it is the leak that makes me scowl and clench my jaws.

For 3 long years I have had an extra reason to hate winter (and spring and fall if I'm being honest). It is that cursed leak that is located right in front of the front door. Yep. You can't step inside or outside without getting dripped on. When it is a downpour you can't tell the difference between the drops from the gutter and the rain but when the rain is gone and the water from the ancient gutters has seeped in the fascia board and is pooled up there slowly emptying its reservoir drop by enormous drop you notice.

Long after the rain subsides you venture outside and *SPLAT* a big fat drop hits you on the forehead and splashes onto your glasses as you cross the threshold onto the front step. You turn around on the front step to lock the door and *SPLAT* a big fat wet drop hits your arm and goes through your wool sweater, creating a nice itchy spot. You come home with your arms full of groceries and *SPLAT* *SPLAT* *SPLAT* it gets your right arm as you unlock the door and then your left ear as you adjust the groceries on your hip and then on your forehead as you pass under it. And as the water drips down your face you seethe.

And then three years later you've both had enough of it and call someone to come out and give a quote on replacing the gutters.

Ding-dong the gutters are dead! A guy came out today and ripped them off along with some rotten fascia boards. Tomorrow he comes to put up new gutters and new fascia board.

This makes me so very, very happy. No more water falling on my head. No more water splashing my glasses. No more water torture!

Soap Box

Today I drove a girlfriend to Gig Harbor to pick up a car; it wasn't until we hit Fife that I thought to visit my in-laws in Belfair, about 45 minutes east of Tacoma. On the way to Belfair there are a few roadside coffee stands that I always want to try but never do because I'm usually with Ryan who loathes coffee and extra stops on the way home so today was the perfect day for an extra stop.

Driving down Highway 2 through the middle of Belfair I saw the new drive through Starbucks on my right and thought that would be a decent option but ended up deciding against it because I have had Starbucks many a time and I wanted to support the little guy, the small business. Then I saw the coffee stand kitty corner to Starbucks and pulled in the queue. There was a green pick up in front of me and on the other side of the hut was another vehicle. Great, I thought, with business like this their coffee must be above the level of swill so I was eager to see what their brew was like.

After just a few moments a coffee cup was extended out the window to the driver of the green truck and he went on his merry little way. My turn! I pulled up knowing that the barista would be helping the person on the other side of the hut but I could at least look at the menu and see what they had to offer.

My eyes never made it to the menu. I looked inside the hut and the sight greeting my eyes confused me. The visual was so real but it was just so out of place that my brain had a hard time reconciling what I was seeing to reality. The coffee hut and the barista in the hut didn't go together.

You can imagine what ran through my mind when I saw the barista's uniform was not a t-shirt or polo with the compulsory black apron but a bra. Yep. A bra. An off-white, pristine, embroidered bra. I sat there, stunned and stared at her. Then I collected myself and drove to Starbucks.

There has been much to do in the smaller outlying areas about the bikini clad baristas, some stands going so far as to go topless with just pasties to cover their nipples. I understand that the barista gets better tips when she is dressed more provocatively and even better when wearing a bikini top and even better when wearing a bra and even better when wearing pasties and I bet they would be out of this world without the pasties. Why not call a spade a spade and go strip for money? What's the difference? Is it more respectable to stand in a hut in the middle of the day and make coffee half naked for money versus dancing half naked for money?

In the past I've commented on the belief that Americans are puritanical in their views related to nudity. Yeah, we are a bit prudish when it comes to nudity relatively speaking (uptight by European standards but loose by standards set by Muslim people). Maybe we wouldn't be so uptight about nudity if what was portrayed in the media was de-sexualized. I don't think many people have a problem with seeing the naked human form when it is depicted in non-sexual ways and when a 'real' body is shown. Hugh Hefner can talk all he wants about how natural and beautiful the girls in Playboy are but we all know they are not real. Nothing about them is real. Not their platinum blond hair, their ginormous boobs or their airbrushed skin. Would Playboy have been as great a seller if they showed the average American woman, a little over weight, normal hair and skin? What if the women weren't in provocative poses? What if they showed a dumpy naked man? Oh, wait I forgot, if we are puritanical about the naked female we are over the moon about a naked man. God forbid someone should see a penis.

I have family who are in love with the idyllic notion of Smalltown America. It is a place where people whistle the tune to the Andy Griffith show and men tip their hats at the ladies and the ladies bake bread and cookies for new neighbors and everyone goes to the little white washed church on Sunday. I wonder what this family member would think of the naked barista in the very small town of Belfair.

Walking

After church on the long walk from the armory to the parking lot Gavin walked between me and Ryan one chubby hand clutching one of his daddy's fingers and the other chubby hand clutching one his mommy's fingers. His smile seemed to grow wider with each stomp of his cute feet clad in laced up blue sneakers. Ryan and I smiled wide, too; proud of our little toddler toddling along. I turned to Ryan and said, "Who knew just walking to the car with our son could be so much fun?"

Really. Walking to the car was a blast. Some other things I've done that come close to as much fun as we had today:

- flying 300 feet over canyons and tree tops in Mexico on a zip line
- riding a bike at night on the crazy streets of Paris in a caravan of 30 other bicyclists
- touring the Vatican with Ryan
- playing with sting rays in the Grand Caymans
- eating the best ever spaghetti ragu with Ryan while watching the sun set on the Mediterranean in a town of Cinque Terra
- getting lost with Ryan in Venice (it so much fun to be anywhere Ryan-my-brain-is-a-map-Jahns can get lost)

That's all I wanted to write about. Being a parent is so much fun. I imagine that the fun will continue even as he gets older and more adventurous - even when he is a teenager. Hopefully the fun won't revolve around Gavin walking, though.

My First Christmas

OK, technically its my 30th Christmas on God's green earth but its my first Christmas to host. Oh the excitement! Oh, the terror!

Here it is early November and I'm already thinking about what I'm going to do for dinner. Turkey or prime rib? Mashed potatoes and candied yams? Fruit salad the way my family does it or the way Ryan's family does it? Bread or rolls? Cranberry jelly or no cranberry jelly? Canned cranberry jelly or homemade cranberry jelly? (Home made cranberry jelly is more high brow but it doesn't make the cool slurrrr-plop sound like the canned stuff does). Chocolate pie, pumpkin or pecan pie? Do I make bread pudding like Ryan's family does every year so we can light it on fire with brandy and eat it with hard sauce?

Those are just the questions about food. What about linens? Will the one table cloth we have do? Is it stained with sap from the years we used it as a makeshift tree skirt for our mini Christmas tree we hoisted on an old metal secretaries desk when Kea was a puppy? Do I try to make a pretty centerpiece for the table or do I buy one? Do I forgo the centerpiece and use the pretty silver candle sticks? Will people burn themselves if they pass dishes over the candles? But is it really my fault if people play with fire? Do I buy napkin rings? Do I make napkin rings like Martha Stewart? Are napkin rings the most useless item on the face of the planet? Do I iron the cloth napkins? Do I buy new napkins because the off-white linen ones we have now are bit casual? Am I completely crazy for thinking about buying new napkins when so many people out there would be happy with a meal from McDonald's on Christmas just because the perfectly nice and functional napkins I do have aren't pretty enough?

Am I really crazy because in all likelihood it will be me, Ryan, Gavin and Ryan's dad and step-mom for dinner? I would like to invite more people but until we have a familial head count I can't because we have a small space in which to host a sit down meal.

There is one thing I don't have a question about: china. Not China but china. Ryan's aunt and uncle give us a part of a Christmas collection of china every year as a gift. The motif is the "Christmas Story". Each plate, cup, bowl has a line from the story on it. They are beyond cute and this year we will get to use them all! I'm so excited to be able to use them at a dinner party! If we end up having more people than we have enough place settings of the cute Christmas china then I will support the economy and buy a few plates that will match but can be used off-season as well as to not make them a completely frivolous purchase.

There is so much to be done between now and Christmas! Aside from making the guest room inhabitable I have to learn how to bake a pie, make bread pudding and hard sauce and once I figure out the menu I have to learn how to cook a turkey (or prime rib) and stuffing and all of the sides and learn how to make sure they are all done at the same time! Yowza.

I think a trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond is in order. I need a lot of timers.

Boo Bees

Since no one braved a guess from the last picture on the Halloween post the picture below 'spells' the word boobies (boo bees).

Doggy

There are no words to completely describe how incredibly adorable this moment I'm going to share with you was.

It was midnight and I was tired. Gavin started crying, "feed me! feed me!" as only he can. I flung the fluffy and warm comforter aside and shuffled to the kitchen to warm some cow's milk for him. I then shuffled to his room and erased my scowl as I opened the door to his room and replaced it with a little smile and said, "Hi, Sweetheart."

That usually elicits some excited grunting through the crying. Crying that usually does not cease until his mouth is full. As I expected he was none to pleased to see the sippy cup. Too bad. He must have been hungry because his screaming protest didn't last long and he pounded the milk; he hardly paused to breath he sucked it down so fast.

Once he had his fill he stood there in his crib, whimpering and holding onto the rail. I saw his plush doggy was on the floor so I picked it up and tossed it into the crib and turned my attention to helping Gavin back to sleep but it wasn't necessary. Gavin saw me throw the dog in and he made some cute little baby babble/grunt/statement and collapsed to his knees, turned around and flung himself onto the dog and and rubbed his face in the doggy and fell asleep.

That moment is one that I hope never fades in my mind. It was so precious.

It Happened

Tonight is a night for the history books. It is a night when America walked the talk. We have elected a black man to be our president. My son will grow up in a country where the color divide has experienced its largest set back.

I cannot believe that I get to be part of such a positive, momentous event. These kinds of events are so few and far between that we only get a handful per lifetime.

No More Nickel For Me

I had the last two screws taken out of my foot today! I am titanium and nickel free! The nickel is most likely what is causing the continued swelling and discomfort in my foot. Now we can get on with the healing process.

I would post pictures of my foot and the screws but they kind of look the same although one of the screws is a little bigger than the last one - and my foot is still kind of a mess and I don't think anyone would appreciate the bloody sight. Maybe if I had the procedure on Halloween I would have posted a gross picture.

This time the doc also gave me a cortisone shot going the length of my scar as it will help shrink it from the huge red worm like thing that it is now into a faded silver gray strip of a scar. I was feeling particularly brave today and watched him take the screws out. Freaky. Even though I could watch him use a screw driver on my foot I still couldn't watch him suturing the incisions; and I peeked when he gave me the cortisone shot but had to quickly look away even though my foot was numb.

I'm supposed to take it easy to today and Gavin has helped me tremendously with his 3+ hour nap! Mommy got a two hour nap! Glorious, glorious sleep! And I changed the sheets on the bed this morning before we went to my appointment so it was just any old nap; it was a nap in a cool clean bed. If I had the time and energy to do so I would change the linens every 3rd day. Every week will have to do. Or if I'm being honest, every 10 days.

Participation Ribbon

Do elementary schools still have Field Day? In the small coastal town where I grew up Field Day was on the last day of school. It was my favorite day of the year for two reasons: the obvious reason 1) it was the last day of school, and the surprising reason, 2) the special brown bag lunch. Mom would take us to the grocery store where we could pick out a can of soda that she would wrap in aluminum foil to keep it cold and she made our sandwich with the thin deli style sliced meat instead of regular bologna. I think we also got potato chips and a twinkie or some other delightful treat.

The winners of the 3-legged race, the potato sack run, tug of war, the egg toss and whatever other games I'm forgetting would win the coveted blue ribbon. Then there was the red ribbon and after that was the participation ribbon. You showed up and were a good sport and played the games. The games were fun, you were fun and without you the other team wouldn't have had anyone to beat so your participation was vital. For getting your behind throttled by your fellow 7 year old classmates you received a ribbon for showing up and being kind enough to come in 3rd or 4th place.

Last night I received the adult equivalent to the participation award: the Brave award. It wasn't a physical ribbon or metal trophy (thank God - I don't need a physical reminder of my bravery, the memory will do just fine, thanks).

Our friend Tyler had a birthday on Thursday. We celebrated last night with some homemade desserts by his wife Katie: a flourless chocolate cake and eclairs. D-e-c-a-d-e-n-t. After we ate birthday dessert we headed off to the Maple Leaf Chinese Restaurant; not for Chinese food, although I did order a side of barbecue pork with hot mustard that got me many, many times. We did not come for the drinks in the lounge, although I did have a White Russian and annoyed the waitress with my blank stare when she asked me what kind of vodka I wanted my drink mixed with. I dunno. She rattled off a bunch of labels and my blank stare persisted and I said, "House?" She seemed annoyed.

I decided I didn't like her.

As I slurped my White Russian I nervously looked at the big white binders on the tables in the lounge that people were thumbing through. Tyler was very carefully studying the song sheets.

Yes. We were there to karaoke.

After I ate the barbecue pork and drank the White Russian I was still nervous. Not quite ready to grab a slip of paper and put a song down that I wanted to sing I ordered a Lemon Drop.

The waitress asked me what kind of vodka I wanted. She received the same blank stare but this time a shoulder shrug, too. She smiled and laughed and asked me if I wanted it sweet then made an executive decision when I told her yes.

I decided that I did like her after all.

Since Katie was certain she wasn't going to sing and I saw Heather looking through the binder I asked her if she wanted to sing a duet. She had been eyeing Creepin' In by Norah Jones and I said I knew that song and that I loved it. After she handed me the slip of paper to give to the DJ I thought about the song. Yes, I knew the song but it has been years since it was in my CD rotation (yes, I am old school and do not own an iPod).

Heather had done karaoke before so she wasn't nervous. I did karaoke once as well, at a friends house. My friend Megan and I sang "I Will Survive" by Cake. It was fun. We kind of botched the song and she did better than I did. After that all the women at the party sang a Thai love song. The guys "sang" a Thai rap song. It really isn't that odd; it was a going away party for Ryan's Thai co-worker, Song, and his wife Pen. Thai love karaoke. It was fun.

One big difference between karaoke at a friends' house and in a lounge is the audience. Another difference is the regulars at the lounge. One guy was horrific. I imagine if he was younger he would be one to try out for American Idol and be shocked when the judges scoffed at his clear lack of talent. The other regulars were decent. One guy stuck to Garth Brooks but he didn't sing Friends in Low Places. Boo. If you are going to sing country pick a good one, please. We don't need to hear Honky Tonk Badonkadonk. Actually, I don't know who sings that one. But the contry loving dude said he would like some 'help' up front since it was his first time singing this particular song so two of the other regulars went up to the dance floor and 'danced'. I kept thinking, does Hat Girl (so named because she was wearing a hat. Clever, I know), realize that by dancing to Honky Tonk Badonkadonk we are all staring at her badonkadonk? Of course she did. I thought of my Grandma Opal and some advice she gave me once while we were in the car in a Safeway parking lot. She pointed at some young girls about my age who were being loud and obnoxious and dressed a bit on the provocative side and she simply said, "April, you don't have to be like that." That was all she said but it was enough.

But enough about the butt shaking (pun intended). Back to me and how nervous I was. My nerves work their way out through my bladder. It is so annoying. In High School before a concert (I wear my band nerd stripes proudly) I tried to time my bathroom run as close as possible to go time. It didn't matter how many times I ran off to the bathroom, I would feel like I had to go again in five minutes. Last night was no different. Well, yes, a little different. Expectations in high school were much higher.

When the DJ called out "Heather and April, singing for the first time tonight" I wanted to say, "Just kidding, Heather," and run to the bathroom to pee. Instead, I stood up and covered my mouth and looked at my friends with my eyes screaming, "Aah! What have I done?!"

I was singing the part of Norah and Heather was singing Dolly's part. When the words came on the screen Heather said, "That's you." I jumped in about the second line. I would say I started singing on the second line but it was more like I was reciting the words on the screen. I got behind, I couldn't jump in so Heather jumped in and started singing my part. Whew.

Then her part came on and she sang her part beautifully. Then my part came back and I choked. She sang my part and I choked some more. Then during the part where Norah and Dolly take turns singing the same line, "Creepin' In" it was me in a great monotone voice speaking the line with Heather singing her part.

Like most people who did karaoke Heather danced a bit while singing. Me? I stood stock still and stared at the monitor. I don't know if Heather looked up at our friends or not because, like I said, I kept my eyes fixed on the monitor. During a musical interlude I did look up once and saw the polite smiles on everyone's faces. I wished I hadn't looked up. As I was standing there with all of the moves of Al Gore, Heather leaned over and said, "dance." I laughed. My singing would be award winning in comparison to my dancing. I dropped the microphone a bit and said, "No."

Mercifully the song came to an end. Heather and I took our seats. I put my head down on the table and moaned even though some young guys were kind enough to say, "Way to go ladies." Which was very nice of them to say but it made me feel old. They were obviously in their young to mid-twenties and my group was obviously not the young, mid or even late 20's group.

Katie and I-forget-her-name co-worker of the birthday boy made it clear that they were not going to sing but told me I was very brave to go up there and sing. Mm hm. I know what that means. You were brave = You sucked but kudos on the nerve to show off your lack of talent. Knowing in my heart of hearts what the answer was going to be I leaned across the table and implored of Katie, "Was I at least better than that guy?" referring to the guy who loved him some karaoke at the expense of everyone listening. She didn't have to say anything, her face said it all, "Well, he is so confident. You were so nervous."

I wailed and buried my head in my arms in shame. "But you were so brave, April. I could never do that," Katie said.

"Great, I get the brave award," I moaned.

People who don't karaoke aren't chicken. They are smart! They know where their talents lie. Lay. Hmm, lay or lie? I know humans lie down and objects lay down but what about where talents lay/lie? Ooh, I'm show-casing one of my talents right now as a dork.

I am not smart however because if I was I would steer clear of all public singing save for singing at church with the rest of the congregation. I suppose I could live with having the most appreciative audience of one, my sweet little Gavin. He doesn't know that his mommy could peel paint off a wall with her voice.

But, alas, I am a glutton for punishment because I'm already thinking of the song that I will practice, practice, practice for the next time I karaoke.