Airstream

"Sometimes I wish I lived in an Airstream,

Homemade curtains, lived just like a gypsy.

Break a heart, roll out of town,

Because gypsies never get tied down."

Revolution by Miranda Lambert {here}

Last night, I went on a search for the finishing touches for my Lady Gaga Halloween costume.  Something really uncool happened to me.  I was searching through the masses of wigs are the Halloween store, and I caught a whiff of something extremely unpleasant.  Someone had "secretly" farted and walked away like nothing had happened!  Here is a little love note to the culprit:

Dear Wind-Breaker/Cheese-Cutter/Gas-Passer,

To quote Stephanie Tanner, how rude!!  I may have been the one who smelt it, but I was certainly not the one who dealt it.  I know you think that you were so sneaky, but a smell like that does not escape your nether-regions without notice.  What did you eat?!  Rotting carcasses stuffed with cabbages and dirty socks?  Not cool.  The only place that the "Toot and Scoot" maneuver is acceptable is in the Great Outdoors, and certainly never around a large crowd of people.  And definitely not near anyone with their mouth open.  That's just plain gross.  Grow up and/or get some Gas-X.

Sincerely,

A

In case you didn't know or haven't noticed, my birthday is this month.  Birthdays are one of my favorite things in the world.  In honor or this momentous occasion, I've decided that until the big day, I will be sharing stories of my life.  I know both all of you are intrigued, so I hope you enjoy.  

Allow me to transport you back in time...

The year was 1989.  I was 3 years old, and I was the definition of adorable and country.  I was wearing the following outfit (and yes, I do remember this accurately):

Although I'm pretty sure my shirt said, "Lean, Mean, Green, Pizza-Eating Machines" on the front as well.  {here}

A ruffled denim skirt was a staple in my wardrobe.  Duh.  {here}

I definitely had a giant bow in my hair.  {here}

And to complete the ensemble...cowgirl boots.  {here}

[Continuing, since you have a lovely mental image of how cute I was at age 3...]

I was playing on the swing set in my Aunt P's front yard.  She left me in the swing to entertain myself as she walked up the driveway to check the mail.  (Aunt P and Uncle D lived out in the country, so this was perfectly legit and safe.)  On her walk back from the mailbox, she saw that the neighbor's dog had wandered up and I had started up what looked like a riveting conversation with the 4-legged creature.  Seems logical.  At that age, I would have probably talked to the grass and encouraged it to grow.  I was not a shy child.  When Aunt P reached the swing set, the dog wandered back home.  She asked me what I had been doing: (Read with a strong [strawn-guh] Southern accent.)

Aunt P: Was that the neighbor's dog over here?

Moi: Yes ma'am.  He's my friend.  I like him.

Aunt P: [Slightly perplexed}] Were you talkin' to him?

Moi: Yes ma'am.  [Um..duh.  Why wouldn't I talk to him. I already told you he's my friend.]

Aunt P:  Well, darlin', what did you say to him?

Moi: I asked him to push me in the swang swing.

Aunt P: [Stifles laughter] And what did he say to that?

Moi: He said, "I can't...I ain't got no hands."

Aunt P: [Laughter]

That's a perfectly reasonable conversation for a 3-year-old to have with a dog.  Don't judge me.

Hot pink sparkly hearts, 

A