We have a bit of a problem with the pups. Actually, a few. One is the sheer power and energy they pack in their 65 pound bodies. A walk with the pups is an aerobic and strength training exercise. Our core muscles get a serious workout as well. Resistance, oh yeah...deep abdominal muscles twisted and stretched while verbally correcting with serious commands, and the attempt to remain on our feet while wrestling said canine energy.
Another problem is the fact that when they are distracted, they do not find it "compelling" to listen to those verbal corrections. Not an attractive feature when the poor UPS man delivers one of the many books I receive per week and the dogs happen to be near the front door. The poor man now has a white zig-zag where his brown hair used to be solidly one color.
Almost two years to their birth month, we've decided that the dogs need a little help from some professionals. So, we packed them up with their harnesses, collars, leashes and fashionable neck kerchiefs, and two young helpful friends and headed out to Petco. We'd seen the announcements, on our many trips for dog food, that they offer basic training. One night we even met the trainer and she seemed like a dog lover and like she could teach us to not put up with much dog guff.
Last week, sans pups, we went to her free seminar on "Doggie Manners." This lady is tough but nice and seemed to know her stuff. Tonight the free seminar was potty training and we took the girls so the trainer could see our beasts in action.
One of the first things that happened, upon the bouncing, jouncing and enthusiastic whimpering arrival of our entourage, was that the gates were set up and pulled in around us and we were all put in a "safe" environment in which to "settle down." Oy. Fortunately, we did settle down.
Next month we begin weekly obedience training. Tonight we came home with a special harness that will help keep the enthusiasm contained. We will see about that.
Can their epic search for true love survive a father's fury?
The daughter of King Saul, Michal lives a life of privilege--but one that is haunted by her father's unpredictable moods and competition from her beautiful older sister.
As a girl, Michal quickly falls for the ha
ndsome young harpist David. But soon after their romance begins, David must flee for his life, leaving Michal at her father's mercy in the prison that is King Saul's palace.
Will Michal ever be reunited with David? Or is she doomed to remain separated from him forever?
Against the backdrop of opulent palace life, raging war, and daring desert escapes, Jill Eileen Smith takes you on an emotional journey as Michal deals with love, loss, and personal transformation as the first wife of King David. Jill Eileen Smith has more than twenty years of writing experience, and her writing has gathered acclaim in several contests. Her research into the lives of David's wives has taken her from the Bible to Israel, and she particularly enjoys learning how women lived in Old Testament times.
If you would like to read the first chapter of Michal, go HERE
My Review:
Epic story lovers and those intrigued by the tumultuous life of King David of Jerusalem are very likely chomping at the bit to get their hands on a copy of Michal. Almost as fascinating as the epic story told ably within 374 concise pages is the story behind the book. Jill Eileen Smith birthed the story idea in 1989 and has patiently waited for God's timing for publication.
This novel isn't exclusively in Michal's point of view but much of it is. Readers get a glimpse into Jonathan's, David's and even Paltiel's (Michal's second husband) thoughts, actions and drives. Smith obviously did her Biblical homework and follows the account, adding personality and color to the events as they may have unfolded. Her language choice is fully modern so if you love historicals or Biblical fiction but struggle with difficult language and vocabulary you won't have any issues here. On the flip side, that does take away a bit from the feeling of authenticity so take note if you want your ancients to speak like ancients. So many characters and so many spans of time over the two and a half decade period makes deeply fleshed out characters limited in number.
Hungry after church on Sunday a group of us began talking about where we'd go for lunch and plans for the day as we waited for Rob to finish up his treasurer duties.
Somehow we got on the subject of sushi. Now, let me tell you that I am freakishly squeamish about meat. And I've made 22 squeamish as well. Not on purpose, but by being so careful not to leave a hunk of gristle or morsel of fat or, shudder, a blood vessel, in any meat product I prepare, she has learned to be wary of meat that is not cooked with strict adherence to anti-nasty procedures.
Sushi and I...we just aren't going to bond. Not a big fan of fish and something about raw fish really makes me weak in the knees, in a bad way.
Our conversation began to go to the bad place. 22 shared all about the freakish cutting, slicing and culling I do when prepping meals. I shared the worst meal ever. A taco vein salad. Yes. It is true. I ordered, against my common sense, a taco salad at a temporary food vendor stall. As I began to eat I hit a chewy rubbery substance that when examined was a hollow vein. Grossed out I looked for more and found enough that I dumped the salad and lost my appetite.
A friend who recently returned from Chile laughed and gave us the ultimate story topper. Trying to be a good visitor, she ate what was set in front of her. A large tray of many meats made an appearance one night. Picking the most familiar she thought she might have speared a chunk of chicken or pork. The meat was bland and had an odd texture, until she bit into something so chewy she couldn't break it down or swallow it and tried to subtly get rid of it. One of her hosts laughed. "Oh, you got a milk duct."
Moovin on, let's just say I'm not planning a trip to Chile.
Top of the Evenin to Ya
A little Poem in honor of St. Patrick and Green Stuff
My name is Kelly
Doesn't get more Irish than that... jiggity, jiggity, jig
I write, so I must be a poet... jiggity, jiggity, jig
I speak much blarney, I birthed a St Patty day babe...jiggity, jiggity, jig
My dad's name is Patrick...jiggity, jiggity, jig
St. Patrick, or someone, played songs and lured snakes, or was it rats, or mayhaps children...jiggity, jiggity, jig
I lure dogs with little brown bones and chewy fake steaks...jiggity, jiggity, jig
So if you're in Ireland kiss the Blarney Stone and if you are in America eat corned beef and cabbage and celebrate with a jiggity, jiggity, jig.
Mayhaps this poem is MUCH better if read after a stumble/minor head injury during a riverdance jiggity, jiggity, jig
I debated this morning while at work -- multi-tasking of course, when at work my mind is always on work, kind of.
Anyhoo, some of my work moments had me veering two different directions.
For starters, Monday. Nuff said.
Secondly, I had some really fun conversations with some peeps who came in to see me and the weather was bee-yo-ti-ful.
My conundrum? Should I vent or talk about my blessings.
Blessings won out, kids. But, beware, the venting might be right around the corner.
Top three blessings of the past and present three days.
My oldest child, my man-child, turns twenty-six tomorrow. (You may have seen the miracle birth announcement -- five-year-old mom gives birth to a bouncing baby boy.) This is a huge blessing, the kid, not the big, ugly lie I just told to protect my ego. Our son is one of the most amazing people we know. We aren't biased, just honest.
Second blessing. Our youngest is coming to dinner tonight. There have been some sad changes and a tough few months since Thanksgiving. But, spring is right around the corner and we are hopeful for renewel and growth and eventually plants at full bloom in our relational garden. Yes.
Thirdly, an internet friend sent me something to look over because she knows me and trusts my heart. I find this to be one of the coolest things ever. How awesome is God that He can steer us to friends whom we can connect with and trust even if we never meet while on this planet. This reminds me that one of my dearest friends is someone I picked up on the internet. Of course, I did use some common sense and make sure of a few things before we met. But now, our families visit each other five or six times a year. We've connected because not only can we read each others' hearts, we like each others' hearts and that is a huge blessing.
Now, I'm going to put some cabbage on to simmer in the crock pot and 22 and I are going to take the psycho puppies to the park. Hopefully that won't trigger a venting session for tomorrow.
Thanks, friends. You all are blessings to me.
My Review:
I didn’t love this movie. That makes me a little sad because I really love Queen Latifah and was looking forward to a rich story experience. Having just made the statement that I didn’t love it, I’ll try to share why I didn’t. I haven’t read the complete novel. I began it and was intrigued and caught up, but had borrowed it and needed to return it. Now that I own it, I just haven’t gone back to pick up the story beyond page seventy. The seventy pages I read seemed to mirror what I experienced in the film, so I think the overall life of the story translated well to film.
I found some of the characters to be stereotypical and broken down into clear categories…unflappable, strong, backbone of the family, confused and out-of-control teen, angry, bitter man, overtly helpful white guy, angry woman. May Boatwright (Sophie Okonedo) was the most complex character and added much to the story.
And I think the movie moved a little too fast not giving me a chance to really care about the characters. Not that the drama wasn’t horrific…it was…a sad and senseless accidental death that left a huge hole in Lily’s life (Dakota Fanning), a father who had grown so bitter there wasn’t room in his shriveled heart for his daughter, ugly, brutal racism, lives that were shaped and devastated by the choices of others. The subject matter was hard and awful. This film should’ve sucker punched me. I’m a crier. I cry at happy, sad and poignant scenes in many movies. Even commercials have brought me to tears, yet I didn’t cry during the Secret Life of Bees, and I only teared up once.
In many ways the film is well done. The setting is rich, the cast of actors do a fabulous job portraying the characters shaped by tragedy and pain. It just didn't resonate with me.
Unfortunately, this little scenario may not be fiction at all. I think the artist has studied the nighttime behavior of the "domesticated" feline.
