Heads between their Legs

A member of the Minnesota Wild made some reference to their crappy performances lately, and the fact that when they start losing, the team members tuck their heads between their legs... etc... and I'm pretty sure he meant to say tucks their tails between their legs - but I'm very grateful to him today, because that really creates one kick-ass mental picture.

Josie is a flasher. Sure, you say, just imagine the riches of beads you'll have someday after she visits New Orleans. So we've got that going for us. But seriously - we can't turn around lately without her bare cheeks looking at us, and Jo saying, "Mommy. Look at my butt."

Then Eve giggles and walks up to her and with this evil little voice says "tickle, tickle" and does exactly that to Jo's bare buns.

We have a Christmas tree. It has no decorations, but I figure we're doing good by at least having the tree in the house. I had a hard time getting a real tree this year. Our nice cat, Buford- rest his sweet little soul - used to love with every ounce of his furry little being having an honest to goodness piece of the actual outdoors in our living room. From the moment we dragged the tree into the house, until the moment we dragged it out again, you could find Buford happily curled up on the tree skirt, purring like there was no tomorrow. Not to mention that he had a bit of an obsession with fresh water, and would carefully watch our every move as we filled up a container of water and sloshed it through the house on the way to the tree stand. Then he'd happily lap away, as if we'd finally understood that this was the way things were supposed to be. One year when we lived in an apartment in downtown St. Paul and had an illegal real tree for Christmas, we were bagging up the violation and figuring out how we were going to cram it down the garbage chute without getting busted when I noticed a large bulge in the bag as Pat dragged it across the living room towards the door. Sure enough, there was Buford, in the bag with the tree, in a weak little effort to save his needly friend.

Our holiday shopping is underway. The annual cookie bake is done. Santa hasn't been visited, yet, but perhaps that will be added to this weekend's ever-growing agenda.

Funny how all it takes to make me happy is a Mint Mocha, and for someone else (who shall remain nameless, but whose name starts with P and ends with T and married me - hey. That rhymes.) happiness is watching a car's odometer turn over to 100,000 miles. That miraculous event happened in our super-cool '95 Ford Taurus on the way to work this morning. Good thing there weren't any peds in our way, because there was NO WAY he was missing it. And now I'm going to have to hear about it for the next 4 months. Seriously. Because he missed it in like 3 other vehicles he's owned, and I haven't stopped hearing about that, either. (I love you, anyway, honey.) You'd think we saw a celebrity on the streets of St. Paul. Or even better, a Wild player with his head between his legs.