Shocking, I know.

Two posts a day apart??? Keep breathing, Reader. Boredom begets many a blog post.

Have I introduced you to this cat?

I didn't think I had....here he is, sunning on our stoop. He lives around our little duplex, and belongs to someone, but we don't know who. (I think he has an owner--Andrew thinks he's feral). But he loves me. I mean, seriously. Cat will be waiting in the driveway when I come home to Chapel Hill after a work week. (Andrew says he loves everyone, but I'm convinced. It's me.)

I don't know his name--sometimes I call him Basil, (with a short 'a', like the Brits), sometimes I call him Marbles. But mostly I just call him Buddy Boy or Sugar Pie or Honey Bear or Muffin Pants or some such endearment. I really don't even know if he is, in fact, a he. But what I do know is that this cat meows and meows and meows and rubs and rubs and rubs until you pet him and sit down and let him climb up and make himself comfortable in your lap. How could a cat this sweet be feral??? And how could he not want to run away and live with us for the rest of his nine lives? I think he wants to.

Now, before you go callin' me Cat Lady and buying me long denim jumpers for Christmas, let it be known that I love this cat because he is nice. Lots of felines are not nice. Not nice at all, i.e. you unwittingly reach out to pet them and subsequently pull back a bloody nub. But this kitty is a nice kitty.

So what if he faintly smells of dirt and dead animal. (It's true. Gross. I know. But hey, cat's gotta survive in the wild, right? King of the Jungle and all that. And vigorous hand washing after petting.)

I'm thinking he probably won't be coming with us when we move. Andrew already said I couldn't steal him. Durn.

For everything.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.:

a time to be born

and a time to die;

a time to plant

and a time to pluck up what was planted;

a time to kill

and a time to heal;

a time to break down

and a time to build up;

a time to weep

and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn

and a time to dance;

a time to cast away stones 

and a time to gather stones together;

a time to embrace

and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to seek

and a time to lose;

a time to keep

and a time to cast away;

 a time to tear

and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence

and a time to speak;

a time to love

and a time to hate;

a time for war

and a time for peace.

He has made everything beautiful in its time.

Ecclesiastes 3

{ESV}

O, that Wisdom would place her graceful garland on my head, that I may seek and understand this time.

What ha' happened was...

Andrew got me flowers for Valentine's Day. {Awwwwww!}

Dane asked Meghan to be his Lawfully Wedded Wife! {Awwwww, a second time!}

At some point I made Ree's Meatloaf for dinner.

And took pictures of it. All whilst my husband sat salivating by. How cruel.

Andrew and I went to "Science Day" at a local elementary school to help four classes of 3rd graders "swab" the environment and inoculate agar plates. Except you can't use words like "inoculate" and "agar". You have to say "smear the q-tip on the jello".

He wears his Toms every day of the week. And I like it.

Little bird, little bird--brush your gray wings on my head...{tweet, tweet!}

Since last time

12 days is too long since my last post. Sorries all around, folks. Life on the road just gets under the fingernails and it takes a little bit to scrape all the dirt out. Rinse and repeat and such.

Andrew and I are sitting al fresco at Foster's Market in Chapel Hill with the hum of the traffic, the chirping and tweeting birds and the rotund bumble-bees' buzzing as our backdrop to this glorious sun-streaked afternoon.  There is a ginormous genetically engineered Golden-doodle nearby, smiling and drooling while his owner sips her raspberry soda and thumbs through a magazine. The conversations of nearby tables float over our heads, snippets of deals struck and prices negotiated rhythmically bobbing in the atmosphere.

It's the middle of March, Lent has begun--the season of waiting for Easter to arrive. This Spring holds so much. So much transition. So much accomplishment. So much hope. A little bit of rest for the weary. A time to get to work in a different way this go around. Something different for all this sameness. Like a childhood vacation spot revisited, geographically the same but feeling a little looser than last time.

Daylight saving time started last night, (also known as summer time according to Wikipedia), which means church was a little thin this morning, even with the ubiquity of cell phones that automatically take care of the time change. Kind of a goofy thing we made up ourselves to make the summer days longer and the winter days shorter, but I'll take it. Grilling out for dinner is much less romantic in the dark.

I have a camera full of photos to dump and post, but I just haven't gotten around to it. For all of you who read for the pictures, I promise they are coming. I just have to find the chord... :)

Winding down

The best part of my {work} day, somewhere between seven and nine o'clock.

A broken off square of Ghirardelli Twilight Delight chocolate, (At 72% cacao, this heavenly morsel is sweet enough to satisfy, but bitter enough to stop you from eating the entire bar. And really. Could there be a more perfect name for this piece of nighttime quadratical loveliness?? I think not.)...

And a hot cup of Bigelow Sweet Dreams tea. In a pretty cup, of course. (For what is tea without it's teacup? Hot, dirty water.)

Happy March, lovelies.

(Hurry, Spring, hurry!)

Spring, come on down!

I know I have previously confessed to you my fatal flaw of willing the next season to hurry up and get here...well, let me just sheepishly raise my hand and mutter, "guuuiiiiiilty", because Spring has sprung, whether or not it's reflected in the calendar date or the weatherman's forecast. Spring officially begins March 20th. But who wants to wait for twenty.more.days? Not I, said the fly.

For some reason, with every first bloom of the Bradford Pear trees, I am compelled to paint my finger and toe nails a bright, sunny shade of something deliciously girly and happy. This year it's the old cheeky standby, Cajun Shrimp. My good man.

Of course, I have more selfish reasons to encourage the coming of Spring--only eight more weeks-ish of driving back and forth, back and forth. I am ready to be a full time wife again. I miss my hubby every day that I'm not with him. It's time to reunite for good. Period. End of story. Thanksverymuch. Take a bow. The End. Fin. I can hardly believe that we have been doing this for six months already. Time flies when you're on the highway two days a week. (That's not how the saying goes, but...still. Time flies.)

How'd we do it?? Well my first answer is I HAVE NO IDEA. But upon ruminatin' a little more, I would say, 1. iChat, 2. Free Audiobooks app on our iPod, 3. Prayer and compromise. (Number three's a two-fer, but four is just an awkward number for a list, don't y'all think?) iChat kept us sane--seeing someone while you're talking with them makes a huge difference. Free Audiobooks have improved my vocabulary and my education instead of allowing me to follow my compulsion to mash "scan" over and over again until I know the song on the radio. And prayer and compromise...well you can probably guess that being apart the majority of the time is tough cookies. Like old leather tough. You get selfish with your time--and when I say you, Reader, I mean I. All of those, and knowing it's not forever has helped me keep my head on straight. As opposed to it spinning off into orbit. We've come close, but--so far-- still attached.

Anyway, Happy Early Spring to you and yours. Regardless of the calendar, my attitude is of Springtime, my heart says it is so. So it must be. :)

Butterfingers

Nope.

Sadly, this is not a post about the deliciously flaky, buttery chocolateness that is my favorite Yogurt Pump topping.

I got home Thursday night to find that, sob, in the course of the afternoon as Andrew, my dear sweet husband, had precariously and gingerly perched the coffee pot in the drainboard atop a bit of other miscellany: it fell. It crashed. It shattered. No more coffee pot. No more automatic morning aroma of nutty goodness. No more pause and serve. No more. Through no fault of his own, Andrew had inadvertently perched our beloved carafe on the thin edge of it's demise, and it had tumbled to it's inauspicious end.

I tried not to be upset. But the bitterness, like cold coffee grounds, was ever-present in the back of my throat. To stifle my pain and relieve the burgeoning headache from the lack of caffeine, we French pressed our way to an overstimulated stupor.

In my grief the next day, I took to cleaning. Scrubbing, dusting, laundering. I deep cleaned every appliance in our tiny kitchen. I laundered our bedding, couch cover, towels--anything that could be removed and covered in a goopy layer of Shout. Toward the end of my disinfection rampage, I began to dry all of the wet dishes in the drainboard. There were trays and racks from the toaster oven and microwave, bowls, plates, etcetera--I picked up the glass turntable for the inside of the microwave. It was covered in water droplets. I swiped them away with my colorful dishtowel, and as I was moving toward the microwave to replace said item, it slipped. I lurched to recover the heavy glass, but it was awkward in my hands and still wet--it crashed to the floor. My eyes screwed shut, I didn't want to look at the fate I knew had befallen the appliance accessory. It was in a billion pieces. One. Billion. At least. I couldn't believe it. In the span of 24 hours two of our most used appliances were completely out of commission.

Today, we googled. We whipped out the debit card and purchased replacement parts. A small fortune later, we breathed a sigh of relief. In a few short days--coffee will be brewing and popcorn will be popping yet again in the Armstrong household.

Crisis averted.