tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47312623381320663112024-03-05T01:08:09.848-05:00Warm Milk and Cold Green BeansA look back on the ridiculousness of growing up in the Craft family.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11396525144226962098noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-45473005187306910912012-02-28T13:30:00.006-05:002012-02-28T14:00:01.262-05:00Tea Party<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGWbkkGvgKtp63ZaYfRC4ny-bjIKnfAvDUAzkijL7gYTztACYZ-Deoq52tmUsJEwBO562xp7HB0hN6uQrYj2MROb7eE_Yd95MRoeiYfJhGjchLgTqXyqjHMCSRtboW0IUDdEMC8sUFwQ/s1600/baby6.PNG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 225px; height: 320px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714263235432994210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGWbkkGvgKtp63ZaYfRC4ny-bjIKnfAvDUAzkijL7gYTztACYZ-Deoq52tmUsJEwBO562xp7HB0hN6uQrYj2MROb7eE_Yd95MRoeiYfJhGjchLgTqXyqjHMCSRtboW0IUDdEMC8sUFwQ/s320/baby6.PNG" /></a><br /><div>I recently visited with 2 of my chilhood best friends (and fellow citizens of the planet UHHH), Corie and Leslie. While we where hanging out and catching up on our lives as seniors in college we started to reminisce about all the fun times we used to have in the cul-de-sac in Chesapeake where we spent most of our time in elementary school. During the course of the conversation we were talking about our most vivid memories of each other. Leslie mentioned that her most vivid memory of me was on the way home from a very infamous tea party. After re-hashing the story together I was immediately embarrassed and then I thought, "hey, I should write a blog about this!" So here it goes:<br /><br />We were in 3rd grade and our favorite thing to do was to put on dress up clothes and pretend we were all sisters in college and all dating various members of N*Sync, Backtreet Boys, and 98 degrees. (side note- None of us went to college together, we did not end up as sisters, and we are not dating any members of boy bands. I sometimes still wish all those things were true though.) Corie had the best dress up clothes because she took dance lessons. After her recitals we got to wear her cool dresses and sparkly costumes. For some reason I thought that if I was wearing a sequened tutu Justin Timberlake would find me irresistable.<br /><br />Corie thought it would be fun for us to have a real tea party and wear the dress up dresses so we would look like princesses. So, the tea party was planned. I had never had real tea, but I heard there were going to be sugar cubes and that was all I needed to know to be excited about it. Unfortunately, the week of the party I got sick. On the day of the party I was feeling better and Mom said I could go if I was sure I felt well enough. I took one look at the beautiful princess dress and decided that I was definitely feeling well enough. In the back of my mind though, I knew that I was still sick.<br /><br />The tea party was really fun! I was not a fan of hot tea, but as I had anticipated, sugar cubes and the little cookies and cakes were delicious. We all really felt like princesses. Things went a little down hill on the ride home. Corie's mom was driving the van with all of us in it. I was sitting on the middle seat with Leslie and Chad. All of a sudden I felt very sick. It must have been a combination of already being sick and eating about a dozen sugar cubes. In a shy little voice I tried to tell Mrs. Fink that I thought I was going to be sick. However, I said it too late. I turned to tell Leslie and suddenly threw up all over her and me. We were almost home so there was nothing either of us could really do about it. When we got home my mom put me in the bathtub and then had to go clean out our neighbor's van. I felt so bad for throwing up on Leslie. I felt even worse for throwing up on the princess dress. I thought Corie would never share her beautiful dress up clothes with me again-- but of course, she did.<br /><br />Corie, Leslie, and I have so many memories together. We went to camp, the beach, FunScape, and on many other adventures together. Even still, it turns out that the most memorable thing I did was puke in a princess dress.</div>carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-73382178172492652142011-11-30T11:18:00.005-05:002011-11-30T20:12:25.208-05:00Reasons Why I Love Grandmama Ruth<div><br /><div><div>My mom's mom is one of my favorite people in the world. She grew up in Eastern North Carolina with 5 brothers on a farm. Then she raised 4 girls in a house the size of a small chicken coop with only one bathroom. Now that is an accomplishment. Needless to say, there are many reasons why I love Grandmama Ruth, but here are a few:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoM0Y40zK67MD6MaeWmIrTRfJ3tdBIzyduVnyS4_lgQhUruOr8qkR7fl2cF5CO_NsBaEYwU6-dfXkMXLs9uxDOA7RrskQfAvbN51EivATjhmbILpIxjIIMdah6FDO43XvL5fxAyRcBRNo/s1600/gmama.PNG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 148px; height: 209px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680890675108146530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoM0Y40zK67MD6MaeWmIrTRfJ3tdBIzyduVnyS4_lgQhUruOr8qkR7fl2cF5CO_NsBaEYwU6-dfXkMXLs9uxDOA7RrskQfAvbN51EivATjhmbILpIxjIIMdah6FDO43XvL5fxAyRcBRNo/s200/gmama.PNG" /></a></div><div> </div><div>1. I love her dinner table rules. When we were young we would go to visit Grandmama for a few days every summer. When we would sit down to dinner she only had 2 rules. The first one was that if you left the table you were done eating. That meant that no matter what was happening on TV in the living room you had to stay at the table. If you left and came back your plate would be gone. The second rule was my favorite. You could eat as much as you wanted as long as you stayed at the table. This included dessert. She would refill my ice cream bowl three times if I stayed long enough. I think in some small way grandmas contribute to childhood obesity.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>2. She is flirty. I can think of several instances where we would go into town or to a restaurant and she would use her womanly wiles on men. Grandmama Ruth was married twice in her life but they both died before I was born. She is best friends with all the patrol men in town though and they will do anything for her. She knows the right friends to make. She also used her flirtiness for sweets. There was a man named Reed that drove the Little Debbie truck in New Bern, NC. All I know is that every time I visited her house her pantry was busting with Oatmeal Cream Pies that she did not have to pay for. My mom swears they were never involved though.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>3.She is crafty. Grandmama Ruth is my inspiration for crafting. She taught me how to crochet when I was very young and still sends me patterns in the mail all the time. Every year her church has a bizaar and she works all year to make things for it. Whenever I talk to her on the phone she updates me on exactly who in church is making what and how far along in the project they are. She likes to stay informed on people's progress and then tell me that she has done more. She does make some beautiful things though.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>4. Her friends sound like they are from a TV show. Her best friends names are Kitty, Tilly, Helen, and Hazel. Then you add her name, Ruth, and it is just perfect. I can see it now "The Real Golden Girls of New Bern" coming to Lifetime next season.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>5. Pretty much everything that comes out of her mouth is hilarious. Growing up in the country means that she says the best phrases. Here are a few </div><div> - Whenever she starts coughing she says," 'scuse me, I got a scrapplebug in my throat!"</div><div> -"She was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs!"</div><div> - "Eat green peas and pass the breeze"</div><div> - "I haven't seen you in a coon's age!" That means a long time apparently. I looked it up, racoons live about 12 years in the wild. I guess that is a long time.</div><div> - "It doesn't have to do with the size of man's <em>parts</em> but it all has to do with the motion of the ocean!" That one made my brother-in-law especially uncomfortable.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>6. Her dentures. Grandmama wear dentures, and has for years, but she thinks that none of us know. When my mom asked her why she sleeps in then she said, "They are my teeth. Don't you sleep with your teeth in?" One time she was in the hospital and mom's only job was to make sure no one came in her room unless her teeth were in. The problem is, I don't think her dentures fit very well. They are always coming loose and she has to click them back into place. It ruins her scheme of making us believe they are her real teeth. We all pay along though.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>7. She has emphysema but she swears it has nothing to do with the fact that she smoked for 50 years.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>8. None of her siblings, including her, go by their real name. They all have nicknames. We refer to her brothers as Uncle Pug, Uncle Pete, Uncle Shade, Uncle Wes, and she is Tink. A few people around town still call her Tink.</div><div> </div><div>Basically Ruth Taylor is the sweetest and funniest lady I know. One of my favorite things about the holidays is getting to spend time with her and talking to her. You never know what is going to come out of her mouth. I hope I am like Ruth in a lot of ways when I am an old lady. We both have bad hips, so I guess I am already on my way to becoming Ruth.</div><div> </div><div> </div></div></div>carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-68464873266128248832011-09-19T14:37:00.003-04:002011-09-19T15:09:56.534-04:00I Never Want to be a Chubby Bunny Again<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPp_1y_jsSfeWV3Dh29l6zzkDiAZqQ8OT1Kb1p-qWMjjxDZ35Bzokhyphenhyphen7In4y9MAh8YPvgViW_BSdaOsFbbC5A2HpWMmR-OAph1EN97UzNhwZepdfIG1mkl2rvP4oOz_gqd_5PP73uMQlo/s1600/IMG_8075.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPp_1y_jsSfeWV3Dh29l6zzkDiAZqQ8OT1Kb1p-qWMjjxDZ35Bzokhyphenhyphen7In4y9MAh8YPvgViW_BSdaOsFbbC5A2HpWMmR-OAph1EN97UzNhwZepdfIG1mkl2rvP4oOz_gqd_5PP73uMQlo/s200/IMG_8075.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654150020844318274" /></a><br />When I was in youth group we would always start with the Pointless Game of the Night. We played all kinds of weird little games to break the ice and have a little fun. Every year it seems like someone would suggest that we play the classic game Chubby Bunny. My youth pastor would never let us play Chubby Bunny. He said it was dangerous. I would always roll my eyes at that comment. How could stuffing marshmallows in your mouth be dangerous? Marshmallows are like sugary little pillows, not deadly weapons. I went all the way through middle school and high school youth group and never played Chubby Bunny.<div><br /><div>Well I came to college and never really gave any thought to the game Chubby Bunny. I was way too busy thinking about other, more scholarly and sophisticated things of course. Until last year, my junior year when the game popped back into my life. Someone had had a bonfire and there were leftover marshmallows on my hall. I was in my friend, Hillary's, room and the two of us were just hanging out, not doing much of anything. We grabbed a bag of marshmallows and decided to have a little snack. I was suddenly feeling curious about Chubby Bunny. My youth pastor was not there to tell me I wasn't allowed to play. I felt so free to throw caution to wind and take a crack at this "dangerous" game. Hillary agreed that it would be fun, so we started stuffing the marshmallows in our mouths. We both had gotten 5 in and could still utter the words "chubby bunny," we were feeling good. I shoved one more in and started laughing hysterically. So, picture two 20 years olds alone in a dorm room laughing with mouths full of marshmallows. It was not our finest moment. We thought it was funny enough to go next door and show Sarah and Aimee. They laughed at us too. At this point I was laughing so hard with marshmallows in my mouth and suddenly one went right down my throat! I didn't want to make a big deal about it, so I just went into my room to take care of the problem.</div><div><br /></div><div>My youth pastor was right. This is a terrible game to play. The sugary pillows that seemed so happy before suddenly turned into monsters in my mouth. I spit out the other 5 that I had in my mouth still. The one in my throat was already dissolving and turning into a thick, stickiness that was coating my throat. I could not breathe! Hillary came in my room and saw my dilemma. She started patting me on the back and freaking out. I appreciated her support, but it was not helping me breathe. Finally, she yelled into the hall, "Help! Caroline is choking!" Sarah came running in from next door. She was so calm and she said, "I took a baby sitting class when I was 12, do you want me to do the heimlich?" I had not been able to breathe for about a minute and a half at this point and panic was setting in so I nodded my head vigorously. Well she did the heimlich, and it worked! The marshmallow came right up. I guess I owe Sarah my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know why these sorts of things happen to me. I should just listen to my youth pastor I suppose. I will never play Chubby Bunny again. It was definitely tons of fun while I could still breathe though. When Hillary told her mom what happened she said, "Why don't you girls just braid each other's hair instead?" I wish we had asked her for suggestions before.</div><div><br /></div></div>carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-9681100632700995372011-09-16T14:53:00.004-04:002011-09-16T15:04:37.622-04:00Happy BirthdayThis is a special shout out post to my friend Amy Genders. Today is her 19th birthday.<div>These are things I like about Amy:</div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0N3vMW4PE1tR6xjjA7s0gXLPsdpGdUn8CLTwOz6lQ3S6GQH7mv_Ohg0qitI92w2LhSvVVitzW_QnnmKg-3mm8cTgImqMo6irGkCL35Q6Gf31_jLx0wyyWwQQE1ZE4cz8GuhXlnrjMjs/s320/amy.PNG" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 102px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653035317331072706" /><div>1. She thinks every person is a gem. "Awww you are such a gem!" </div><div>I never get tired of hearing that</div><div>2. She always has a herd of boys following her around. She thinks it's because she's a bro, I think it's because she's irresistible.</div><div>3. She always has a beautiful smile on her face.</div><div>4. Her ideal guy is Saul from the Bible because he is described as tall, dark, and handsome. (Yes, I remember when you said this during pledge.)</div><div>5. I mean this list could go on forever. She is such a gem!</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Birthday Amy!!</div>carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-56552298383579236042011-06-22T15:54:00.002-04:002011-06-22T16:24:09.321-04:00"You want a McWhat?!"When I first heard that I would be spending the summer in Charleston, SC I began applying for awesome jobs at little bookstores, marinas, and even a bike rental shop. I could just picture myself wearing white shorts, a polo shirt, and some Sperry's while hanging out on a dock and directing people to their yachts. Well it turns out that I am working at McDonalds. I spend everday under those golden arches serving Big Macs and french fries to the masses in Goose Creek, SC.<br />Over the past month I have made a few obervations about McDonald's and its lovely customers.<br />1. People think that if you put "Mc" in front of something we will automatically sell it. "No, we do not have a McHot Dog sir. You made that up." "I'm sorry, we do not have McWhoppers." These things are not uncommon to say.<br />2. People are very passionate about their food at McDonalds. If you get something wrong it is not enough to say you will fix it right away and get them a McDouble without pickles. They will still hate you for tainting their precious burger.<br />3. There is only $0.19 difference between a McDouble and a Double Cheeseburger. People tend to order the Double Cheeseburger thinking it is a $1 instead of $1.19 and of course it is your fault that they got confused.<br />4. People never complete their order. It is not enough to tell me that you want a number 10 but people do it all the time. Then, when I ask them if they would like Coke with that they give me attitude. As if I should just know what kind of drink they wanted with their nuggets.<br />5. The most common order is a McDouble and a Mickey D Sweet Tea which comes to $2.16. People who order this usually don't have all their teeth. At least this is the case in Goose Creek, SC.<br /><br />Over all McDonald's has been a good experience so far. I have been able to interact with all different kinds of people. Apparently the majority of CEO's in North America worked at McDonald's at one point in their lives. I have nothing to back up that statistic, I am just hoping it is true and that this job will rocket launch my life as a successful entrepreneur. It seems like my only other option is continuing to work at McDonald's for the rest of my life.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-91707574243148437162011-05-04T10:28:00.005-04:002011-05-04T11:19:14.096-04:00Couch to 5k<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BxFYwc7uRMWNQRdQGNrhk_rzKbnbTPmCyFc3BZFp9gSHMwuFE5PT_8t-gpC0t16mHu-fv3DXZm6PPSPTO3eP3X2FrydrJel9nuORr-NyohyuIsmYp1tAFwbVMXXYyuVgIvfulwv1aXs/s1600/IMG_5371.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BxFYwc7uRMWNQRdQGNrhk_rzKbnbTPmCyFc3BZFp9gSHMwuFE5PT_8t-gpC0t16mHu-fv3DXZm6PPSPTO3eP3X2FrydrJel9nuORr-NyohyuIsmYp1tAFwbVMXXYyuVgIvfulwv1aXs/s200/IMG_5371.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602880693086029554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I am not a runner. I think it is a miserable sport. At different times throughout my life I have decided that I would take up running. I used to run around my neighborhood in Buffalo Junction. It was only about a mile, but it was a mile of struggle for me. One day 2 dogs chased me the whole mile back home. After that I decided to hang up my running shoes for good. I figured, why force it? I do not need to be a runner.<br /><br />Last summer I had hip surgery (yes, I was only 20 years old. And no, I did not fall off a horse). It was quite a long recovery and is still not quite over. During the whole process my doctor told me that I would probably never be able to run again. He<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTz_dqOVXrHOOHNRZYCmzv-saMjdlovnN_Y5ASUe6NWF3RDbBpW4CPdR_J1X7-xLS8C6ibMOX3T-tPau_VJYlZkKvJIz3RbUDFwmqxsQZzQFnrN6hUA3Br8nSA2sD4IfzR7fKfIakH2zk/s1600/IMG_5370.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTz_dqOVXrHOOHNRZYCmzv-saMjdlovnN_Y5ASUe6NWF3RDbBpW4CPdR_J1X7-xLS8C6ibMOX3T-tPau_VJYlZkKvJIz3RbUDFwmqxsQZzQFnrN6hUA3Br8nSA2sD4IfzR7fKfIakH2zk/s200/IMG_5370.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602880327990638130" border="0" /></a> said I would not be able to just go for a jog on the pavement because it would be too painful and my hip would not be able to take it. My first reaction to this was "I don't care. I hate running." However, the more I thought about the news my doctor had given me the more stubborn I got. Who was he to tell me that I could never run again. I would run if I wanted to and my hip would just have to take it.<br />So this semester my roommate, Meggie, and I challenged ourselves to <a href="http://www.coolrunning.com/engine/2/2_3/181.shtml">Couch to 5k</a>. We really wanted to run a 5k, but neither of us are runners and 3.1 miles seemed very daunting. Also, over the past three years of living together Meggie and I have undertaken many projects, but not ever completed them. We struggle with follow through. I don't think either of us truly believed we would actually run a 5k by the end of the semester.<br /><br />We started the first week of training. All we had to do was alternate 60 seconds of jogging with 90 seconds of walking for 20 minutes. We passed with flying colors. By week three we were jogging for 3 minutes at a time. Honestly, I thought I was going to die. 3 minutes has never seemed so long. Meggie and I were slightly embarrassed as we drug our feet around the indoor track. It didn't help that all these other students were up there zooming by us not even breaking a sweat.<br />You should never tell someone that you are training for a 5k. Most people will say, "You are training for that? Maybe I will run it with you, but I don't need to train." or, "I can't believe you need to train for that! It's only like 3 miles." and my personal favorite, "Do you mean half-marathon?" I would respond, "O yes, I did mean half-marathon. Minus 10 miles though. So, like a 5k." These reactions are not encouraging.<br /><br />Against all odds, Meggie and I made it through the 9 weeks of rigorous training. After about week 5 we considered quitting at each new additional minute of the training. But we didn't! So we signed up for the Sunset Sprint 5k in Grove City. We were very excited about this particular 5k for two reasons. 1- we wouldn't have to travel to it and 2- we would get cute t-shirts. After all that hard work, the t-shirt part was very important to us.<br />About an hour before the 5k, the panic set in. We were both very nervous, and then we were embarrassed that we were so nervous for a 5k. It was a very vicious cycle and a miserable hour. We ate carbs for dinner, and drank a lot of water and we figured we were as ready as we would ever be. Our only goals were to finish and to not stop and walk at all. Once we got to the starting line we added a goal: we had to beat the old man wearing jeans, or "Jeansy" as we affectionately called him.<br /><br />Mile 1 went fairly well. It was mostly up hill, but we did it in under 10 minutes and we were feeling good. Mile 2 was a bigger challenge. I thought it would never end. Meggie wouldn't let me walk at all. It seemed like we had been running on that road for hours and hours not a mere 20 minutes. By about 2.5 miles I was sure we would die. I had no idea where we were and it seemed like we were light years away from school. But we were still in front of Jeansy. Then I suddenly recognized my surroundings and I got a second wind. We raced down hill to the finish line. Orange slices have never tasted to delicious. We sat on the curb eating our oranges and feeling so accomplished. Jeansy slowly came down the hill about 10 minutes later. He didn't look so good.<br />So, we did it! Take that hip doctor. Now I never have to run again.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-34100003118805727912011-05-04T10:25:00.003-04:002011-05-06T10:52:59.869-04:00TransitionsI have taken a long break from blogging, mostly because I am running out of material. Usually I write about things that have happened in elementary or middle school. I think it is time in my blogging career to transition to more current events. Plenty of things have happened in college that I would love to share. So I am beginning the transition now. I hope that is OK. No worries, I will still share old stories as they come to me.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-47582529706914486142011-03-22T12:15:00.005-04:002011-03-23T00:29:03.371-04:00Biggest Meatiest Tastiest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2L6pb-DG5YneqcY6OCybzTDKG4gJ8WQo_PidKwPuVejLANciVePiH_SW1h2BElPILBFzQbsl81d43NyIMu7WjHDYKLVhj0yOA8ctJC3W9QEx8x9lfeAy4ebaF0bOtVZwiO_lN4vd8T0/s1600/DSC00093.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2L6pb-DG5YneqcY6OCybzTDKG4gJ8WQo_PidKwPuVejLANciVePiH_SW1h2BElPILBFzQbsl81d43NyIMu7WjHDYKLVhj0yOA8ctJC3W9QEx8x9lfeAy4ebaF0bOtVZwiO_lN4vd8T0/s200/DSC00093.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587094920628596386" border="0" /></a><br />The best dog in the whole world was Widgeon Wolfpack Craft. Dennis and I liked to say she was Weginald of the Wegiment (it didn't make sense then either). She was not always the best dog in the world though. Like most puppies, she got into all kinds of shenanigans. One in particular made me very mad.<br />I was in preschool at the time and taking ballet lessons. One night after dance class Mom and I stopped at Subway for dinner and we got the sub that we always shared.<br />Side note: To this day I still order a BMT with lettuce, olives, pickles, mustard, salt, pepper, and vinegar. I think this is my favorite sub, but I have never tried anything else. I realize now that this is Mom's favorite sandwich and she always ordered a footlong and split it with me to save money and convinced me that this was also my favorite sub. I may never know what my actual favorite is.<br />So I brought my sandwich home and got my dinner all ready. Mom got me a glass of milk and I had a chocolate dough nut all ready for dessert. This was going to be the best dinner ever and I really needed to replenish my nutrients after a long night of preschool ballet class. The feast was laid out on the table and I was getting ready to sit down, when I suddenly remembered that I had to go to the bathroom. Well that is quite a production when you are in preschool and wearing a leotard. Basically, I was gone from the kitchen for about 10 minutes wrestling with that darn leotard.<br />When I came back to the kitchen my whole dinner was gone and the glass of milk was turned over!! My delicious sub and doughnut were gone. I looked around and all I saw was Widgeon the puppy sitting in the corner finishing off my BMT. To say I was mad would be an understatement. Not only was I mad, but I was also hungry. This is a bad combination for a preschool ballerina.<br />I started crying and stomped upstairs to find Mom and Dad. I burst into their room and declared that I wanted to kill Widgeon. I hated her! Dad simply said, "Ok Caroline. Wait here." A few minute later he came back and took me to the kitchen. We went to the knife drawer and handed me a big steak knife. Then we went into the garage where Widgeon was in her pen. She looked so happy there with her belly full of my dinner. Dad looked at me with the knife in my hand and said, "Go ahead, kill her."<br />I couldn't believe it. He thought I was going to kill our cute little puppy! Suddenly, my Subway sub and chocolate doughnut were not as big of a deal as I had thought 3 seconds before. I handed Dad the knife and ran back inside.<br />It's a very good thing I did not kill her that day because like I said, she was the best dog ever.<br />But reader beware. Do not steal my food. I may not have mercy next time.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-17381088694578071042011-02-12T15:41:00.002-05:002011-02-12T16:03:49.685-05:00Fake NailsThere was a time in the late 90's when it was super cool to wear press on fake nails. I don't know why this was ever a good idea. By the time I got all the nails glued on I was already regretting it. First of all, they were way too long. You could not perform every day tasks with them on. How am I supposed to zip my pants or jacket, or tie my shoes with 2 inch daggers extending from my fingers? Also, they were kind of painful. The fake nails were always wider than my real nails so I would end up just gluing them to my skin which was no very comfortable for longer than like 15 minutes. The pain came again at the end when you had to rip them off. Or if one got ripped off before you were ready. Inevitably part of your real nail would get pulled off with the fake nail. That glue was very strong.<br /><br />One day we were at Wal Mart and I had enough of my allowance left to buy a pack of fake nails. I decided that they were going to be perfect. I was not going to glue them crooked (which I did a lot), I was going to trim them to the perfect size, and not glue them to my skin. I could not wait to show up to school and show all the girls how awesome my nails were. I even imagined my teacher, Mrs. Flores, complementing my grown up nails. I asked Sarah Margaret to help me put them on so that the plan would work. I should have known better.<br /><br />We got the first hand done and they were spectacular. None of my friends had fake nails as perfect as mine were. I was on top of the world. Sarah Margaret started on the next hand. She was holding my pointer finger and squeezing out the glue. I didn't notice, but the glue dripped off my finger and onto the bathroom counter. Sarah Margaret proceeded to push my finger onto the counter and press the nail down. In the process she had glued my finger to the counter! And like I said, that glue was strong. I pulled and pulled but my finger was stuck. We started calling for Mom and Dad to come rescue me. There was also another little problem with my finger. I had a big cut on it. I knew that all I had to do was pour nail polish remover all over my finger and let it soak, but that would burn like the fires of hell. Dad was quick to find a solution. He whipped out his pocket knife and offered to slide it between my finger and the counter. I started crying. I could just picture pulling up my finger and a whole layer of my skin was left where Dad had sliced it off. There was no way I was letting that happen. We could not think of anything else to try. The only option was nail polish remover. <br /><br />We poured it on. I had to let it soak for 10 minutes. And I was right, it did burn like the fires of hell. Sarah Margaret offered to finish my nails. But I said absolutely not. I was done with fake nails. So instead of going to school with perfectly manicured nails, I went to school with one hand perfectly manicured, and one hand with stubby short nails. Sarah Margaret denies it, but I think she did it on purpose.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-30267670798057301722011-01-22T20:21:00.002-05:002011-01-22T21:10:48.764-05:00That Darn Pole Cat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsA6eIL_ofGRFyH6hs5Qya118t6ZKNLd66SnaV1ZAkXrKbT5RiQqJ7p7W5Ju3GnWKwGiUXzzz8a8E_-9QYnz1yzlZ6h_91pO3bo6_VF9CvE7IfwhvM7CuTHQbO4OzOAW9QrdFe3DoEQw/s1600/skunk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAsA6eIL_ofGRFyH6hs5Qya118t6ZKNLd66SnaV1ZAkXrKbT5RiQqJ7p7W5Ju3GnWKwGiUXzzz8a8E_-9QYnz1yzlZ6h_91pO3bo6_VF9CvE7IfwhvM7CuTHQbO4OzOAW9QrdFe3DoEQw/s200/skunk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565198021159477506" border="0" /></a><br />Before moving to Buffalo Junction, Va we had always lived in neighborhoods with dogs, cats, and children on bikes and scooters; but not wild animals. Suddenly there was a whole new world opened to us. We had deer gallivanting through out front yard, turkeys trotting across the road, and bunnies hippity hopping all over the place. Every day seemed to bring a new wonderment of nature. And then there were the skunks...<br />The dogs would always run off and come home smelling like skunk, but we had yet to see one in real life. One morning we were getting ready for school and Dennis announced from his room that there was a skunk in the front yard. We all dropped our Toaster Strudels and ran to the window. For some reason this was the most exciting news we had heard all week. Th little guy was so cute. He was just sniffing around the yard, minding his own business. Dennis and Sarah Margaret decided that the best thing to do would be to go into the yard and get a closer look. At this point Mom was in the driveway loading up the van, so she could not be the voice of reason. They went outside and before I knew it they were running back inside screaming. Apparently, in their excitement they startled the little skunk and he sprayed them. Surprise, surprise. So I went out to the van to tell Mom what had happened. When I stepped out of the garage and into the driveway I saw Mom and the skunk in the driveway. Mom and I both took off in the other direction. Unfortunately, the van door was left open and little skunky sprayed right into the van. Once we were all back in the house we realized how stupid we had been. Why was it a good idea to approach a skunk? At this point we had to leave for school. So Dennis and Sarah Margaret (who smelled like skunk) climbed in the van (which smelled like skunk) with Mom and I. By the time we got to school we all smelled like skunks.<br />I had no choice but to just walk to homeroom class. I was already the new girl, and now I was the smelly new girl. I have had better mornings. The skunk was really cute though.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-52499287438950529742011-01-09T22:34:00.003-05:002011-01-09T23:20:57.066-05:00Writing SongsI received one of my favorite birthday presents ever on my 6th birthday. Dad got me a tape with songs on it. Normally, this would not be that exciting, but this tape was custom made and the songs had my name inserted in them. It was awesome. One of my favorite of these songs was about how I can do anything I want when I grow up. I wish you could hear it, but I will just tell you the lyrics. They are very inspiring, especially is your name is Caroline.<br /><br />"You can be the President of the United States,<br />and Caroline can be an engineer and won't make mistakes.<br />Fly an airplane, lead the army, be a doctor, or play sports.<br />'Cause Caroline of course you're number one in all you do."<br /><br />Sarah Margaret and Dennis were not huge fans of this tape, this song in particular. They decided to change the words and would sing this version of the song to me all the time:<br /><br />"You can't be the President of the United States,<br />and Caroline can't be an engineer she will make mistakes.<br />Crash an airplane, kill the army..."<br /><br />You get the point. This version of the song always made me very upset. I would always tell on them and when Mom would ask them about it they claimed they were singing about Baby Bop, not about me. This was one of the first times the Craft kids wrote a song.<br /><br />In 3rd grade I received a Girl Tech Password Diary. This diary was voice recognition password protected. I just had to speak a password into the microphone, and it would recognize the word and my voice and open up. I decided that I was going to be a songwriter and the perfect place to keep all my songs was in the Girl Tech diary. This way, no one could read what I had written without my permission. One day Dennis found out my password. I didn't think that was a huge deal though because he still could not open my diary without my voice...or so I thought. I guess Girl Tech did not use very sophisticated voice recognition technology because Dennis spoke my password and my diary opened right up. Dennis read all the songs I had written. I was mortified! There was one in particular that was super embarrassing. In a moment of temporary insanity, I even sang a few for him. Right after I sang it, Dennis started making fun of it. I realized that I had made a huge mistake. I swore Dennis to secrecy.<br /><br />He still brings up that song sometimes even though it has been like 10 years. He will randomly start humming it to me and laugh. He has never sung it for anyone though, not even Sarah Margaret. I am still worried it will come up in the future. He always threatens to sing it at my rehearsal dinner in front of everyone. That was the only time I really dabbled in song writing. It ended in sheer embarrassment that still haunts me with every note that Dennis hums. I bet you really want to know what the song that I wrote is and why I don't want anyone to hear it. But you will have to keep wondering because I will never tell, even if my Girl Tech diary will.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-50384715723359637142010-11-15T10:35:00.003-05:002010-11-15T10:59:27.008-05:00The White Volvo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0SinUTfQgozLEw4Z7OpVAnxTJlA8SopuOSSJRsmYn4oXAAI8gf3AYe670FtTX85fTx8bF2l9YCSg_372J6GpjUPAyYDajpwE5E2maY03ZMqODVPqfuoLK1JUaHe99rU10kdq_zaa9QU/s1600/Volvo-240-3.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0SinUTfQgozLEw4Z7OpVAnxTJlA8SopuOSSJRsmYn4oXAAI8gf3AYe670FtTX85fTx8bF2l9YCSg_372J6GpjUPAyYDajpwE5E2maY03ZMqODVPqfuoLK1JUaHe99rU10kdq_zaa9QU/s200/Volvo-240-3.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539806670099810082" border="0" /></a><br />We lived in Clarksville, VA when both Dennis and I got our licenses. At this pointin time my whole family drove Volvos. Sarah Margaret and Mom both had station wagons and Dennis got a 1989 White Volvo 240. We were a little disappointed in the looks of the car until we realized it had blue cloth interior...then we were even more disappointed. Another thing about "the white car" as we called it, was that is was stick shift. So Dennis and I both had to learn how to drive manual. I spent a lot of time in that car even when it was Dennis's and not mine, which it later became. The car also had some special little quirks. First of all, the Break Failure light was always on. This is not a good thing for a car. How was I supposed to know if my breaks were actually failing or is it was just an electrical glitch? Second, the air condition didn't work. Whenever I would baby sit Scooter in the summer his family would always comment on how warm he felt when he got out of my car. I always had to apologize for my oven of a car. Third, after Dennis hit a ginormous dog the front bumper would never stay in place. Some times I would be driving down the road and see sparks coming up from the front driver side. I would just pull over and click the bumper back into place and hope that it would stay this time. it never would though. Fourth, the odometer was stuck on 246,000before we even had it so there is no telling how many miles were actually on it.<br /><br />Dennis had a knack for getting pulled over and talking himself out of a ticket. He seriously got pulled over a lot in our small town. The school cop and the town cops were on the look out for the white car. It was also just my luck that the other 1989 white Volvo 240 in town was owned by a drunkard who the cops were also on the look out for. Needless to say, I had to obey all traffic laws at all times because people were watching for my car. Throughout its life with the Craft family the white car had quite a few mishaps.<br />-Dennis once a hit a dog the size of a cow with it.<br />-Dennis tried to race someone "uptown", Clarksvillians know where that is, and shared some paint with the other car. There was a nice reddish scrape on it after that.<br />-One night Dennis, Whalen, and I were on our way to Camp Concord and we missed the turn in the road and came inches from smashing into a great big grave stone.<br />-We got followed by the school cop to someone's house after school because we had way to many people piled in the back seat and we had a flat tire which made the car swerve. The cop said Dennis was driving wreckless. Don't worry though, he talked himself out of a ticket.<br />-I ran over a poodle. The little guy didn't die though, thank goodness.<br />-Just when we were beginning to think this car would not die I proved us all wrong. One fateful night I was driving home from church and I was on Cow Road when a mama deer and her two babies popped out of the woods. The mama ran right into my car. The deer died and so did the beloved white car.<br /><br />We were not sad.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-14358180664596952162010-11-05T10:27:00.002-04:002010-11-05T10:44:22.721-04:00Cybiko<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKYU-b3mp8eWzHS4boCLLscx-zf5Q1FrjbSJDDBGa5VEy24cc_A-5_EuO3XMSoUGe5O-MxwG3N-RAL6dJValbDy6OUQuOGT3B-Uwc7EebBRC8anMSfOGHZXiL8RJc61eGz1QO_Tjf3igc/s1600/cybikoclassic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKYU-b3mp8eWzHS4boCLLscx-zf5Q1FrjbSJDDBGa5VEy24cc_A-5_EuO3XMSoUGe5O-MxwG3N-RAL6dJValbDy6OUQuOGT3B-Uwc7EebBRC8anMSfOGHZXiL8RJc61eGz1QO_Tjf3igc/s200/cybikoclassic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536076474229854722" border="0" /></a><br />In 2002 a movie came out with Frankie Muniz and Amanda Bynes called "Big Fat Liar". I honestly do not remember much about the plot, all I remember is that they had these cool gadgets called Cybikos that they would use to communicate with each other. It was like text messaging before there was text messaging. All I knew was that I had to have one. I pictured myself sitting in my room, or on the bus, or at school chatting with all my friends all the time. It was going to be magical. So on our next trip to Best Buy I went to check them out. Cybikos came in so many bright cool colors. Of course I wanted a yellow one, I always wanted yellow things. I also learned that not only did it let you communicate with your friends, but you could also download like a million games online onto your Cybiko and even raise a little Cybee. Which was basically a giga pet, just a little more involved and high tech. I really needed one of these Cybikos.<br />That December for my birthday all I asked for was a Cybiko. I thought it would change my life. I thought about it all day on my birthday until finally it was time to open presents. I ripped into the first box and screeched with delight at the beautiful new yellow Cybiko in my hands. It was finally mine. Then things took a turn for the worse.<br />Upon further inspection I learned that you actually had to be within a 2 mile radius of the person you wanted to communicate with. I was a little disappointed with this news, but I figured that would be fine because Corie and Sally were my neighbors. I quickly realized that even though they were closer than 2 miles, they did not have a Cybiko. I was so sure that after they saw mine they would get one for Christmas which was just a few weeks away. I could definitely wait that long. Christmas came and went and I was still the only person I knew with a Cybiko. Actually I was the only person I knew with two Cybikos. My original yellow one would not download the games or the little Cybee that I wanted so badly so Dad got me a new purple one.<br />I spent hours at the computer trying to get my data loaded and games working on the Cybiko. It never worked. By February I was pretty disgusted with my useless toy. Of course in February they came out with the Cybiko Extreme and Dad bought me one. He felt bad that I had wanted this gadget so badly and it didn't work, so he kept trying to fix it.<br />Now I had three Cybikos that basically only told me the time and had a calendar on them. None of them would communicate with anyone and none of them would play games.<br />I blame Amanda Bynes and Frankie Muniz for leading me to believe that this would be the coolest toy ever. They were very wrong. Dennis and Sarah Margaret made fun of me a lot for that one. Cybikos were the biggest disappointment of the new millennium for me. They did look really cool though.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-54654639806387500452010-10-25T23:42:00.007-04:002010-10-26T10:25:13.002-04:00A Little Gem<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHrHRnDjP9GOCUd8SXImOo7Q5DXqOkBaHsIRRDl54jeDHX7zBJAqZlJMJO3eA0YF7Zy3SEHYfURLtjlYQH07wSxf99QNmgxzi2ltD5VECEd8iid3J6H8VbXNzpaiSRMangjqZWl93mJ8/s1600/IMG_8038.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHrHRnDjP9GOCUd8SXImOo7Q5DXqOkBaHsIRRDl54jeDHX7zBJAqZlJMJO3eA0YF7Zy3SEHYfURLtjlYQH07wSxf99QNmgxzi2ltD5VECEd8iid3J6H8VbXNzpaiSRMangjqZWl93mJ8/s200/IMG_8038.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532206687511275138" border="0" /></a><br />I was recently home for Fall Break and I stumbled upon my 5th grade poetry journal.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Couplets</span>:<br />I like to look at the cute pig<br />even though he's very big<br /><br />I have a pet that's a dog<br />one day she ate a frog<br /><br />I know a girl her name is Sally<br />but she moved and I met a girl names Ally<br /><br />I saw a really pretty rug<br />but when I looked closely I saw a little bug<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Quatrain</span>:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Animal Stable</span><br />One time I visited a stable<br />I met a pig<br />her name was Mable<img src="file:///C:/Users/craftce1/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-5.png" alt="" /> <img src="file:///C:/Users/craftce1/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot-6.png" alt="" /><br />She was very big <br /><br />She loved to roll in the mud<br />Then she wasn't very pink<br />There was another pig who was her bud<br />When I looked at her she gave me a wink<br /><br />I moved on and saw a cow<br />His fence was made of wood<br />I got a splinter and said "OW!"<br />It started to rain so I put up my hood<br /><br />Next I looked at a hen<br />They were playing with a rooster<br />They are men<br />He tried to reach a high spot but needed a booster<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMryNOAxD_Bd02PsIrFnC-_WEut16LHpNczzNZ8BqCBdaPh9oDOFytESm9yVE9EHdctb73s0nbGGaEhJ9SL16j34a9V-Byz8qSt_ZdARup-Akea0tX-xswXhS-Mc6n074BCDjlZgePRpg/s1600/IMG_8037.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMryNOAxD_Bd02PsIrFnC-_WEut16LHpNczzNZ8BqCBdaPh9oDOFytESm9yVE9EHdctb73s0nbGGaEhJ9SL16j34a9V-Byz8qSt_ZdARup-Akea0tX-xswXhS-Mc6n074BCDjlZgePRpg/s200/IMG_8037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532204290606871170" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Clerihews</span>:<br />Into the house walked Sally<br />We were playing a game and the score we had to tally<br />We were running races and we had to go far<br />Until someone ran into a car<br /><br />Into the house came Sarah<br />For dinner she was having cheese sticks in marinara<br />The sauce was very red<br />and after dinner she went to bed<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Limerick</span>:<br />One day the sun was very bright<br />I said to myself I think I might<br />Go outside and play<br />since it is such a nice day<br />When I got out I flew my kite<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhwuF0XyOzU0rqAn0MokchOtv2IW3WjN8XoifptNeUHXlSVfUjwdcZRlTbWbC9Py78Rp8_iBcZ_RcGIaSy2Ezp2Qj4-opYKE3trfsoUyFjkvZAkV06NS5b1FKtw8XJ47XZ_xQsTK18e60/s1600/IMG_8043.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhwuF0XyOzU0rqAn0MokchOtv2IW3WjN8XoifptNeUHXlSVfUjwdcZRlTbWbC9Py78Rp8_iBcZ_RcGIaSy2Ezp2Qj4-opYKE3trfsoUyFjkvZAkV06NS5b1FKtw8XJ47XZ_xQsTK18e60/s200/IMG_8043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532206907688245602" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Free Verse</span>:<br />On Saturday morning<br />I like to sleep late<br />then I eat a big breakfast<br />I like homemade waffles best<br />Muffins are good too<br />I watch TV<br />Then I go get dressed<br />I look to see who is outside<br />Then I go out<br />and play too!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirL9idCjAQpYH2hS3N1s3bXPBF_1yuNvA6rcSX9HTZH4oqYNBkxfhrAit_o3t4RZ_ySQadK2S3ZavIR3Zpjfo_GOTlO7p2pz6gtRTBFxwTsP316jHs46vNCOmoRmrWAAZUMV70EVmPGwQ/s1600/IMG_8044.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirL9idCjAQpYH2hS3N1s3bXPBF_1yuNvA6rcSX9HTZH4oqYNBkxfhrAit_o3t4RZ_ySQadK2S3ZavIR3Zpjfo_GOTlO7p2pz6gtRTBFxwTsP316jHs46vNCOmoRmrWAAZUMV70EVmPGwQ/s200/IMG_8044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532206903303514130" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Why Do Dogs Bark</span>?<br />Why do dogs bark<br />at cars passing<br />at people walking<br />at anything that moves?<br />They open their mouths<br />and just let it out<br />Sometimes dogs<br />bark at burgalurs<br />and that is very helpful.<br />Why do dogs bark?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqw7xCIUGVTEadS2hsOv3fGY3DrcXzc6iGx_6jqkW2QZinZgHu8kzth-dYk0cB1ZUwkt1DURZ28rN7LoP6alyUAyKVrBa1lQXplgHfIkqv7M8wCX4_4jxjl18yF4iAXWGazxFaWSxAFK0/s1600/IMG_8039.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqw7xCIUGVTEadS2hsOv3fGY3DrcXzc6iGx_6jqkW2QZinZgHu8kzth-dYk0cB1ZUwkt1DURZ28rN7LoP6alyUAyKVrBa1lQXplgHfIkqv7M8wCX4_4jxjl18yF4iAXWGazxFaWSxAFK0/s200/IMG_8039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532204297710329042" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ballad</span><br />As a little baby my mom carried me everywhere<br />she probably even carried me to the mall<br />because one day trying to walk<br />I ran right into the wall.<br /><br />When I was five we moved<br />to a place called Chesapeake<br />soon after we moved we got a pool<br />but then it got a leak<br /><br />Now I live in Richmond<br />it's an Ok place to be<br />that is the story of my life,<br />that is the story of me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD3sIzOWBYkuXGqPDpP3gq0pE8KDvCuj42gesPjHYgZFe-yneCUB_rnE63aeDCePZ-WwAcPuwm6tg3WWd8s1Ez7fLn54rkVGo1qeobE9TYIfh_jtVHRd9muIP0MNsJVH__vDNOuOS5zmY/s1600/IMG_8040.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD3sIzOWBYkuXGqPDpP3gq0pE8KDvCuj42gesPjHYgZFe-yneCUB_rnE63aeDCePZ-WwAcPuwm6tg3WWd8s1Ez7fLn54rkVGo1qeobE9TYIfh_jtVHRd9muIP0MNsJVH__vDNOuOS5zmY/s200/IMG_8040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532204302841567330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hexaduad</span>:<br />My name is Caroline I am a girl<br />my hair is straight it does not swirl.<br /><br />I wear my hair in a pony tail<br />And to my friends I sent email<br /><br />Some say I act like a clown<br />My eyes are a very dark brown<br /><br />I like to be out in the sun<br />I play all day and have some fun<br /><br />My favorite number is always three<br />My friend taught me to climb a tree<br /><br />Some people think I am a fool,<br />But I think I am kinda cool.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lai Verse</span>:<br />Who is that I hear?<br />I don't think you're near<br />To here.<br /><br />Lying in the dark<br />I hear a dog bark<br />It's you<br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdOnNIYvjcKLTbceATKmnF7X9LhKuTy7nmMzWfBi3suc-Y4b0SVjrhCi_6sM13FjxoMm6Gkppy3eAJScL3xd77YCG0MShATGKT_oizxARipctM-ORyaw6Xa5cqgzUzm6nx7RKRbp9v6w/s1600/IMG_8041.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdOnNIYvjcKLTbceATKmnF7X9LhKuTy7nmMzWfBi3suc-Y4b0SVjrhCi_6sM13FjxoMm6Gkppy3eAJScL3xd77YCG0MShATGKT_oizxARipctM-ORyaw6Xa5cqgzUzm6nx7RKRbp9v6w/s200/IMG_8041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532204308875338194" border="0" /></a><br />You're my faithful pal<br />I will call you Tal<br />Come here.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lanterns</span>:<br />Pigs<br />in mud<br />live on farms<br />they eat gross slop<br />Pink<br /><br />Grass<br />itchy<br />it is green<br />you walk on it<br />blades<br /><br />Birds<br />they fly<br />in the sky<br />skinny bird feet<br />Feathers<br /><br /><br />I think there are a few observations to be made about my 5th grade poetry. 1- I am not an artist, but I did think that I was good at drawing dogs (I was wrong). 2- The only words I could really rhyme with are pig, big, bark, dark, fun, and sun. 3- I wrote about dogs a lot. 4- My obsession with pigs was evident in my poetry. Also, I think you should know that I got an A on my poetry journal! This leads me to believe that elementary schools should have higher standards.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">PS I don't know why those pictures are sideways and I don't know how to fix them. sorry!</span>carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-54724664526047832522010-10-11T23:24:00.003-04:002010-10-12T00:02:39.530-04:00So Many Rodents...Most kids have a pet hamster or two, it's pretty normal. Growing up we went through 2 hamsters, 4 guinea pigs, 1 ferret, and approximately 1,000,000 gerbils...well I guess it was more like 100, but still.<br />Our first guinea pig was named Squeaky, she squeaked a lot. One night we had a baby sitter staying with us and we were all out swimming in the pool. Suddenly, the unexpected happened: Squeaky stopped squeaking. We slowly realized that we did not hear our beloved pet chattering away from the kitchen. We ran inside but it was too late. Squeaky was a goner. We soon replaced Squeaky with Piggy (we were pretty creative with the names.) I honestly don't remember how Piggy died, so we can move on to Piglet. Piglet was a very cute little guinea pig and my 2nd grade heart really loved her. I always fed her so many alfalfa cubes. Piglet started to get sick so we took her to the vet (which Mom thinks is a waste of money for rodents). The vet told us that Piglets teeth were too long and she couldn't close her mouth. So we had Piglet's teeth filed down to solve the problem. Unfortunately, Piglet's teeth apparently grew at a very rapid pace because weeks later she was sick again. Mom refused to take her back to the vet. Dad held little Piglet a few weeks later while she died because she could eat or drink because she couldn't close her mouth. What a weird and sad way to die. My favorite guinea pig by far was Max. We was red and white and just so wonderful. Max's death was even weirder than Piglet's. We had him outside one summer day while we were cleaning the bathroom. It got really hot outside and he was out there for a few hours. Basically his innerds got fried in the sun. I cried a lot. That was the end of our guinea pig adventures.<br /><br />Then there were the 2 hamsters; Whiskers and Peanut. Whiskers belonged to Dennis and Peanut was mine. These were very smart hamsters. They would always get out of their cages. We were smart too though. We discovered that whenever they got out of the cage they went always hid behind the dryer. I think it must have been nice and warm back there. So whenever we got home and they were missing, which happened pretty darn often, we just reached behind the dryer and put them back in their cages. I think Peanut should have been named Mike Tyson because one day we were playing with our hamsters and Peanut bit Whisker's ear off. Dennis was very mad at me, I had no control over my hamster. They were very resilient little guys though. We would even put them on the trampoline some times and bounce them around. They died of natural causes at the ripe old age of 4 which is very old for a hamster.<br /><br />Next was the Ferret, Peppy. One day Dad went for a jog in the neighborhood and he spotted a sign that said "Free Ferret to a Good Home." That very same day we had a new pet. Peppy was crazy. We would let her out of the cage sometimes and she would run around the house. Whenever she came into the room I was in she would trap me in the corner and bite my ankles. I was terrified of that tiny little monster. Peppy didn't last long. She was quite the biter. We gave her away free to another good home. Thank goodness.<br /><br />The last of the rodent adventures was the gerbils. I will make this as short as I can. We got two gerbils. The pet store dude said they were the same sex so they would not make babies. He must have failed gerbil anatomy class because we definitely had babies. I mean there were so many gerbil babies. For a while we would take them back to the pet store for them to sell, but then they couldn't take anymore. So we were stuck. Eventually we ran out of cages and we didn't know what to do. They were multiplying fast. We even had mutant gerbils because of all the incest. Some had no legs or tails, some were albino; we had come to a breaking point. Mom made the executive decision to get rid of them. So we dumped them out into our backyard and dumped out the rest of their food with them. There was an owl in the neighborhood so we figured we were just helping out the food chain. A few years later we were moving so someone had to come inspect our house before we put it on the market. He went under the house and came back with some interesting news. There was something bigger than a mouse but smaller than a rat living under the house. Gerbils. The had formed a colony under our house. We had them exterminated once and for all.<br /><br />There is a Craft family rule now: no more rodents in the house. They were super fun to play with when we were little though. Even the gerbils were fun for a while. I guess the old cliche is true: you can have too much of a good thing. We had so much goodness we had to call a professional to come exterminate it.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-63342161981212256672010-10-11T23:17:00.003-04:002011-10-31T00:17:04.508-04:00Lake Gaston Vacation<div><div>I have mentioned in past posts that the Craft family did not always go on the most luxurious and exciting vacations. This was the case with our Lake Gaston vacation. Now, don't get me wrong, we all love Lake Gaston, NC. It's just that at least Sarah Margaret and I already spent a week there every summer at camp, so we did not have that anticipation that generally comes before a week of vacation.<br />We rented a little cabin on a creek called Pea Hill Creek. There is nothing in the surrounding area of Lake Gaston besides a few small towns with antique shops and BBQ houses. So we were fully aware that all our time was going to be spent in that little cabin or in the water. Upon arrival at the cabin we put the ski boat in the water and unloaded our bags. We went to the dock to check out the water and that is where we met our neighbor for the week, Junior. Junior had the most awesome looking wave runner and he promised to give us a ride! Vacation was looking up.</div><div>The first day on the water we discovered the perfect cove for tubing. Dad would fling us around and around in circles until our scramy little arms could hardly take it anymore. And then right when we thought we couldn't take anymore and the pain was greater than the fun that comes with tubing, he would steer the tube right into the middle of the cove where all the wake had been stirred up. We would all go flying. We named it Dead Man's Cove. The Crafts definitely frequented Dead Man's Cove that week.</div><div>One of the highlights of the week was a little companion we found to go tubing with us. Her name was Juniper the Junebug and yes, it was a real junebug. We caught it flying around the dock one day and just knew that the little beetle would love to hang out with us on the boat. So we stuck that poor bug in a compartment and velcroed the flap down. Juniper was stuck with us for the day. I like to think that she died of sheer joy and too much fun rather than drowning. I don't think Junebugs were meant for the water.</div><div>We tubed so much that week that our arms were rubbed raw and we were covered in bruises. Junior's wave runner didn't help the situation. He would just throw us off the back every time. That week I learned that I do not enjoy activities that just hurt. Dennis and Sarah Margaret would fly off the wave runner all day and zoom around Dead Man's Cove. I did these things a few times, but I prefered to just hang out and swim by the dock. It was a classic youngest child thing to do.</div><div>We didn't think it would be a great vacation, but it turned out great. We mayb have ended up with some scrapes and bruises, but at least we were better off than Juniper.</div><div> </div></div>carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-39130829417654750672010-10-05T12:14:00.000-04:002010-10-05T12:16:03.036-04:00Quick MemoryI just remembered this so I thought I would share it really quickly.<br /><br />Whenever we were hungry we used to say, "I'm hungry as a mungry!"<br />I still am not sure what a mungry is, but it's a catchy phrase.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-10055748041177401402010-09-28T15:06:00.004-04:002010-09-29T10:22:33.119-04:00Allowance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS0LRzhv0KNH2o4EuNhPS-FhWkScfadZIxHQeiz_z2UlffOLSVxRzl3pl2VeIQYXcEFW7QfsBEPosUZe85AZEsS-NgYHFCy-Jx4I6pI4ZUcagPn-EXDwvVt4LKtglDxVHUPT78wjQfKa0/s1600/baby9.PNG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS0LRzhv0KNH2o4EuNhPS-FhWkScfadZIxHQeiz_z2UlffOLSVxRzl3pl2VeIQYXcEFW7QfsBEPosUZe85AZEsS-NgYHFCy-Jx4I6pI4ZUcagPn-EXDwvVt4LKtglDxVHUPT78wjQfKa0/s320/baby9.PNG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522340289129980050" border="0" /></a><br />When we were younger Dennis, Sarah Margaret, and I used to get a weekly allowance. Our allowance went up and we got older, so I had the lowest allowance. I was also the worst at saving money. Each Friday I got $2. I would spend Fridays trying to think about what I could buy for only $2. It never really occurred to me that I could save my $2 and have $4 the next week and then $6 the next. This was a foreign concept to me.<br />There are not very many useful things that can be bought with only $2. So basically, I had a ton of junk as a kid. I mostly bought whatever kids in the neighborhood were selling on my street (their old toys, pretty rocks, friendship bracelets, etc.) and pound puppies. I had a pretty large selection of pound puppies. It was awesome.<br />One day my whole perspective on spending my allowance was changed. Mom had taken us to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to run some errands and Dennis and I were wandering around the store. We ended up in the blanket section where we found something magical. It was the softest most wonderful blanket in the whole wide world, and there were two of them. They were chenille, which even sounded luxurious and expensive. Of course our first thought was that Mom would buy one for each of us. We were wrong. When we showed the luscious blanket to Mom she looked at the price tag and then looked at us and said, "Well, save your money." So I glanced at the price tag. The blanket cost $20! I was going to have to save my allowance for 10 whole weeks to get it. That was pretty unimagineable.<br />6 weeks later I had $12 and Mom was making another trip to Bed, Bath, Beyond. Dennis and I headed straight for the blanket section, hoping our blanket was on sale. Unfortunately, the chenille blankets were not on sale. However, there were some fleece blankets that were on sale for $10. I definitely had enough money for that, and they were very soft too. I made the executive decision to buy the fleece blanket and spare myself the luxury of chenille. Dennis did the same.<br />I guess I did not really learn a lesson about saving up my money, because I could not even wait 4 more weeks to get the blanket I really wanted, and to this day I continue to struggle with saving money. In this particular case I think I made the right decision. Even as I am writing this I am wrapped up in the most comfortable green fleece blanket; it is the same one that I bought at Bed, Bath, and Beyond that day. I bet the chenille blanket wasn't even that soft anyway.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-91310646063801889222010-09-17T13:47:00.004-04:002010-09-17T14:41:10.216-04:00As Long As You Love MeThe year was 1997, Sarah Margaret was in 6th grade and I was in 2nd grade. One day she came home with a note from a boy! This was actually not too unusual for Sarah Margaret. She was pretty popular at Great Bridge Middle School. This note was extra sweet though. We were sure that this boy was so dreamy and that he must have been a poet. The note said:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Sarah Margaret, </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I don't care who you are, </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">where you're from, </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">what you did, </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">as long as you love me.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Love, </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Chris</span><br /><br />Girls, wouldn't you all love to get a note as sweet as this? Unfortunately, the magic was broken the next day. We were riding in the van listening to Z104, our favorite radio station, and all of a sudden the new Backstreet Boys song came on the radio. It sounded suspiciously like the Sarah Margaret's love letter from Chris. We could not believe our ears. Chris was not the sweetest most poetic boy at school after all, he was just some goob that listened to the radio a lot.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-83303209047064315962010-09-08T23:31:00.006-04:002010-09-10T12:33:59.658-04:00Margaret D'Corgi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCtlsKmGL0acE5Np-OJZIHqOdRvHcbpFFLWyLWPXafEIoAWidoceh9KiePDAVemFQJvW0MhF2muwW6m8r0Bk3P9tqKvUnfPn65aORxTdY47yf8Jc6qpxNlwlZ9L7D8sTq8HIg3A5gu1oo/s1600/Teddy_Welsh_Corgi_01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCtlsKmGL0acE5Np-OJZIHqOdRvHcbpFFLWyLWPXafEIoAWidoceh9KiePDAVemFQJvW0MhF2muwW6m8r0Bk3P9tqKvUnfPn65aORxTdY47yf8Jc6qpxNlwlZ9L7D8sTq8HIg3A5gu1oo/s200/Teddy_Welsh_Corgi_01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514757435060203522" border="0" /></a><br />This was the official name of my beloved corgi, Maggie. I only had her for two years, but they were two great years. When I first approached Mom and Dad and asked them if I could get a puppy they said I had to earn it. So I asked them what I could do. What Dad came up with was kind of weird, and I am still not sure how it proved that I was responsible enough to get a puppy. In order to earn my puppy I was not allowed to say any words that began with the letter "D" in front of Dad for a whole week. A week is a long time in fourth grade. Dennis became Brother and Dad became Father. I was pretty quiet at dinner that week, but I achieved my goal. Our family had only ever had labs at this point but I told Mom and Dad that I really wanted a Corgi and I had researched the breed and knew all about them and taking care of them. So we found a Corgi breeder in the Tidewater area and went to pick up Maggie.<br /><br />She was basically the cutest puppy ever. She could only hold up one ear at a time so they were always lopsided. Once she was a little older my friend Kelsey and I took our dogs to Krazy K9's obedience school. Picture this- a corgi puppy and a 12 year old Basset Hound named Moe hanging out at obedience school with two 5th graders trying to control them. Maggie was full of energy and all over the place and Moe just wanted to lay around and sleep.<br /><br />At the same time we had Maggie we also had two labs, Widgeon and Piper. Corgi's are herding dogs and are generally used for herding cattle. They do this by biting the ankles of the cattle and then dropping to the ground so they don't get kicked. Maggie spent many of her afternoons herding Widgeon and Piper across the yard. She would be running behind them biting their ankles all day long.<br /><br />When I had Maggie I was in the peak of my awkward weird stage and we had just moved to Richmond where I didn't have many friends. I would always tell people that Maggie was my best friend, which is kind of pathetic. If Sarah Margaret and Dennis were ignoring me or teasing me I would go into the garage and curl up in the dog house with Maggie until I calmed down. Yes, I know that this is not normal.<br /><br />In the end, Dad decided that Maggie barked too much and that she was annoying our other dogs too much. I had to give her away. On the bright side, I made real life human friends in my class after that. I guess there is always a silver lining.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-27758433311226514942010-08-31T22:41:00.003-04:002010-08-31T23:23:13.853-04:00Golfing Up a Mountain or Why I Will Never Play Golf AgainThe Craft family is not exactly known for our epic vacations. We do not really go all out. Every other summer for the last 20 years we have gone to Jekyll Island, GA with the whole Craft side of the family. That means we have one beach house with about 18 people in it, but that is a story for another time. So on the years that we do not go to Jekyll Island we plan our own family vacations. One year we decided to go to Boone, NC and stay in a little cabin in the mountains. Since my parents have a time share we trade it around to stay in the vacation spot of our choice. These time share accommodations are usually less than desirable and this little cabin was no exception.<br /><br />One night of vacation we decided that it would be fun to go play putt-putt as a family. Well in the mountains even in the summer it can get chilly at night. So, Mom made me wear a sweatshirt. Have you ever tried to play putt-putt up a mountain? It is not easy, especially for someone who already has a knack for sucking at putt-putt. Sarah Margaret and Dennis were breezing to the course (at least that is how it seemed to my annoyed 11 year old brain) and I was struggling to say the least. About half way through the course I started getting pretty warm in my sweatshirt. I took it off and tied it around my waist, Boy Meets World style. Mom immediately told me that I had to wear it or I would get sick. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. My score was about a 1000 strokes and I was hot. So I quit putt-putt while everyone else finished.<br /><br />A few days later Dad thought it would be great to take Sarah Margaret, Dennis, and I to a real golf course and play 9 holes. None of us had ever played golf before. One thing about my dad is that he does not like to feel rushed; it makes him very anxious. Obviously as first-time golfers we were not very good. It was taking forever for the four of to even get through one hole. After a while a group of men came up behind us. Dad let them play through and then we tried again. After another group came up Dad was getting pretty antsy. We has losing his patience with my poor skills. I started crying and saying that I wanted to go back to the cabin with Mom. I clearly remember the next part of the story. I was crying and saying, "Golf is no fun!" Suddenly Dad looked at me and yelled, "Caroline! Golf is not supposed to be fun!" I dropped my club and walked back to the cabin.<br /><br />Since that vacation I have not played on real golf course. I refuse to. If golf is not supposed to be fun I don't want anything to do with it. I have played putt-putt again, but I am still no good at it. To this day Dad says that yelling at me that day is one of his biggest parenting regrets. I could have been the next LPGA champion. I guess we will never know.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-74420749748809957792010-08-01T18:53:00.002-04:002010-08-01T19:09:32.239-04:00A PhaseEveryone goes through different phases, especially in middle school. I was no exception. In sixth grade I went through a phase where I thought it was cool to wear my hoody backwards. That meant that my hood was in the front. [Sidenote- my favorite hoody was from PacSun. It was orange and it said "Pacific Coast Boy Watching Association" on the back. Very Classy.] In my mind all the kids at Chickahominy Middle School would see how awesome I looked with my hoody on backwards and do the same.<br /><br />Unfortunately my new, cool look back fired one day on the bus. I rode in the back of the bus with Dennis and his friends who usually were playing jokes on me and teasing me. Still, I would rather ride in the back of the bus with the mean 8th graders than in the front of the bus with the nerds. One particular day I had my hoody on backwards and Dennis was sitting behind me. Suddenly he popped up over the seat and pulled my hood over my face. He then proceeded to tie my hood strings in a super knot behind my head. It was so tight I could not untie it and I could not pull my sweatshirt off from over my head. I started screaming and yelling at Dennis to untie me, but he and his friends were just laughing. Then the bus driver, Ms. Stith, came to my rescue. I heard her voice over the intercom telling Dennis to undo the knot and to leave me alone. Ms. Stith was my bus driving angel.<br /><br />Dennis did let me go and he had to sit in the front seat of the bus for a week. It was great. Also, the next week I saw a girl wearing her hoody backwards at school. The only thing I can figure is that she saw me doing it and wanted to be just like me. After all, most people do.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-76843348872000728842010-07-20T13:27:00.003-04:002010-07-20T13:47:23.791-04:00It's the Poop Again!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_LvqjM-UravM4QZTDbrKIzW3-zQ7j777kRn0_KNhx62lWWNaMl_uuuXG3L2UtqMh6nhpnK4PLwEmHwf10XHQn_Ka77Wo0PvWfdJYIwOJoq048TjAvpzmPjNfcCYgSz3y4oHHdixzgCzU/s1600/Doggie+Dooley+Color+Logo+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_LvqjM-UravM4QZTDbrKIzW3-zQ7j777kRn0_KNhx62lWWNaMl_uuuXG3L2UtqMh6nhpnK4PLwEmHwf10XHQn_Ka77Wo0PvWfdJYIwOJoq048TjAvpzmPjNfcCYgSz3y4oHHdixzgCzU/s200/Doggie+Dooley+Color+Logo+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496041637663200578" border="0" /></a><br />With a logo like that you know that the Doggie Dooley has to be a good product. They claim to be "The original pet waste toilet." So basically you dig a hole in the ground and place the Doggie Dooley in it. Then when you scoop poop from your yard you put the dog poop into the Doggie Dooley and it is supposed to decompose and replenish the soil in your yard. This is a great concept. The only problem is that it takes forever for all the poop to get back into the soil and in the mean time you have a stinky toilet in your yard. Also, when you have more than one dog, which we did, your Doggie Dooley fills up pretty quickly.<br />Nevertheless, when we lived in Roanoke Rapids Dad thought it would be a great idea to install the Doggie Dooley in our backyard.<br /><br />One day my best friend Rebecca Watson was over to play. We were swinging in the back yard and just doing whatever little preschool girls do. We began to smell the Doggie Dooley and it was not a pleasant smell. We put on our problem solving caps and came up with a brilliant plan. We decided that the only way to get rid of the smell would be to get rid of the poop. It was fall, so we gathered leaves from the yard, ventured over to the Doggie Dooley, and hesitantly opened it. We were greeted with a giant pile of crap. It was gross. We had definitely found the source of the stench. So we put the plan into action. First all the leaves we collected were thrown on top of the poop. We made sure to add plenty of layers. Then the idea was to stomp on the poop pile until it had all gone out the hole in the bottom of the Doggie Dooley and back into the soil like it was supposed to. Unfortunately the leaves did not create quite the barrier between our feet and the poop that we had hoped they would. We proceeded to jump into the Doggie Dooley. Before we knew it we were ankle deep in dog poop.<br /><br />Our plan was a failure, the yard still smelled like poop, and I ruined my favorite pink Keds. Bummer.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-13815240976827893072010-06-07T21:19:00.002-04:002010-06-07T22:14:35.561-04:00What's a Bassoon?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRfNubCiCAhH33vB06hnxZEBkJZ-aB7WnCLmyrDO_mVU4L1x5o31mhyVtEduXHKfdrapwqap9OoT-c17-lG5UX3roPXGp2oL6acHYgXjupM4AkgCLqGXimr0AmAhxYGFk8zEq5vVysWs/s1600/bassoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 153px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRfNubCiCAhH33vB06hnxZEBkJZ-aB7WnCLmyrDO_mVU4L1x5o31mhyVtEduXHKfdrapwqap9OoT-c17-lG5UX3roPXGp2oL6acHYgXjupM4AkgCLqGXimr0AmAhxYGFk8zEq5vVysWs/s200/bassoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480220343418654642" border="0" /></a><br />It all started with my grandmommy who used to be a piano teacher. She taught her children to play, and then my dad and mom decided that their children should learn to play piano too. So Sarah Margaret, Dennis, and I took lessons. I only ended up taking lessons for three years. In that time I had three different teachers. I hated piano lessons. We had lessons once a week and the three of us would all go in a row. That meant that we had to sit at the teacher's house for two extra lessons. It was so boring. Every other day of the week we had to practice for 30 minutes. Looking back, 30 minutes a day does not sound like that much, but at the time it seemed like an eternity. I spent the majority of my 30 minutes whining and crying at the piano. However, I did learn to read music which I am thankful for because that lead me to join the band in middle school.<br /><br />In elementary school we started playing recorders in fourth grade. It was very exciting and I can still play "Hot Crossed Buns" with my eyes closed. Then, at the end of 5th grade the middle school band teacher came to our music class and we got to pick which instrument we wanted to play in band starting in 6th grade. I looked at the list of instruments and nothing spoke to me. Then I saw the word "bassoon" listed in the woodwind section. I had never even heard of a bassoon, so of course I put a check mark next to it and waited anxiously for 6th grade band when I would find out what a bassoon was and how to play it. There was only one other person who had signed up to play bassoon, his name was Matt Uhl. We became pretty good friends and even developed little middle school crushes on each other. One day in class I guess he was feeling extra romantic and this is what he told me: "If I could collect all the snot that I have either sucked up, spit out, or blown out of my nose, it would probably fill a stadium." He sure did have a way with words, but we were never an item.<br /><br />After 6th grade I left Chickahominy Middle School and moved to Bluestone Middle School. The band director there had not had a bassoon player in 20 years. However, this worked to my advantage because he had to buy a brand new bassoon for me to play. It was beautiful. Also, he pretty much had no idea what a bassoon was supposed to sound like so he just gave me A's on all my playing tests in class. In 8th grade my bassoon playing skills took my all the way to All District Band. I made 4th chair. I know that sounds good, but only 6 people tried out and they took 5. The 5th chair guy had a bassoon with parts falling off of it and he could not play the music. I can't even imagine what the 6th guy sounded like. All District Band was a weekend event. We skipped school on Friday and learned our music all day Friday and Saturday, then our parents came for a concert on Saturday night. For band geeks, this is heaven. For me, this was torture. Also, on a bassoon you have to hold it up by sitting on a butt strap. I just happened to forget my butt strap that weekend. By lunch time on Friday my arms were killing me from holding it up all day. So, Friday night I borrowed a pocket knife and punched a new hole in my leather belt and fashioned my own butt strap.<br /><br />Marching band started in high school, but you cannot march with a bassoon. So for parades I started playing the cymbals. I can play "O Come All Ye Faithful" pretty darn well on the cymbals. I also started playing bass guitar so I could join a punk rock band, which I have yet to do. Now I am learning the banjo so I can start a bluegrass band, which I also have yet to do.<br /><br />When I changed schools in 10th grade I stopped playing bassoon. I was pretty good after playing from 6th-9th grade. And how many people can say that played bassoon for four years? I mean most people don't even know what a bassoon is.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4731262338132066311.post-24149253980109259422010-05-08T17:22:00.002-04:002010-05-08T17:40:19.059-04:00What Can Boys Do That Girls Can't?One day, Corie Sally and I decided to ask Mr. Heath if there was anything that boys can do that girls can't. The only thing he said was that girls cannot pee standing up. So, of course we had to try it. He was right and we made a mess.<br /><br />I revisited this dilemma much later on the spring before we moved to Clarksville. We were going to visit for the day to check on the progress of our house. We had been there all day without a working bathroom and I had to pee really bad. Dennis and I were roaming around in the woods near the lake and I told him about my little problem. He gave me two options. I could either use the Port-a-potty that was at the top of the driveway for the workers, or I could just pee in the woods. He said that like it was no big deal. Just to prove that peeing in the woods was no big deal he walked behind a tree and did it himself. Once again I decided to try to pee standing up. I told Dennis to turn around; I knew I would not be very smooth about this. Then I walked a few feet away. I was wearing wind suit pants so I pulled them down and kind of got in crab-walk position. It was awkward, but I really had to go. So then I started to relieve myself. I was very happy until I lost my balance. I just fell over, but I could not stop peeing. I was so embarrassed. Dennis kept asking me what I was doing, it probably sounded something like this: "ahhh, uh-oh, oof, shoot!" I told him what had happened and he just laughed at me. What a good brother. So I pulled up my now wet wind suit pants and started to problem solve. How was I going to make it through dinner and the 2 hour car ride back to Richmond in pants that I had peed on? Dennis and I decided that I should go down to the lake, which was still freezing cold from winter, and try to wash off my pants. I guess this kind of worked, but now they were just more wet. I did not want Mom and Dad to see me so I just walked back to the car. Luckily, when I got to the car I realized that there was a bag of old clothes in there that we were going to take to Good Will. Hallelujah! I just took off my wet pants and put on some old ones with a kool-aid stain on them that were too short. Everything was much better. Mom asked me about my wardrobe change, but I just shrugged my shoulders and told her I just felt like changing. She still does not know about my little accident.<br /><br />We have a giant picture collage in our upstairs hallway. One of the pictures is of Mom and me from that day. I and wearing kool-aid stained high waters. I guess that is better than blue wind suit pants with pee on them. I have definitely learned my lesson though: Girls cannot pee standing up, at least this girl can't.carolinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08286069565234438724noreply@blogger.com0