The Little Black Dress was adamant she would be watching said show. The SONS of Thunder were pretty adamant they would not. The Dress pointed out if the SONS would like to earn some “points,” it might be wise for them to join her for a while. And let’s face it, the fact the SONS need lots of “points” right now was fairly well implied.

So with a few “ughs” and “do we have to” comments, the SONS settled down. As least settled down as much as the SONS can when they are forced to do something they really don’t want to – which basically means they didn’t.

Anyway … so the young ladies start parading and it is obvious a little competition is starting among the SONS. They are all pushing for their “birth” state. Youngest with Georgia, Middle has Nebraska and Eldest takes Alaska. The Dress is pushing Miss Oklahoma all the way.

The reason for that is she competed in Miss Oklahoma for several years. The only blemish to that incredibly fine organization is that The Dress never won the state title. Everyone makes mistakes.

The SONS are quite happy with Miss Oklahoma as well. They lived there for about two years, yours truly and The Dress grew up there, plenty of friends and family are still there. And, well, you know, mom was in that competition.

Well, Top 10 come out and all three of the SONS’ home states are out. Which means they are basically “out” as in continuing to watch.

Yeah, and then comes the bathing suit competition.

“Um, we can hang around for a little longer if you really, really want us to mom.”

“You all know she won that don’t you,” I point out to the SONS.

“Won, won what” they all ask.

“Um, the swimsuit competition.”

Total silence.

They look up at the television, look over at The Dress, look at the television … back and forth.

And I’m cracking up watching that interaction. Because you know at one level they are looking at these 18 to 20 year-olds and trying to equate that age with The Dress’s age, which we all know is 29. So it’s not a hard leap, but still …

And I also see a little bit of pride and a few winks and high-fives among the SONS.

So the swimsuit competition ends and then there’s the whole talent thing and the SONS are like, so gone after that. And The Dress gives her blessing so they are like, seriously and physically gone.

For some reason, I am a master at these competitions. I always get at least two out of the Top 5 and almost always pick the winner. I got three out of the Top 5 this year. But I admit, I did pick The Dress, or rather, she allowed me to pick her, so I do have some good practice.

Anyway, so with it down to the Top 5 The Dress and I are pulling all out for Miss Oklahoma. And The Dress is going crazy with all her “Go Betty,” “Go Betty”- like it’s some big football game or some huge national competition for young women with a title like Miss America or something on the line.

Miss Oklahoma misses by one – she’s runner-up. And yet The Dress is quite proud of Miss Betty Thompson.

The Dress will see Miss Betty soon.

The Miss Oklahoma pageant will be gearing up this summer. The Dress will be there, as will all the contestants. The young ladies are competing for the crown – the Miss Oklahoma title.

The Dress will be there, helping and showing them another Crown.

You see, The Dress was named this year as chaplain for the Miss Oklahoma pageant. Her role is to mentor and guide and also to help them “win” the true Crown. Only one wears the Miss Oklahoma crown; each of those young ladies can win the Crown – the Crown of Life.

I can’t think of a better title – and position – for the Little Black Dress. And while I know the LBD really wanted the state crown, I also know she’s really, really pumped about this title.

And honestly, I like the title better.

Yes, those keys. The ones where you tear up the house because the kids are late for school and you can’t find the keys you left RIGHT HERE YESTERDAY AND WHO TOUCHED MY KEYS AND HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NEVER TO TOUCH MY KEYS.

Yes, those keys. The ones that start the car and open the front door. And on whatever key ring you choose to put said keys, there is always a key or two on there and you have no idea what it is for. But you will never take it off because one day you might remember and there’s this old lock and …

Yes, those keys. And that key ring, which I mentioned earlier. A person’s key ring  says a lot about one’s personality. The LBD’s includes a strap with a leopard pattern – see?

Anyway, this blog is not about keys or the fact the LBD lost her keys. Although that’s all I’ve talked about. It’s actually more of a cause and effect, losing the keys I mean.

Our house at the moment, is, shall we say … hang on … I’m trying to find the right phrase that won’t end with some headline of Husband Spiked To Death By Precious Woman Wearing A Black Dress Who Can’t Find Her Keys.

Our house is undergoing a transformation. That works.

With the holidays approaching, The Dress is in the midst of getting her various booths ready for her shows. She’s an artist, a designer, a take this old crappy piece of furniture and turn it into … “wow, that’s actually really nice” type. And she does mirrors lined with seashells. Which end up weighing enough to cause me to have a heart attack. But even I will admit they are really cool, especially if someone else has to hang them.

The problem is she needs somewhere to “create.” And to store all her “stuff” that she has picked up off the side of the road  discovered at those secret places only designers know about. Somewhere other than the garage and kitchen and master bedroom and living room and bonus room and …

I have actually solved this situation, which I will share in an upcoming post. So stay tuned.

Thus, right now our house is, what was the word? … oh yeah, in slight disarray.  Basically, you put something down and you may never find it again. Like losing the youngest SON of Thunder for a couple of hours the other day.

Or losing the keys.

Which leads to the point of this blog. The Dress had to take stuff to her booths. She can’t find her car keys, meaning she can’t get to said booths with said stuff. incredible works of art.

There is only one solution – The Truck.

I don’t know why, but I find it rather sexy to see the Little Black Dress in a Little Black Dress and cowboy boots driving a pickup older than she is.

And so The Dress loads up her stuff  works of art in the back of the pickup and heads off to the consignment stores where she has her booths.

And every single woman looks at The Dress. And looks at The Truck.

And every one of them says, “I need a truck.”

And so gentlemen, the point of this blog. You now have the Golden Ticket.

Don’t try the “I need a truck.”

Try, “Honey, wouldn’t you like to have a truck to haul your stuff works of art in?”

And they will say “yes … what a thoughtful idea.”

And you have your truck.

Unless of course, she needs it to move her stuff works of art.

The intent was there – getting together with friends and their kids so said kids can have fun. To create, as the Little Black Dress would say, “memories.” Sometimes it’s best to not go there, create the memory I mean. Because once it’s there, you never forget. And it takes decades of time before you can maybe laugh about it.

But no. We are going to create memories by golly. And so the three SONS of Thunder, the two SONS of Lightening, the DAUGHTER AND SON of Fire, along with the appropriate parental units, hit a fall festival.

And we’re actually having a good time and bonding and creating those memories. Until someone comes up with the brilliant stupid idea of trying the Corn Maze. I don’t know who actually came up with the idea, but I can assure you it wasn’t me.

Because we get to the entrance of the corn maze and the first thing they hand you is a flag on a long stick. And then you read a bunch of rules:  rules like don’t cut through the corn maze, stay on the path; don’t start a fire (I will come back to that one); STAY WITH YOUR GROUP (why yes, we’ll be coming back to that one too); don’t freak out because you are totally lost in a field of corn and are going to die as the corn stalks slowly bend toward you, wrapping their sheaves of gold ever so tightly around your body and take one of their ears of bountiful corn and ram it into your eye.

No, on that last one, you are supposed to remain calm and wave the aforementioned flag and someone will come to get you. Even if it takes a day or two. And hopefully before the corn stalks have done a number on you.

I bring up that last point because one of the more inquisitive SONS asked what I thought was a pretty smart question; namely, how long does it take to get through this pit of hell corn maze.

And the nice woman says some people have actually made it in about 10 minutes. And then she says some people … and she looks off in the distance, like she’s remembering something. Like a relative who died a slow and painful death.

Remember those memories I was talking about? Yeah, here’s why sometimes memories should not be created in the first place. Because we walk into the corn maze and the first thing I think of is that D-Grade movie, “Children of the Corn.”

It was decades ago, and as near as I can remember, it involved some children and some corn fields and some psycho minister. Thus the title, naturally. And basically, if you didn’t do exactly what the psycho guy said, you got sent to the corn field to be shucked.  Or stabbed to death with a bunch of ears of bountiful corn. Or something.

All I remember is 1. you never wanted to go into said corn field and 2. if you did get sent there, you were going to die a horrible death.

So I’m thinking about that as we walk into the corn maze.

And it takes about, oh, six seconds or so before the SONS of Thunder and the SONS of Lightening and the SON of Fire have totally violated Rule No. 3 – the one I put in big capital letters – STAY WITH YOUR GROUP.

As an aside, the DAUGHTER of Fire and her father went for a pony ride. She was the only smart one in the group.

Back to the maze of death. Basically, it takes another seven or eight seconds before the various SONS are all screaming each other’s names. Because they are already lost and a couple of them are already freaking out because some SON did not STAY WITH THE GROUP. And I look back and realize I’m only about 10 yards from the entrance to this incredible memory I got suckered into and I start walking back and The Dress looks at me and says, “don’t even thing about it.”

Ugh.

So we round up the various SONS complete with the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP lecture, which, as all parents know, is a complete waste of time. But as parental units, we have to give said lecture to show that we are, you know, parental units.

And that lasted about a minute – I mean the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP impact.

And suddenly we come to the proverbial fork in the road. And there’s a sign with a question and three possible answers. Depending on your answer, you go straight, left or right.

It’s at this point I should mention this pit of hell corn maze has a “theme.” Why a theme? I have no friggin idea. But the theme is “space exploration.” How does a pit of hell corn maze and space exploration tie together? Again, I have no friggin idea.

So the questions relate to space exploration naturally. And I’m just standing there waiting on the various SONS to tell us the answer because they are the ones in school and getting the education and should know this off the top of their heads because The Dress and I just wasted about a month of our lives building a space ship out of flour and salt and duct tape for some science project and as soon as we got them to school with said project they opened the car door and the project fell out and broke into a million pieces and our precious SON failed said project and we ruined his life forever.

And I’m still waiting.

There are some technological advances that I truly am thankful for, especially at times like this.  Because another dad and I do what any sane person would do in a similar situation – we pull out our smartphones and just Google the answer.

And we end up doing that on more than one occasion.

And that’s pretty much how this memory went. Some SON would violate the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP rule, everyone would start yelling and freaking, we’d hit another multiple-choice crossroad, Google the answer and move on. And the whole time I’m singing “children of the corn, children of the corn, children of the corn …”

Until the mother of the SON of Fire hits me in the arm.

Ouch.

So by now I pretty much have this “memory” seared into my brain. Time to get out. But of course we’re in the deepest, darkest part of this pit of hell corn maze and the wind is blowing and the corn stalks keep bending toward me and the sheaves are starting to wrap around my legs and …

I’ve hit my wall.

And I realize I have about 538 different ways to start a fire in my backpack, being the father of Boy Scouts and being prepared and all that. And I think if  I start a fire right about here, the wind will blow it and we can just follow right behind the inferno blaze and walk right out. And then I realize knowing my luck the wind will shift and the headline will read “Idiotic Dad Freaks Out In Pit Of Hell Corn Maze, Burns To Crisp.”

Somehow, after lots of googling, tracking down lost SONS and doing the whole STAY WITH YOUR GROUP lecture way too many times, we find the exit.

And I kiss the ground.

And I think the only thing that would make this an even super-duper gee-whiz bang better memory was if we had done this in the summer, in 100-degree weather.

And I decided I’d rank this “memory” right up there with sleeping in a cave.

The kind of memory where you think back and go, “been there, done that … and never again.”

But all the SONS said they had a great time. So I guess we’ll let them keep the memory.

As you know, the SONS of Thunder and I are one with fire. And pretty much one with various knives and basically anything that involves the woods, burning things and sharpening sticks.

We are becoming, as the Little Black Dress points out, gear and survival junkies. For The Dress, “survival” means no lipstick – or high heels. But I digress.

And, we’re pretty much experts on the whole “you are playing the role of a couple of really, really stupid tourists who decide to wander around in the Amazon jungle with nothing more than a toothpick, a left shoe and some gum” shows – the ones where you take said implements and somehow start fire, build a canoe and kill a hippo.

There are three main shows relating to said “I’m a tourist trying to survive” shows: Man Verses Wild, Dual Survival and Man, Woman Wild.

And based on which show you prefer, I can pretty much sum up your entire life history and personality.

Let’s start with the original one – Man Verses Wild featuring Bear Grylls. He already gets points for his name – Bear. And let’s face it, he does fall into the “stud” category. He climbed Everest at the age of 23, broke his back parachuting, and circumvented the United Kingdom on jet skis.

He’s also a former Special Air Service member, which as near as I can tell is the equivalent of our Navy SEALS. Except they take a break from fighting for afternoon tea.

Bear started off well, but let’s just say he’s sold out to the commercial world. He’s now teamed up with Gerber – not the baby food, but knife company – and has all kinds of Bear Grylls’ survival knife, fire starter, glow-in-the-dark compass, all-in-one survival kit and just fill in the blank.

When he starts a clothing line at K-mart, I am definitely done.

He’s also become more of a “don’t try this at home” type. Like he’s standing at the top of some waterfall and for some reason the only way to get down is to jump 60 feet down into a 3×4-foot pool of water. Or, he jumps across a gorge by leaping 30 feet into the air and smashes into a tree, with his weight pushing him and the tree to the other side. Did I mention said gorge is about 500 feet down?

And every time he does one of those stunts The Dress looks at the SONS and says “If you even think about …”

He’s becoming too commercial, too perfect, too daring, too …

“Eye candy,” The Dress says.

And there you go.

The newest member of the survival shows is Man, Woman Wild.  This basically involves Mykel, another one of those SAS guys, and his wife, Ruth, a TV journalist. They happen to be married. Trust me, it shows.

I had high hopes. Think about it, The Dress and I out in the woods, surviving with what’s in our pockets, just hanging out together while the SONS bring up coconuts they scrounge off the beach, watching the sunset …

And then I always wake up.

In a nutshell, here’s how it goes. Mykel will go into this long explanation about something involving the equinox and tidal currents and how that somehow relates to building a fire. And Ruth will do something, or not do something, and Mykel goes “now honey.”

And Ruth will call Mykel a horse’s arse. She says that because she’s English, but it sounds funny and is not nearly as powerful as the American version. And then Mykel gets mad and puts on his helmet cam with an extended pole for the video camera and goes out to kill an elephant. And that pretty well kills the show. Because Mykel can probably decapitate you with a credit card, but when he puts on the helmet cam, you’d laugh in his face – even knowing he can decapitate you with a credit card.

And in the meantime Ruth starts playing journalist and gives us the history of how the Incas used to take acorns and smash them up to make a pie, but first they had to leech them to get rid of some weird something in said acorn. And Ruth does the whole leech thing with a sock.

And then Mykel comes back and they both say they love each other and kiss. And the SONS go “ugh.”

The Dress does not like this show. And she always asks why I watch this show and I simply say: Eye candy. Ruth that is.

And then there’s Dual Survival, which is the favorite of the SONS and I, and even The Dress likes this one. It’s probably because they don’t wear helmet cams, leech acorns in socks or leap over tall buildings in a single bound.

It features Dave, an Army-trained Scout and sniper, and Cody, a primitive skills expert. That’s what the bios say. To cut to the chase, Dave is from the backwoods and drank too much moonshine, Cody is a hippie who experimented – a lot – with peyote.

And they are like an old married couple. Cody plays the wife, gathering wood chips and snails to eat, building the “home” back at camp and muttering to himself. Dave is out hunting for meat and beats his chest will bring back a wildebeest. Cody is mellow; Dave is an ADD poster child.

But these guys are good. Dave can make fire from a rain cloud. Dave can take a boa constrictor and squeeze it to death.

And what I admire is they’ll look in the camera and say “don’t try this at home.” And they’ll look at each other and say “and we’re not trying it either.” And they don’t have a clothing line at some Big Box Store In The Sky and don’t say “arse” and would kill any producer who tried to make them wear a helmet cam.

At least, not yet.

And there you go.

This will make 29 such milestones.

The oldest SON of Thunder is now 13. Which means … you do the math. For the record, we  - The Dress and I that is – were both well past the legal drinking age limit when we married. It’s sorta complicated.

When the SONS were younger, they would inappropriately ask The Dress her age. The answer was always the same – 29. That worked for a while when they were younger, but now the SONS just look at her and go “oh Mom” and “weren’t you 29 last year?” and then look at me and I look back at them with a “don’t go there” look and we just let it drop.

If The Dress says she’s 29, who am I to argue?

I have a tradition of writing each of the SONS a letter on their birthday.  And so one for The Dress as well:

Dear LBD:

You wore a pink dress when we got married. And everyone gasped when you started walking down the aisle. And my best man hit me in the back and said something along the lines of “you lucky dog.”

Yes I was, and am.

I know you like lots of fawning and adjectives and adverbs and, well, lots of words.

And you know that’s not me.

All I can say is “thanks.”

Thanks for marrying me.

Thanks for putting up with me and the SONS.

Thanks for the SONS.

Thanks for all the bonfires and times in the rocking chairs.

Thanks for all the times folding laundry.

Thanks for being you, and staying you.

Thanks for being my Sam.

Happy birthday.

Love you

The Writer.

It must be related to certain milestones. I bought my first truck as I approached the big 4-0. Ten years later, and coming up on the half-century mark, it was time.

I do not “do” fancy. My latest toy does not have a gun rack, rear camera, GPS or anything leather. “Stereo” is questionable and the paint is that in name only. There are dents and rust and scrapes and … pure character.

Age-wise, this symbol of manhood is roughly that of the SONS of Thunder – combined.

Why a truck? As I said in my post about my first one, to do, well, truck things. Like going to the dump, camping, hauling whatever new/old knick-knack The Dress discovers, just driving around with the SONS.

Eldest SON, who was three at the time of the first truck, called it a “frack.” He loved it, primarily because there was no muffler. Which basically meant it sounded like a jet engine, which Eldest thought was beyond cool.

I had two great memories from that first truck. The first was as collection, just driving around the cornfields of Nebraska with Eldest.

The second was when I sold it.

Next door to us was a house converted into a couple of apartments. In one lived two 20-something girls. They struggled to survive, working at a custom T-shirt company. They just didn’t have any money. Their transportation was one of those baby trucks, the really small ones that probably would fit in the back of my truck. The back window was broken out. The heater didn’t work. This was Nebraska.

One day in winter, I came home from yet another late night at the newspaper to see our walkway was cleared of snow and a path was dug all the way to the back alley where the garbage cans were. The Dress was only a few days away from delivering Middle SON. The girls had gone out and shoveled the snow, just to help us out.

Later, I transferred within my company to Georgia. The question was what to do with the truck, because we really couldn’t take it with us. I wasn’t even sure it would make it.

I decided to give it to the girls. But Nebraska has absurdly high taxes, especially on cars – even beat up old trucks. I knew they couldn’t even pay the taxes.

So I walked over and knocked on the door. The girls answered, and I asked for a dollar. Yes, I got a really weird look, but they dug around and gave it to me.

And I handed over a bill of sale: one truck, one dollar. And the keys. And they cried. And they hugged me. And I cried.

It was a very good day.

They had, to them, a new truck. One twice as big, with all the windows intact, and electric ones at that. And they had a heater.

It was a very, very good day.

About a week ago, The Dress spotted the truck by the side of the road. Here’s the irony: my old truck was grey, this was – at least at one time – tan and green. But they were the exact same models, Ford 150 EFT, two-door, with a bench in the back.

“Sometimes birthdays just have to come early,” The Dress said.

So today I got tags for my new toy. Oh, and dropped it off at my mechanic’s shop. Yes, we’ll probably spend more just to get it somewhat roadworthy than what we paid for it. But that’s okay.

For example, the gear indicator is broken, that red line that tells you what gear you are in as you move the gear shift. The Dress was pretty adamant that get fixed pronto, saying something about how would she know what gear she was in without it.

And, doing that speak before thinking mistake, I politely pointed that if she stepped on the accelerator and the car didn’t move, it probably was in park, if she stepped on it and she went backwards, she probably was in reverse and if she stepped on it and went forward … and I then realized I might be sounding a little condescending and ducked just in time.

The SONS are, shall we say, stoked. They are already demanding to camp. Not take the truck camping, but rather camp inside the truck. I told them we probably need to clean it up a little first.

The Dress starts in with telling the SONS it really is an old truck and lots of their friends’ dads have brand new trucks with leather and power this and that and awesome stereos and GPS and digit do-dads and someone might make fun and …

“We don’t care,” they say in unison.

They get it. They see the vision. They have the imagination. Because they know this truck is special, one that will take them places those fancy new ones will never go because the paint might get scratched.

It is a truck of adventure. The time is now.

Let the journey, and memories, begin.

And to The Dress – thanks.

Wonder if you can judge it by its Table of Contents?

Let’s find out.  My new book, The Little Black Dress and the SONS of Thunder ~ Recipes On Life And Food, will be out shortly. It’s split into two sections, Part One details what we would call the “early years.” Part Two covers the last few.

Below is the intro to Part One, as well as the chapter titles to the “early years.”

PART ONE

There was a man, a journalist by profession,

a writer by passion. And he was alone.

One day he met her and soon they married.

She became his Little Black Dress.

Together they traveled across the country.

They started a family – the first Son of Thunder,

followed a couple of years later

by yet another Son of Thunder.

Together, they climbed mountains,

yet also fell into valleys.

And all that time The Dress kept telling him

to follow his passion.

And finally he did.

The story begins …

Sage Advice From Talking Animals

Watch Where You Fly

Obligatory Day

Basil Bread D.C.

So You Want To Fight?

So Many Toys, So Little Time

The Best Among Man’s Best Friends

Billy And The Dress Share A Dish

A Man And His Truck

Dressing Up A Son Of Thunder

Road Warrior

Blackening Mix

Define A Perfect Lawn

Revenge Of The Squirrels

Turning Strangers Into Friends

Brenda’s “Why Is This Always So Hot? Shrimp/Crawfish Etouffee

A Green Thumb … That Would Be A No

Don’t Worry, Life Doesn’t Make Sense

Because They Said So

That Potty Training Victory? Down The Drain

Calorie Nightmare Shrimp Fettuccini

How You Cook Says … Something

I Do Not Like To Rake Leaves

Golf, Like Life, Has Its Ups And Downs

Chicken Marsala Winters’ Style

It Is Seriously Quiet In Here

Golf With The Eldest Son Of Thunder

The Rules: Hanging Christmas Lights

Cobb Salad Ala Potomac

A Birthday Letter

Batteries Not Included

Turning 40

Dunnavan’s Beef

It’s Freezing, Let’s Go Play Golf

Our First – The Teacher Conference

The Difference Between Men And Women – Shopping

Eastern Market Blackened Tuna

Questions With No Answers

Time For An Infomercial

Pillows Having Babies, Making A Nuisance

Eby’s “Finally Something I Love” Seafood Stew

Welcome to The Zoo

The Sons Of Thunder Write To The Little Black Dress

It’s The Little Things In Life That Count

Eddi’s Steampot

A Father’s Advice

Yet The Dress is close to meeting her match in the Little Pink Bow. Unfortunately for said Pink Bow, there can be only one Alpha Female in this household. I fear for the Bow. The Dress has pulled out the big gun.

The Little Pink Bow first appeared with a dainty little, yes, pink bow around her neck. Weighing in at roughly five pounds, this rat terror precious canine goes by the name of Miss Roxie Love. The “Love” part of her name has rarely been mentioned lately.

I will give Miss Roxie credit – she has no fear and believes she can do anything. She has taken on not one, but four Rottweilers at once; she thinks she can fly; and she tempts death – as when she chewed up the LBD’s 40th birthday gift to herself, a pair of Via Spiga shoes.

She also likes to look at you, laugh, and then take off running with absolutely no chance of you ever catching her. On too many occasions, we would get a call from some neighbor where Miss Roxie decided to visit. This of course was after The Dress and the SONS of Thunder had spent an hour driving around the neighborhood with The Dress calling out “Here Roxie, here Roxie,” and with a battery-operated megaphone no less.

At some point the embarrassment factor kicks in and you have to take drastic measures. Which we did with one of those wireless radar contraptions. Basically, the precious pet wears a shock collar and if they go outside the boundary, well, I will say it was pretty dang funny watching Miss Roxie jump about 10 feet in the air the first time.

We got the absolutely smallest collar possible, but I swear it weighs almost as much as she does. But she rarely, ever, tries to leave the yard. And yes, the yard is fenced and no, that never stopped her before.

So everything is now resolved right? That would be a “no.” Because now she does “her business” in the house. All the time. This occurs even after she’s been outside for an hour. She will simply come in, disappear and pretty soon we have a new decoration on the carpets. Pee, poop, yes we get it all. And on white carpets no less.

Enter the Dog Whisperer.

I told you The Dress pulled out the big gun.

When I first heard of the plan, I was skeptical. I feared we’d all be spending time on the sofa searching our inner feelings and what Miss Roxie was missing in terms of feng shui and so on and so forth.

My fears were quickly erased as the Dog Whisperer basically just spent an hour watching and working with Miss Roxie. And then she called in the SONS and The Dress and gave the marching orders. Which to me pretty much sounded like treat the dog like a dog.

Set times for eating, set times for going “outside” to do her business, very specific areas of the house where she was and wasn’t supposed to be, when she should be in her crate. I mean the Dog Whisperer just had it down pat.

I was so impressed I tried to pull the Dog Whisperer aside to ask if she also trained kids. But I got that “look” from The Dress before I could get an answer.

One thing I learned was dogs equate carpet with grass – thus the “why yes I can poop and pee on it, it’s grass” routine on our aforementioned white carpet.

So we’ve barricaded off the upstairs, where all the carpet is, and started on this new routine.

That was yesterday.

And today everything seemed to work as planned. Miss Roxie went out, did her thing, spent some time in the crate, got fed, the upstairs was blocked off, the whole plan.

Except The Dress forgot to close off her office. Which is downstairs. Which has white carpet. Which Miss Roxie was kind enough to see as grass and leave a deposit.

Let’s just say the LBD’s office door is now closed.

So, ever used a Dog Whisperer? Let me know and we’ll keep you updated on how things progress with rat dog our precious Miss Roxie Love.

Ever lose something?

I don’t mean your car keys, that’s a given. I mean some of your stuff. Stuff you really, really care about. Stuff that you care so much about other people think you’re hitting the “batty” stage.

Unless, of course, they too love said stuff, and then you all just sit around and, to borrow a phrase from the Little Black Dress, “fawn over” it.

Want to really understand a person? Play a round of golf with them. You’ll find out more about their personality and how they handle things than a year in the office. If you don’t play golf, then just check out their stuff – that stuff they hold dear. See, what a person considers important in terms of stuff says a lot.

Anyway.

I was reading and The Dress comes, well, swooping is a good term, into my office. And proceeds to pick up every piece of paper, book or anything else not bolted down. And no, she did not put them back where I had expertly placed them so I would find whatever it was I needed again.

“What are you looking for?”

“I’ve can’t find one of my favorite magazines.”

Don’t go there. I have tried, on 1,732 occasions, to suggest The Dress has a tinge too many magazines. And I have boxed/loaded/hauled an ever-growing number of those magazines from Georgia to Alaska and points in-between. Go to the biggest newsstand in town. Check out the magazines, start multiplying.

I’ll wait.

Apparently, it was one of those “most precious” magazines, meaning slightly more important than the “sacred” ones, but well ahead of the run-of-the-mill “favorite” ones.

I will dispense with the actual search – let’s just say at some point the LBD found said precious. The earth righted itself and returned to its axis.

“What magazine was it?”

“My favorite (fill in the adjective) decor/decorating/ambiance/style/etc. one.”

Gee. Why didn’t that come to mind?

And why did we need said precious? Apparently there was an old article about some hip decorator who decorated an entire house by … wait for it … wait … having nothing match.

So being the idiot and glutton for punishment that I am, I suggested she just have the SONS of Thunder do the decorating if she wants to try the whole “no match” gig. And yes, I ducked in time.

For even more about the “most precious” things, follow along here.

And since it’s Thursday, I thought I’d share my own “Thankful Thursday,” which obviously would not exist without the LBD and the SONS. We are beyond excited about our new book, which is due out in September.

The title, as if you couldn’t guess, is (drum roll please): The Little Black Dress and the SONS of Thunder ~ Recipes On Life And Food ~

We just signed off on the cover and soon it will be traveling off to the printer. We are very proud parents. And we’re really, really happy with the cover. As you can see, it has a picture of a little black dress, designed by, again naturally, the Little Black Dress. Who would have thought?

I’m sure the topic is rather apparent, but it’s a collection of our favorite columns and blogs over the last 10 years. And yep, there’s some pretty awesome recipes in there if I do say so myself.

From the back cover:

The best toys often aren’t the toys, but the box they came in. Throw out the batteries, which you never have enough of anyway, toss in a child’s imagination, and there are no limits.

  If all else fails, try the blue ball.

  Welcome to our world, one that includes the Little Black Dress, the three Sons of Thunder, a dog who thinks it can fly, a couple of cats and yours truly.  The Dress, or LBD for short, is my wife and mother of the Sons. And the Sons are, well, the Sons.

   Within this book you’ll learn some sage advice from talking animals. And speaking of animals, you will discover, as if you didn’t know already, that squirrels are evil. And pray you never hear a raven call your name.

   I am, by training and profession, a journalist. Over the years, as The Dress and I faced the world and the Sons joined us, I chronicled our adventures.  While almost everyone has a spouse and children, few have such a combination as the LBD and the Sons under one roof. Thus, our story.

  We have faced death, near death and attended funerals we did not want to. They were too early, we needed more time.

  But we’ve also dug to China, campaigned in the Great Water War and pretty much blew up a waverunner.

  Life is hard, but it can also be fun. And if you have your own LBD and Sons (or Daughters), you realize you never know what will happen next.  How you handle what gets thrown at you is the key. So there will be a little advice, a few tears, lots of laughs and some points to ponder.

  We’ve learned what we’re good at, and also what we fear.  We’ve also learned we are better together, and while we don’t understand everything or the “whys,” we know God is still in control.

 And through countless bonfires we have recounted the tales.

  Welcome to our world.