No One Likes to Blog Alone

Everybody feels self conscious about being the first one on the dance floor. Years and years of stake dances in Amarillo taught me that. And the ones who don't feel self conscious about being the first are the ones that should (but this doesn't apply to my metaphor--it's just a side note).

And no one likes to blog alone. Sorry, we left you hanging there, Dad. Four posts, and none of the rest of us took the time to get up and "dance" with you.

My pants are getting a little tight around the waist. I can't decided whether or not this is still inflammation from my surgery or if I'm just becoming what I eat. I like to think that it's still inflammation. After all, I still get stabbing pains at the operation site now and then.

Happy Birthday, Andy. We all love you

Was our family blog template one that someone chose? If so, I'm sorry. I just couldn't stand it. I don't really like this one either, but it's better than the last. I changed our template, the font, the font size, and added a few little gadgets off to the side. I thought Dad might like the Doppler, but I don't like how it pops out at you when you put your cursor over top. We'll play around with it.

Mom and Dad need to change the way they communicate with me about the dogs. Oh, they're lovely grandparents to the most lovable grandpuppies alive--Dad cooks kibble omelets for them, and Mom gives them motherly acknowledgment when they need it. And they are so entertained by their innocent puppy foolishness. But then they leave each story with, "Oh, you should have been here to see it." Or my least favorite: "That will never happen again." Their taunting their poor boy out of his mind. It's not enough that I have to miss these things; they wave the fact that I missed it in front of my face. Who can say that after 18 years of raising a punk that they don't deserve to turn the tables?

That's my post for now. If I keep them short, perhaps they'll be more frequent.

I pass the torch. It's someone else's turn.