i know its wednesday but…
okay, its wordless wednesday, I KNOW, but my dog got skunked!!!!! I had to write about it. my whole house smells like skunk stank. ICK!! And my dog WILL NOT sit still for a bath, and its too cold outside to wrastle with him in the windy darkness. or to make him stay outside until tomorrow evening when i can give him a tomato juice bath. GROOOOSSSSS. BAH HUMBUG.
Krap. Crap. and KCRAp
From Miss Michigan to Miss America
I had the pleasure this weekend to hang out with a legacy of Miss Michigan’s and the new Miss America, Miss Michigan, Kirsten Haglund.
It was a unique and inspiring experience, because people flocked to Muskegon, Mich. to celebrate with one young woman, only nineteen, and her family for winning such a coveted award.
From left to right: back row: Stacy Essebaggers, Laura Welling, Kaye Lani Rae Rafko, Audrie Chernauckas, Kelli Talicska, Stacey Heisler, front row: Angela Corsi, me, Kirsten Haglund, Gina Valo, Kelly Garver, Madonna Emond.
It has been exactly twenty years since Michigan has claimed the Miss America title, and we all gathered in excitement to extend our congratulations to the winners—each other. It was a night not just for Kirsten and her family, but for her town, her high school, her local pageant, her friends, and young women across the state and nation who now idolize her and look to her as an inspiration and example.
She is truly talented, an accomplished singer and dancer, headed, she said for Broadway. She and her brother Lars performed together that night, bringing everyone to tears as they dedicated their duet to Miracle Children, small innocent angels suffering with terminal illnesses.
While my personal experience as Miss Michigan was neither, easy nor breezy, I am honored to have been a part of such a meaningful organization that continues to touch lives throughout the country.
squirrel for lunch
I opened the door, took two steps towards the car, stopped dead in my tracks, stunned with fascination, and stared, jaw-dropped and open mouthed, at a hawk catching a squirrel for its Sunday afternoon treat near our driveway.
Not even kidding. It’s rare to see that in the wild, let alone on a residential street in the middle of the day.
I watched it spread its long brown wings and soar parallel to the street, not more than three feet above the ground, dangling a fat gray squirrel in its talons.
Once I shook myself from petrification, I ran inside to tell my husband, who probably thought something unbelievably horrific had happened by the way I stormed in screaming his name and almost falling down the stairs in my haste to explain what I just saw to him.
I felt all of a sudden like a three-year-old, eyes big as saucers, arms out-stretched as if imitating the hawk, stuttering and stumbling over my words in excitement while still trying to sound intelligent.
He followed me upstairs and I went back outside to look.
The huge brown hawk took his meal just across the street to the front yard of the vacant house for sale and there he ate in peace until he saw me in my bright green Kermit the frog coat staring at him.
Thanks, Lady Hawk, for the entertaining brush with National Geographic-meets-Chicago.
And so long, little gray squirrel, that was an amazing way to die.
