Two weeks left before the "baby" comes home. We can hardly wait. The anticipation is made even more maddening (though we have no complaints) by the puppy updates we receive from our new girl's human mommy (because canine mommy doesn't have opposable thumbs, she can't send photos). The photo from the top is from this past Friday. The one below is from the week before. We can see every week the weight she's gaining--how big her paws are getting and how much her head has grown.
Pyrenees puppy-ness is getting me through these miserable days of this summer. While I type, the temperature outside is at a chilly ninety-nine degrees with a heat index of 110! Not real keen on cooking at all here lately, I do have a pot of my homemade marinara filling the air conditioned tomb we're relegated to with yummy Italian aroma. So at least I was able to throw that together, or else we may starve.
Meantime, Dr. Thyme and I have an ongoing discussion as to what name will best suit our little girl. It's an on-again, off-again debate is more like it. I had Frankie in mind for her originally--short for St. Francis of Assisi, of course. Because I swear to God, that is how the name came to me--through St. Francis (who also happened to be my mother's favorite Saint). Then we came up with Millie. Then Dusty (as in Dusty Springfield). Daisy (as in "Buchanan" from The Great Gatsby). Stella (yes, that Stella). Amelia (yes, and that Amelia--which would suffice as a "Millie"). Our debates have been, how best to describe them, not heated, but "lively".
Frankie came to me on my way out to see the litter--in the car. Out. Of. The. Clear. Blue. I felt somehow this was divine intervention and that her name HAS to be Frankie. I didn't mention it before, well, because things were in "flux" with DH and I over a name. He's been wonderful about my "intervention" as I described it. I mean, he hasn't offered to call in a priest yet or anything. Either way, in my heart, I believe Frankie needs to reside somewhere within her full name.
We're preparing our girls for the arrival by making sure to keep them updated as well. Seems a lot of apathy and "meh" has taken hold here. Or maybe it's, "You're kidding, right?".
Women of course have issues with other women no matter what the species. We are keeping our fingers crossed that the 'maternal' instincts prevail.
(Yesterday my Yarnbox arrived. I gotta say, this month's pick is not something I can even stand to be near right now. It was immediately sniffed over by former sheep herder canine and then stuffed it into the far recesses of the closest until I can actually stand to touch anything even close to that much thick wool. Maybe the folks at Yarnbox have never visited Missouri in August?)
Last week, I spent time with my bestie, Gayle, from high school. She and her husband are RVing across the country. No home to go to, because the home is being leased by another family. So they came through town and parked their home on wheels at a KOA campground nearby and visited with her father (who is like my surrogate father) and so I was obliged to trek out to visit her at camp (because we never know when we'll see each other again what with all that "life" and stuff happening around us).
Regardless, I HAD to check this out. I mean, she's told me countless times how much she loves this RVing stuff. They've visited nineteen National Parks so far. They've hiked some of the most beautiful parts of the country. I looked at ALL of the pictures and was stunned. She told me stories about the people (the good and bad part) but mostly good because she swears she'd do this for the rest of her life if she could.
And she swears that DH and I should seriously consider this, too. (And honestly, we have--an RV excursion, but a short one, not one for which our home would be occupied by strangers in our absence.)
**But the truth of the matter is that it's hard for me to imagine spending the night away from home in anything that doesn't begin with a capital "H" and isn't in a downtown area of a major metropolitan city.
That whole camping gene doesn't reside in this skin. However, after seeing my besties digs, I gave pause to the idea, the romantic notion of "life on wheels" and oh-so-briefly, that notion appealed to me. . . until a HUGE black ant and another flying something landed on my leg and began gnawing at my skin. I screamed, jumped up and decided I'd had enough of the lovely park-like setting and thought it was best to finish our "visit" in the cool, semi-dark, air conditioning inside the RV--and honey, please pass me a water bottle from the fridge!
They have a lovely unit they are towing. No joke, it felt like a home. Well, she has made it a home and it was very cozy. And they both seem to have adjusted to this life well. They are Harley folk, too, which comes in handy should they want to tour the local vistas and whatnot. I'll be honest, when I think about life and how much we may or may not have left of it, this seriously is a contender for our bucket list. I envy the spirit.
But I do not envy the bugs. Cripes.
We sat and talked about and caught up with everything. She just had a milestone birthday. (I am over the shock of mine. I. Think.) She sort of had a hard time with it, too. We both know how old my own mother was when her time came: 54. The clock ticks. We both know where we were when it happened: it was on her birthday. I have three besties, and my mom loved each of them dearly, but the irony was not lost on me when my mom picked Gayle's birthday to leave.
See how picturesque and serene. I came home and showed Dr. Thyme and was all like,
"We could totally do this. . . right?"
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