Okay, the banner at the top is the finished product so far. We might tweak it a little more in our spare time in between baseball games and choir practice and band practice and church and praise team and Wednesday practice and spending quality time with each other. So, yeah, next decade maybe.
Sowehneeways (Nacho, remember?), when my sweet hubby was tweaking it this morning he called me, chuckling over the phone, and told me to pull the site up. When I did, the finished product had been enhanced with lovely orange traffic cones. I laughed my tail off. I told you a few days ago that I'd explain my habit of falling down a lot. Here you go.
First, I have to tell you how it all began. Plastic heels. Yep. Most of my friends think it started in Atlanta a year ago. I've kept my secret well, I think. I can't remember the times I've fallen before 6th grade, so it must have been the plastic heels. See, 6th grade graduation was coming up and since I was feeling all grown up, I felt like I needed a pair of heels to wear for graduation. Now, being the clumsy 12 year old I was, I had no business wearing heels, no matter what they were made of. But I must have begged and begged and begged Momma for the white molded plastic heels from K-mart. It didn't matter that I clomped like a horse with a bad shoe. It didn't matter that they had no strap at the ankle to hold them on my clumsy feet. I was maturing into a teenager, dang it, and I needed me some heels.
I decided that for church the Wednesday night before graduation I'd wear my plastic heels, since I was about to be all grown up and stuff. I did fine, clomping around the church's fellowship hall during Wednesday night supper, until I had to take my dishes back to the kitchen. I made it all the way to the hallway between the kitchen serving window and fellowship hall with my dishes before my plastic heels, which by this point had become decidedly perspiratory, decided they wanted to get out from under my 12 year-old clumsy self. Down I went, dishes and all. Oh, it made such a horrible racket. From the plastic heels smacking the concrete, the dishes clattering out of my hands, and the silverware clanging off the dishes, I made a racket. Thankfully, there weren't that many people in the hallway getting their suppers. Just a few, "Are you okay?"s from kind people. Totally embarrassed, I quickly gathered my dishes, put the cursed plastic heels back on and went to sit with my Momma, who was blessedly unaware of what had just happened.
Needless to say, when 6th grade graduation rolled around, I crossed the stage not wearing my molded plastic, white heels. No, my better judgement (or, more likely my wise mother) got the best of me and I wore some very practical, if not fashionable, sandals. Low, low sandals. With pantyhose. Obviously my better judgement has its limits.
More about my dangerous habit later...