I’m a spur of the moment kind of gal.

A woman of "whim", you might say.

Nine years and some odd days ago, I was awakened by the words, "Hey… Are you off today? Let’s go get married." And we did just that. Most find the story and all of its salacious details to be a romantic one; I find it to be the perfect distracting tidbit from having to mention that I met my husband at a bar named Fat Woody’s.

Four years and some odd days ago, I was sick of looking at the wallpaper in my foyer and decided to move… to another state. It took all of three days from initial decision to official immigration. And since then not only have I added considerably to the Shakespearean family tree; I’ve also been advised to get my television set fixed more times than I can count.

One month ago, I fell in love with a house- a smaller, more expensive house with columns and a great big southern porch. We received the keys a couple of days ago and are packing as hastily as possible (with the exception of this momentary blogging break). The new house (whom I’ve named Lola) comes with a corner lot, pecan trees, beautiful crown molding, gas cooking, a huge deck out back, those nifty windows that fold in so you don’t have to go outside to clean them… And is conveniently located in a small town named Bald Knob.

Either there’s a really disturbing pattern at play here or I really need to get my mind out of the gutter.

I’ve been pretty busy preparing for the upcoming move and will most likely continue this trend over the next couple of weeks, so you’ll have to forgive me my neglect. As soon as things get settled, I’ll be back to tell you all about my newly resurrected obsession with Neil Diamond,  why little boys smell so funny, and  the benefits of always arguing in song.