That Time When It Was Sixty-Seven In January… And Also Channing

Today was one of those winter days in Small Town, USA that only happens when the moonlight is just right.

(Kind of like when things happen aboard the Black Pearl when the moonlight is just right, but far less creepy, and without Jack Sparrow.)

It was 67 degrees outside and GLORIOUS.  It was SO glorious, in fact, it felt right that Hillsong or Third Day should have penned some lyrics about it and set it all to some background guitar, while everyone sat outside in the sunshine at the park and hummed along.  I know that my friend, Bev, who is a native to a state where “the humidity kisses your cheeks and the temperature is easily 170 degrees Fahrenheit, in the darkest part of the shade,” would have frozen to death during our impromptu sing-a-long, because SIXTY-SEVEN DEGREES.  She tried her hand at living in Small Town once, but I’m afraid our winter treated her so poorly with all the SNOW and the COLD and the ICE CUBES ALL AROUND HER, that she had to move and enroll in counseling for her post traumatic stress disorder.  But to us natives, sixty-seven degrees in January is unheard of, and nobody wore a jacket outside today.

Thing 2, in fact, asked for a pair of soccer shorts, and his mama obliged him.  Yes, there’s snow on the ground, but SIXTY-SEVEN DEGREES, FOLKS!!  That’s plenty warm enough for people in our neck of the woods to pull on a pair of soccer shorts and head outside to play.  Heck, with another three degrees on the thermometer, the kids would’ve been filling the plastic pools in the backyard from the garden hoses, because WE CAN SWIM NOW and WHO CARES ABOUT THE SNOW MELTING ON THE LAWN?!

(Never mind that sound.  It was just Beverly, shivering and stomping off to find a heating blanket that plugs into a high voltage outlet and is capable of sizzling skin like bacon on a hot griddle.)

I’m pretty sure that today showed me there really is a light at the end of this tunnel of winter, and it’s called SPRING.  Honestly, I CANNOT wait for it to get here, where every day is sixty-seven.

Glory, glory, hallelujah.

And amen.

And THAT, people, is really all that’s going on right now, because we live simple lives.  Right now, things are boring and uneventful at our house.

Unlike our neighbor, Aaron.

Oh, y’all would love Aaron and his cute wife, Mary.  They’re total rock stars, who are raising six incredible kids, and Mary is the girl I look up to, when it comes to organization and knowing how to handle anything that pops up in the world of parenting.  She’s a go-to resource for raising teenagers, people, and she has a wealth of knowledge on WHAT TO FEED TEENAGE BOYS SO THEY’RE NOT HUNGRY EVERY FORTY-SIX SECONDS.  They live smack around the corner from us.  I adore them both, and I adore their kids, and I adore the fact that the boy and their son, Eli, are good buddies.

But… you know what?  Aaron was out of town this week, and he ended up with a little more to talk about than the weather, because BEHOLD:

10620808_750184115078955_9047849201721567304_nYes.  That really IS my neighbor and Magic Mike, having a drink together, which is why he wasn’t wasting time today talking about HEY, IT WAS SIXTY-SEVEN DEGREES OUTSIDE.  Instead, I think Aaron was busy fielding questions and signing autographs, because he’s now as close to a real celebrity himself as Small Town has ever seen, because LOOK WHO HAD A DRINK WITH CHANNING, Y’ALL!!!

I think People magazine should be in town to interview Aaron later this week.

Bless his heart.

(And no.  I did not take that picture, because I never get to meet anyone famous, unless you want to count that time when I met C. Thomas Howell my sophomore year of college.  He was in town, filming a small piece in a movie, and he stopped to play basketball at the rec center where I was working.  His car alarm went off, which was an enormous deal, because that was the olden days, when no one in Small Town had ever witnessed a real, live car security system.  I had to go tell him, during his basketball game, that, “Um, yeah… so… um… your SUV… well… it’s… um… honking… you know… honking… out in the parking lot… and it’s… well… generating some attention.”  And C. Thomas Howell said, “Thanks,” and then he went on to play basketball for a sweet forever, while his vehicle went on honking and flashing its headlights and entertaining everyone outside for a sweet forever, as crowds whispered, “Would you look at THAT?  A car security system!  What will they think up next?”  It was all as new-aged as a DeLorean that travels in time when it reaches 88 mph.)

(Also?  Well, I spoke my overly-rehearsed lines to C. Thomas Howell so well, I know he was brainstorming a way to work me into the movie he was busy filming, but then the lady in casting said that THE EXTRAS!  WE ARE OVERRUN WITH EXTRAS!  NO MORE EXTRAS!  But really, with my audition performance, which I like to call YOUR CAR ALARM IS BEEPING LIKE IT’S GONE BAT CRAP MAD, I should have had more of a main character roll, than that of an extra.)

(And another thing.  If you ignore the little college girl who just works the back desk and lets members in and out, and passes out fresh towels to those who sweat profusely all day long and tries to keep everyone happy by digging through the stinky lost and found when you can’t find your favorite Phi Delta Alpha shirt from your own university days, and you let your car honk like it’s ON FIRE, because you can’t be bothered to go out and shut it off, you lose a lot of credibility in my book.)

(I’m just sayin’.)

And that really is everything that I have for y’all tonight, unless you want to know that I had a fantastic coffee date this morning with a friend, where we talked about 17.4 million different topics and solved massive amounts of world problems in exactly ninety minutes, because that’s what girls are capable of doing.  Bless OUR hearts.  I’m not sure that I really have anything else left to write about, because I’ve already exhausted the topic of HOW ABOUT THAT GORGEOUS WEATHER, and nobody wants to hear about the fact that I bought a Southwest Chicken Salad for lunch today and turned my tongue to ash with the HEAT FACTOR involved in that little packet of dressing.

Bev could have smeared it all over her skin and sighed in delight, as it sizzled and fried her epidermis to a crisp, while she smelled faintly of and chili paste and burning meteors.

And Aaron would have just said, “Yeah… salad… spicy dressing… sixty-seven outside… that’s nice and all, but HEY!  LOOK WHO I RAN INTO!”

Y’all have a merry Monday evening.

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