27 Reasons to Avoid Eye Contact

Terry and Sue Thorne and almost all their descendants reunionized at the Great Wolf Lodge for a few days before Thanksgiving Day. Becky (Thorne) Tolman, the most attractive and corn-intolerant of the clan designed official Thorne Reunion T-Shirts for the occasion. Most of every one's time was spent playing in the rather impressive indoor water park. Surprisingly little time was spent complaining or bickering.
Sadly, two members of the Thorne Family were not able to attend, though they are included in the picture below.

The last picture shows the Lodge Employees who were approached for taking the Thorne Family photo. I don't know their names, but I bet one of them had a mother named Mabel.
Pictures of the aquatic activities are pending.

Oddum and Rashes

Lucy's rash is starting to take on a sort of alien virus vibe. I suspected that she was allergic to the baby powder that the doctor recommended to keep her neck dry.

It was this bad a few days ago.










Then it blossomed into this:
So now we're putting a steroid and a lotion on it, though I suspect that my sister might be right in her assertion that Lucy's rash contains a yeasty component.
I'm hoping that last picture will fall into the hands of Ty Pennington and he'll want to alleviate our suffering by building us a multimillion-dollar home with super hypo-allergenic filters and a LittleMermaid/Godzilla room for Sam, since that's what she's into this week.

After Sam raked all those leaves, we had her clean up the inside of the house. It's so annoying that it takes her so long to vaccuum. We could hardly hear our Wheel of Fortune.

I found this on YouTube. Sam really likes the end.

Sippy

Becky's friend, Audrey (Sorensen) Lake came for a pleasant visit. The last time Audrey and Becky hung out on a regular basis Audrey was still in braces and Becky had just stepped on a rusty nail in Audrey's back yard. Look, they've both got their smiles back.



"Trot along my little pony
where it's rough and
where it's sippy..."

Lucy now fits into the Christmas outfit that Grandma Deanna made for Sam two years ago. There's nothing funny about this. Absolutely nothing.

Our two-year-old cares for all of God's creatures, even those that have been mutated by nuclear radiation.

The Passion of the Quilt

Every once in a while, something lights a spark within my bosom and the flame of womanly craftsmanship sets my soul ablaze. Recently, I quenched this flame by producing a quilt of exquisite exquisiteness. This blog posting will attempt to chronicle the extensive and laborious process which finally culminated in an object of exceptional warmth and everlasting joy.
Meticulous planning is the first step. Only a complete imbecile would try to put a quilt together without multiple drafts and 4-dimen-sional computer models. This particular quilt required the invention of three new geometric theorems: Parallel Isolinear Convergence, Fractal Polyhedral Cohesion, and the Ultimate Law of Twos.
Next, the Creator of the Quilt must choose the colors. Each color must have signifi-cance. In this case: green for the envy of my peers, yellow for putrescence, blue for Asian antiquity, and pink for sensuality.

Initial designs for the individual squares called for elaborate fabric kitty cats. This plan was forsaken when I came to the realization that I hate cats with every fiber of my being and to stitch their image into my daughter's quilt would only glorify that which I vehemently despise.
Each length of fabric must be painstaking-ly cut into even strips. You'll notice that purple was added to the spectrum. This color was added to symbolize the evil that began to creep slowly into my heart during this stage of production.
Separate squares are constructed from the strips of fabric. The preliminary blueprints called for somewhere between 16 and 47,000 individual squares. A mixture of baking soda, lye, and beaver musk was used to wash away the bloody stains which saturated the squares as the flesh of my fingers began to crumble under the strain.

Oh, the irony! After the squares are assembled you do not have a quilt, but merely another series of maddening fabric strips which must once again be wrestled and arranged and attached to one another. I began to hallucinate and imagine that my own skin was a patchwork-conglomeration of iguana hide, balsa wood, and chocolate ship cookie dough.
So close. So very very close. What began as an impas-sioned, spiritual beckoning to the alter of hearth and home now draws to an end with the bitter stench of domestic despair and the wrenching of carpal tendons. Will the horror never cease??


And here's Sam with her quilt. Looks nice, eh?