Voice of the Dawgs...DGD

He has no equal.

You look out for us...you hear?

Tenacity...Thy Name is Bulldog!

How do I miss Munson?  Let me count the ways...

My favorite part is Gus' trepidation on entering the pool.  Bulldogs are not the most graceful of animal.  They are stinky, drooly and ill-mannered, but what I wouldn't do for one more couch cuddle with the Munk. 

Shock and Awe

I am not an Auburn hater.  Until recently I had a lot of respect for the program.  This, however, reminded me of why that tide turned (no pun intended) and made me damn proud to be a Dawg:

That's how you get payback.

Girls Love Me, Girls Adore Me...

Harry hanging out with his harem "friends" at school today.  Chicks dig the truck pants...

Am I 8?

Harry loves to sing to me in the car on the way to school.  Sometimes it's that "if all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops" song, but only because he likes the part where he gets to say "a-ah-a-ah-a-a-ah-a-ah-ah" really, really loud.

He's now picked up the tune to what I learned as Frere Jacques, but which doubles as:  the blessing, that days of the week song, and, of course, Where is Thumbkin.  That last one is going to get me in trouble.

For those of you unfamiliar, here's the first stanza (sung to the tune of Frere Jacque, or Brother John for the anti-French):

Where is Thumbkin (hold up your right thumb)
Where is Thumbkin (hold up your left thumb)
Here I am (make your right thumb wiggle up and down as if nodding)
Here I am (ditto for your left thumb)
How are you today sir (more right thumb wiggling)
Very well I thank you (switch to the left)
Run away (right thumb behind your back)
Run away (I'm guessing you've figured out what happens next)

Putting aside the wisdom of singing this song with movements while driving, you repeat the verse with Pointer, Tall Man, Ring Finger (yeah, that's a little much to shove into the verse, I bet there's a real lyric around somewhere), and then Pinkie.  Harry loves it.  Especially the "run away" part.  He's really cute.  I, on the other hand, am a pre-teen boy.

Everytime, and I mean EVERYTIME he gets to tall man I giggle hysterically.  Seriously, there he is, my little two year old, flicking himself off in the back seat.  That's funny right?  Right?  He thinks it's funny.  Well, he thinks something is funny, because he laughs, and does it again and again and again.  Driving to school is fun.

Start 'Em Young. Raise 'Em Right.

Saturday.  Coastal Carolina.  Big Win (woo-hoo).  Ellie bogarts my ticket and scampers off to Athens with her daddy.  She was super, super, super bummed after the loss to the cocks last week, mostly because she was deprived of the opportunity to ring the bell.  I am quite proud of the fact that she knows the bell is ONLY, and I mean absolutely ONLY rung after a win.  If you ring it before a win or after a loss you will be personally responsible for the ills that befall the Dawgs, their fans, and every resident in the State of Georgia.  She knows this.  She gets the ramifications.  She's a good little Dawg fan. 

So she was thrilled beyond all belief to get to do this Saturday:

She rang the heck out of that bell.  She told us all about it when she got home.

Meanwhile, on the back porch of 337 St. Mary's, Harry was learning a few lessons of his own*:

*Note, the beer was empty, or at least that's what Aunt Mamie says, but you know how she hates children, so....

Pretty top notch Dawg calling for a two year old.  I like that he can bark WITH a beer bottle in his mouth.  Stellar. 

He can even do it covered in spaghetti:

Ok, so maybe the barking needs a little work.  He sounds a little like a chimpanzee.  I'll take it.

Rushing The Season

Busted out the jeans today for the kids.  Ellie rocked a pair of skinnies (I stand by my earlier assertions that those things are made for 5 year olds--she looked fabulous) and a fancy pants tunic she got from the Glovers.  Harry fratted out in his whiskered blues and checked button down--monogrammed, of course.

After confirmation from my little sis that it was perfectly appropriate, I threw on the Frye boots.  Gawd how I have missed you, my precious.  I know it's going to be 90 degrees next week, but I don't care.  The seasons are in:  birds, boots, bourbon and ball (of the non-European foot variety).

Speaking of non-European football, for your viewing pleasure: