It happens.

The bluegrass festival was everything and more. I love some bluegrass and you know, besides that - I have fun wherever I go.

So to prep for the event on the ride over, we went in search of interesting AM radio. Can I just say: jack. pot.

We knew we hit gold when we came across two nice gentlemen talking about stretchy pants and sweater vests.

While there we hit Rebekah's crazy good bake sale to raise money for their adoption. I mean, God said the only true religion was caring for orphans and widows, so if I have to eat apple pie and homemade macaroons, well, I've got to obey you know.

So on the way home the little girls drove one of the big girls nuts. They were playing some sort of game, and I don't know what happened, but anyway, the unnamed big girl got two body parts mixed up and (Christy, this is for you) she said something I still hurt myself laughing about. So how is your clav(test)icle, B?

I should feel bad about this, but I don't, except I kind of do. We had a potluck dinner Sunday night after church. I know, score, right? Is there anything better than a super ultra conservative baptist church's potluck? Um, no.

So anyhoo...I didn't even make our "dish" (I use that term loosely) myself. I had Schyler do it. And we took...I shouldn't say it. Oh dear. I confess. We took box macaroni and cheese! I know! Box! Awful! Have you ever read the nutrition facts!?! A family member bought it and gave it to Schyler. You know good and well I don't keep that kind of stuff in my house. For shame.

When it was over and all the ladies were cleaning up everyone kept asking who that bowl belonged to and I just kept quiet. I never said a word. I was tempted to just leave it there. I was so scared Schyler was going to walk by and bust me. I was finally able to sneak it out.

As the song goes, "I can't hep it." Maybe you had to have been there.