Thursday, October 31, 2013

I'm Not Okay, You're Not Okay

I am so tired, I am so fed up of all this political correctness garbage.

I don't mind debating with anyone, I don't mind if you come to me truly interested in what I believe.

I mind it a lot when you just want to pick a fight with me. About what I believe, no less.

Why do you care that what I believe isn't what you believe? I never shove any of my beliefs down anyone's throat.

I don't even talk about my beliefs enough, probably.

But I do try to live my beliefs.

Why in the world would this offend anyone?

On the other hand, I'm supposed to smile and think no matter what you are saying, doing, marching about, etc. is not only okay, but absolutely wonderful.

As someone has said so well: You have become so open minded your brains have fallen out.

I should respect you, while you should sneer, spew and disrespect me like it's your job.

This whole world is groaning, the animals are suffering and people are suffering and dying. Every second of every day. Because people want what they want, how they want it, when they want it.

My job on this earth is to live my beliefs. That involves loving a lot of people. And get this: loving them even if I disagree with them.

What a concept!

I wish people would be as "tolerant" of me as they demand me be of them.

Like I said, I'm tired of it.

Don't come looking for a fight anymore.

Because this time: You may just get what you asked for.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Committees

Somehow I don't think that title will get me many new readers.

I worked for thirty-one years. I was on so many committees, it's a wonder I ever got anything else done.

If it was a committee over which my boss presided, well then I just sat back and tried to be an productive member.

But if it was an assigned committee, I found myself, more often than not, the leader.

Because everyone else just sat around like mute cows and did nothing, and I had better things to do. I wanted it done and I wanted out.

You can imagine my relief (and many of you share this) of retiring and knowing that my committee days were behind me.

May I take a moment to say ha. And ha.

Guess what? I'm on a committee.

This one was assigned by God, so I know I shouldn't complain. The minute our pastor resigned and a deacon got up and said the church would be forming a pulpit committee asap, I heard God's small voice say,"Guess what? You are chosen."

He may have not  used those exact words, but close enough.

I didn't have to wait long before a deacon approached me with a speech, which I stopped and said I already knew, God had beat him to the punch. The deacon was greatly relieved that he didn't have to stoop to whining.

Well, I won't either. No, sir. No whining from me.

Even though I'm on a committee.

Again.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall...

All righty, children, gather near.

Make sure those hearing aids are turned up  high, but please, not high enough to squeal! Geez! Turn that thing down!

I've  made the charts in LARGE PRINT, so there shouldn't be a problem reading them.

We have plenty of cushions and even a pillow or two, but this does not, I repeat: does not, give you permission to snooze. Snoring annoys everyone! Well, at least those who can hear it.

Make sure those dentures are in nice and tight, because some of this will be hard to chew and very tough to swallow.

We've got the air in the room well ventilated because we saw what you people ate for lunch. And I ask you, WHY of all days?

But, of course, we have the heat on, because everyone is freezing, except for the few younger ones who are fanning themselves already into a frenzy.

We suggest you sit near the windows we have cracked for the afore mentioned ventilation.

Mirrors have been removed from the building, except for one, it is on soft focus, but you can still see if you have any green stuff in your teeth if you put on those big old magnifying glasses that make you look like Mr. Peepers.

So, now.

Do you want the good news or the bad news first?

Ah, never mind.

They ain't no good news.

But the news we are all hear for is this:

Every single last one of you folks are baby boomers.

That's right. The young generation. The never grow old generation. The hip generation. The hippy dippy folks who brought tie dye and strange shoes into vogue.

We have met the enemy.

And it is old age.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Makin' Up The Bed...With Help

First of all, let me say there is nothing worse than making up a bed while there is still body heat trapped under the covers. I mean, it seems to me the quilt is calling me to come back to bed.

But that's not what I'm blogging about today.

When Daughter was very small, she always wanted to help me do whatever it was I was doing, like making up the bed.

Now, if you've ever had a toddler "help" you, you understand that everything takes at least twice as long to do.

Of course, Daughter is grown (sorta) and I have to ask for her help. Twice, or thrice.

Her toddler kind of help has been replaced by cat help.

Usually, Lily suddenly appears when I start making up the bed. She sees this as an invitation to be petted. She's afraid if you reach down while she's on the floor, but if she is up level with you on the bed, she can't wait.

Then Frost jumps up, after hissing and growling at Lily, who looks at him as if to say, "You are one stupid cat, man. I am fully loaded and you are full of hot air."

Which is true.

Anyway, he sees this as an opportunity to stalk the snake that has suddenly appeared under the covers (his tail). He watches it closely, then slowly rises up on his back legs and pounces! Never catches the thing, because when he pounces, his tail whips out behind him and is gone. Alas.

He never tires of this and wants to do it over and over.

Then Eli joins the fray. His job is to watch the lint brush I use every morning on the foot of the bed where the small "cat" throw is, where one, two or three (even four if I'm very unfortunate) cats bed down for the night.

I have to watch Eli as closely as he is watching the lint brush, because the back and forth motion is irresistible to him, and if I ain't pretty quick, I'm liable to get slashed.

This equals about forty-five pounds of feline on top of the covers.

Try smoothing them out with that on top.

So, it's no wonder my bed looks like a wreck most the time. This is a better excuse than the real one, which is I have to lie down two or three times a day to rest my back and legs, so there's no reason to make it up "fancy". That only happens when company is coming and likely to go upstairs for something.

I know this has been an exciting blog for you.

I feel the excitement and the expectation of your venture out today to the nearest pet store to purchase at least three, if not four, cats.

At least, when I am a thirty years older and am officially the crazy cat lady, I won't be alone.

Hurry! The pet store closes at six on Saturdays.

Friday, October 25, 2013

Gotta Have a New Pad, Baby

That sounds so cool, doesn't it?

Sigh.

It actually means I have to have a new digital pad for my oven.

I think I mentioned in a previous blog that some of the number pads had stopped working. 

Well, I got down to the 1, the 4, and the 7. I could do 477 for cornbread and it would beep rudely at me and change it to 475.

But rolls and such that have to be baked at three something is a thing of the past.

I knew the guy was coming this afternoon to take a look, so I was afraid to start dinner. Husband went out and brought it back.

The guy didn't come until almost five o'clock, so I could have made that potato, broccoli and cheese soup I was hankering for.

Maybe tomorrow.

Of course, he didn't actually fix my stove. Oh, no.

He had to go to his secret place and will let me know how much it's gonna cost me.

Then, if I say okay, (what else can I say?) he'll order the part.

Then he'll work me in to repair the oven.

Who knows?

I may be able to bake rolls by springtime.

I'll let you know.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Flu Shots and Graveyards

So, that was my day, how was  yours?

Mother, Daughter and I went together to get our flu shots.

Mother got a super duper honkin' special flu shot because of her age (over sixty-five). Her frail little nothing arms show nary a scratch from the injection.

Daughter got a regular flu shot in her skinny, iddy biddy arms. Nary a scratch on her, either.

I got a regular flu shot in my big old ham hocker arm and I have a bloody, bruised spot with a large pump knot under the skin.

Go figure.

After that, we visited Mount Vernon Church's cemetery.

What a fun day!

No, really.

We were looking for any grave with the name Sawyer attached to it, and by golly we found two. Mother knew they would be buried among the Shepard's, because her granddaddy's sister had married a Shepard.

The two we found, as best Mother could figure, were her great-grandparents.

She really enjoyed walking around looking at different tombstones, reminiscing about people she knew.

It was a pretty brisk day, but other than that, the ground was flat and the trip pleasant.

Made us hungry.

Graveyards will do that to you, I supposed. I guess that's why everybody gets fed so much after a funeral.

We all ate together, which was fun. We are going out together less and less, because Mother doesn't feel like going out.

So today was a red letter day.

Flu shots, graveyards and all.

Monday, October 21, 2013

Fatty, Fatty, Two By Four - Can't Get Through The Kitchen Door

I had a fat day yesterday.

If you are skinny, average, chubby or way fat, as long as you are a female over twenty-five, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

Doesn't matter what the scales say. It may stay on the very same number.

But your clothes don't fit, you feel so fat you can't take a deep breath. The  mirror has turned into a house of horrors.

It's the B word in full bloom.

You know the word. B.L.O.A.T.

Like a big old run over possum in the middle of the road after two days in the hot sun.

That's what I'm talkin' about.

Now, I know there are some people who never think about their weight. Their size never enters their minds. They don't worry about when or what they eat.

Those people are called men.

But after a female turns twelve, she can never trust her body again. It turns on her. It changes shapes. Suddenly there are bumps and bulges and curves. Most people call them breasts, hips, thighs and tummies.

We are suddenly moody once a month.

And what about pregnancy?

One's body becomes nothing but a warehouse for another body. Our body gets bigger and bigger and bigger.

I have one friend, who started out a skinny little thing and gained ONE HUNDRED POUNDS during pregnancy. (You know who you are).  That's a lot of weight to put on in a few short months.

She is back to normal, but swears she will never, ever, ever get pregnant again.

She'll probably have twins the next time.

You read magazines that tell you to "Listen to your body."

You mean the one that says, "Sppt. Hey! Doesn't a mashed/french fries/scalloped, baked with butter potato and a T-Bone with chicken on the side sound good?"

Are you kidding me?

That's  why I'm having a fat day in the first place.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

Birds of a Feather Flock Together

Husband and I have been married almost twenty-nine years. (I can't believe this)

Throughout our courtship of three long months (shut up) and our subsequent marriage, we have often times stumbled on things that were very similar in our lives and interests when we were kids.

We both were maniacal marble collectors, so we have the odd jar brimming with marbles here and there in our house.

Superman was the only superhero as far as we were concerned.

We both sailed through school (he sailing more than studying by the looks of some of his report cards) until we hit abstract math.

We crashed and burned.

His parents are remarkably like my paternal grandparents. His mama's biscuits tasted just like my grandmother's did. And his daddy had a quirky way of reinventing words to suit him, as my grandfather did.

We've often shared erroneous thoughts we were sure were fact when we were children, and laugh that we believed some strange things.

We both loved music fervently, and still do, although most of the time it ain't the same kind of music.

We've discovered that twice our paths almost crossed (once as close as one office building between the two of us).

But I believe that God has perfect timing, and when we met, God took us slow through friendship. When I met Husband I never dreamed I would one day marry him. I just enjoyed him when I saw him. He was a funny guy.

I've often said that when I was married the first time for twelve loooong years, it felt as though I was living in a foreign land. I tried to fit in, I tried to do my best, but I was always struggling.

When Husband and I married, it was like coming home.

So, I'll leave you with this last bit of weird and true history.

When Husband was born, the first toy anyone ever gave him was an Indian brave doll.

When I was born, the first toy anyone ever gave me was an Indian little girl doll.


Strange, but true, ladies and gentlemen.

I guess it was just meant to be.

Friday, October 18, 2013

Don't Harp on Me

Several years ago, maybe twenty-five or so, I was asked to sing at a friend's wedding.

I've done that lots, and certainly had no problem saying yes. She requested I sing "The Lord's Prayer", which I  have also done many times. No problem.

My accompanist would be playing the harp.

Uh, wait.

There my blaise' attitude came to a stop, but I figured, hey, I knew the song, no big deal.

We went to Atlanta to a beautiful old Episcopalian church where the ceremony was to take place.

I had borrowed a pretty dress and I was feeling fine.

Someone greeted us at the door and I told them who I was and where I needed to be, so they took me directly to a very severe looking woman and made introductions.

She looked even in a worse mood when that was done, sporting a very sour expression as she peered down her nose at me.

Screwing her face up as though she smelled a foul order, she said she understood we had driven down from the  mountains where we lived. (Translation: What is a hillbilly like you doing in a place like this?)

I told her yes, we had been driving over two hours.

She then asked, rather arrogantly, if I had ever sung "The Lord's Prayer" in public as a solo. (Translation: Can  you even sing at all, coming from up in those horrible mountains?)

I allowed (slowly) as how I reckoned I had. (Translation: You are beginning to annoy  me.)

And more arrogantly, had I ever been accompanied by a harpist? (Translation: The harp should be the center of attention, doing a solo all its own)

I told her no, but that my maiden name was Harper, so it was probably in my blood. (Translation: Probably one of my drunken Scots ancestors played better than you can)

She really liked that last remark. Not that she said so. What she said was it appeared obvious that we must practice right away. (Translation: Dear God, I'll never live this down, it's going to ruin my reputation)

I agreed as she eyed me as though I was about to kick off my shoes and pick my teeth while I tried to sing.

Can't say I wasn't tempted.

Before I go any further with this tale, I want you to know I wasn't getting angry. I was amused. Why, I was downright tickled. I figured no matter how badly I performed, I could never perform as badly as she was certain I was about to.

She closed her eyes and began to play the harp, swaying back and forth and nodding her head.

And dang, this was just the intro.

Me?

I just sang.

When we finished, she opened her eyes (I think she had peeked once). She said, "That was very good." Translation: You didn't sing through your nose)

I thanked her. (Translation, Sorry to disappoint you)

She glanced down at her watch, full of self-importance and said she hoped the ceremony began on time, because as soon as it was over she had to fly across town for another performance.

I smiled and said I was sure she could make good time. (Translation Just hop on  your harp and fly right over there!)

We drifted apart (gee I wonder why?), she searching for whatever, me for Husband.

He was standing in a nearby corner, boiling.

He'd heard the way she spoke to me and was ready to give her what she deserved.

I placed my hand on his arm and said, "It's just a song. It'll be over soon."

His face softened and he said, "You sounded like an angel."

Of course I did. Wasn't that a harp playing while I sang?

We burst into laughter and went in search of the sanctuary.

The moral of the story is this: Be nice. You'll feel better at the end of the day.

And the harpist? I don't know if she has been happy yet. But by now she probably has a cabin somewhere perched in these here hills and brags about it to her city friends.

The times, they are a'changin', after all.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Bosom Buddies

My mother called yesterday to tell me that while she was looking for something else, she found a playbill from 1983, back when I was pretty heavily involved in community theatre.

As she  began to read the program's fun for the  night entertainment, and my involvement in it, my lips began to twitch.

What happened that night wasn't funny, but what I found other afterwards really was.

The show was a Broadway review type thing, with different small acts or songs. The duet  that I was involved in was the song "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" a Streisand/Diamond combo, extremely popular at that time.

My singing buddy was (and probably still is) a wonderful singer. He has one of those old Irish tenor voices that make you want to close your eyes and smile.

We were partnered together many times, because a: I am a soprano and b: we are both tall, he more so than me.  It's a no no for the female to loom over the male unless you are doing some kind of spoof.

Of course we had practiced this song, and had a little act to go with it. Those of you who remember the song knows that it is a lament about a couple who have lost romance in their relationship, hence, 'you don't bring me flowers anymore:

You don't bring me flowers 
You don't sing me love songs 
You hardly talk to me anymore 
When you come through the door 
At the end of the day 

I remember when 
You couldn't wait to love me 
Used to hate to leave me 
Now after lovin' me late at night 
When it's good for you 
And you're feelin' alright 
Well you just roll over 
And turn out the light 
And you don't bring me flowers anymore 

It used to be so natural 
To talk about forever 
But "used to be's" don't count anymore 
They just lay on the floor 
'Til we sweep them away 

And baby, I remember 
All the things you taught me 
I learned how to laugh 
And I learned how to cry 
Well I learned how to love 
Even learned how to lie 
You'd think I could learn 
How to tell you goodbye 
'Cause you don't bring me flowers anymore


I mean, ain't that pitiful?

The skit: we were getting ready for some kind of formal dinner, and he came grumping in as I was putting on the finishing touches of my make-up, being gruff and hateful, wiping the smile off my face.

I turned to him and said something to the effect that used to, he wouldn't have come fussing on me, but bringing me flowers.

Then, just like in the  movies, I burst into song instead of tears.

But toward the end, as we are facing each other, he takes a step closer to me, and I to him, the song ends with us singing the last line together, my hands on his chest, staring into each others eyes.

Sigh.

The music faded and stopped, and we stood frozen, waiting for the applause.

Which didn't come.

Our eyes widened as we looked at each other. My lord, were we that bad?

Then suddenly the room burst into applause, people leaping to their feet, the women wiping their eyes.

Whew. We were good, after all.

Of course, I couldn't wait to see the video of the song later. We always made sure all our productions were taped, and cast could purchase a copy if they wished.

The couple who directed this production got to see it first, and usually watched it as soon as they got  home, looking for rough spots, issues that maybe could be dealt with before another show.

She called me the next morning, and she was laughing so hard I could barely understand her. 

Seems that the young guy who filmed was very serious about his, uh, work.

Every time I sang, he would focus on my face, then the camera would slowly slide down to  my form fitting dressed bosom, occasionally zipping back up to my face with warp speed, then slowly sliding back down. 

He didn't seem to have a problem with the camera staying on my male partner's face when he sang.

I guess I was 'twice' as popular as planned.

And that's all I'll say about that!

They chastised him, of course, and decided not to release the video to the cast as it was a bit embarrassing.

I never did get to see the film, although I wanted to.

It isn't often you get double billing.



 

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Riddle of the Day

Okay, okay: How many new vacuum cleaners must you buy before one actually, like, you know, works?

Answer: We don't know yet, 'cause so far we are three for 0.

Our ancient vacuum (read two years old) died and when you have a zoo living in your home, that's pretty close to a national emergency.

So, off goes Husband to purchase a brand spanking new one.

He gets home with a brand you would all recognize, puts it together, turns it on, and...

The animals froze in absolute terror, then took off for parts unknown. Daughter and I were screaming, "Turn it off, turn it off!" at the top of our lungs.

"What?" Husband screamed back.

"TURN IT OFF!"

It was louder than a 747 taking off while you stood underneath it, and I ain't kidding.

Husband re-packs it (sort of) in the box and goes back to the store to return it.

Vacuum number two arrives, a different and well known brand, and Husband once again puts it together. The side attachment, the hose that cleans corners and furniture, would not suction. He crams it back in the box and goes back to town.

Reverting back to the previous brand, but a bigger, better model, (read over one hundred dollars more expensive) he comes home, puts it together and voila'! It works. Husband is so happy he actually vacuums!!

A few days later, when he starts to vacuum the foyer, the hose attachment won't suction. He mentions it and says he needs to read the instruction booklet, because it worked so well the first time, he's sure it's him and not the machine.

Foolish, foolish Husband.

A few more days go by. He reads the booklet. Hose won't suction. After a few strokes on the carpet, neither will the upright part suction.

Since a trip to the dump had taken place after the initial, perfect work out, and the box had taken the trip, Husband has no box to take this one back in, but they gave him his money back anyway. I guess they figured a  man holding a huge vacuum, hair standing straight up with a maniacal look in his eye better get his money back.

He didn't purchase another one today, because he has two models he's going to look up and read reviews to see which is the better.

Wish Husband luck. I don't know how much more he can take.

 And our carpet is beginning to look like that furry stuff that was so popular back in the seventies.

As for other news, when I started to set the oven temperature to cook dinner, all digital buttons refused to work except the one, four and seven. The stove is three years old.

More on that later.

I'm sure you can hardly wait.


Monday, October 14, 2013

Dog Days

We took two of our cats to the vet today. (I'll get to the dogs in a minute...maybe)

Preparing to go is tricky.

Lily, our elderly Maine Coon, is the hardest. You see, as I may have mentioned before, Lily was not raised a pet. In fact, the first nine years of her life she was in a kennel as a queen. Her job was to have kittens.

When she was nine and too old to have kittens anymore, we adopted her and brought her home.

Now, she likes to be petted and will sleep on the foot of the bed. But you better not try to pick her up.

Therein lies the problem of getting her in the carrier.

Not only that, if she sees the carrier has been moved a quarter inch she FREAKS OUT.

She is fully loaded, having never been declawed.

But, the law says she has to have a rabies shot every year...I think the law should come get her and take her  themselves.

And Eli was in a mess. He was so matted on his sides, I knew it was going to start pulling on his skin. He has never let me groom him, even as a kitten he cried out in alarm or pain, I've never known which.

He doesn't mind the carrier, in fact, he gets in the one we keep in the house and lies down in it from time.

However; he doesn't like it when you close the opening.  He immediately becomes anxious and cries.

But off we go after wrangling and crying. The cats were in pretty bad shape too. Ha.

When we arrive, a lady is there with a sweet looking dog, who appears to be half collie and half golden retriever. The dog is very docile and sits sweetly.

Then a woman brings in an ancient, large, black, woolly dog of some sort, who has only one eye. It too is docile and...well, tired, I guess.

In a few minutes another woman comes in the door with a basset hound, and it just looks sad, but acts happy.

Suddenly a six month old or so weinmaraner came bursting out an exam room door, delirious to see us all. The vet tech finally tackled him and drug him back.

At that time we are called back. Daughter hauls Lily in, and it's a quick reach in the carrier a, jab with a needle and reach back out, then they are finished and back to the waiting room.

We then begin the long, drawn out process of Eli.  He gets weighed (16 lbs. 10oz), his temperature taken (why in the world can't they come up with a better way?). The vet tech leaves, we wait a few minutes (Eli wanting back in the carrier the whole time).

The vet finally arrives, after Eli and I have given up and are now sitting on the bench. I'm reading a People Magazine (have you seen the way "stars" dress today?) and Eli is sitting as close to me as possible, nervously watching the door.

He flinches when she enters, and I hoist him up on the table. She coos over him and tells him how beautiful he is, going over his body, looking in his nose, ears and eyes.

She exams his huge feet and finds one of the back claws almost ingrown. She clips it and warns me to keep a watch on it so it doesn't happen to him.

She listens to his heart and lungs and says he seems to be very healthy. She is puzzled, like me, about the sudden matting on the top sides of his body.

She notes he weighs a lot, but that he has a huge frame and is extremely long, so he is not overweight in the least.

I mention I had read that Maine Coons don't come into their first adult winter fur until three, and he's just turned three...and she agrees that must be it.

By the way, he will probably grow more in the next two years.  King Kong can take him to the vet then.

The vet tech comes back in and starts to shave the mats off Eli.

I tell you this much: if you could have seen how much fur he shaved off,  you would agree with me that it would cover an entire average size cat. The vet tech used three blades on him.

His beautiful haunches, which we called his wings are no more. His wings have been clipped. Shorn. Shaved.

He looks rather mangy. (when Husband saw him he said, "It looks like a chicken breast." May I take a moment to sob.)

He was a good boy through the whole ordeal. We were in there over an hour.

I had more fur than he did by the time we left, the front of my shirt was a complete mass. He did not fight or bite or scratch, but he resisted, and I was the one holding him. Whew!

When we came back out to the waiting room, it was dog mania! (told you I'd get back to them).

It sounded like a chaotic mess. Little dogs, big dogs, yapping and  yipping (the little ones only) and smelly!! everywhere.

It was so loud no one could hear anyone else speak, and I ain't kidding. I wonder if they overbooked or if they just love a zoo.

We got home safe, even if not sound.

But the next time I have someone who needs to go to the vet?

I'm staying home.


Saturday, October 12, 2013

Fish I Have Known

We presently have one fish, Tobias. He is a Siamese Fighting Fish, or Beta. He's a beautiful red and blue, and has enjoyed his life on the window sill above the kitchen sink.  He watches with interest as we go about our cooking or cleaning up or playing games.

But now, he is dying. He hasn't eaten anything in three days, and just lies at the bottom of the bowl. I have tried fresh water, hoping that would help, but of course, it did not. We've had him around three years, and that's about as long as we can keep one alive.

How do you keep a fish comfortable? I think mostly leave him alone.

We have had many Beta fish:
Red Fish, Dep, and and Mercury.  I kept one Beta on my desk for years, replacing it when it died. But  I never named them.

Our goldfish have been Mr. Bouncer, who lived about three years,  Zippy, who lived almost five years and might have kept on living, but we had no water because of a hurricane striking our area, and his water got so dirty I risked using Mother's water.

Killed him right off.

One from the county fair that lived overnight, quickly giving it up the next morning. I don't think we named him.

I don't think fish can die from fright, can they? Hmmmm.....

Anyway, even though fish aren't exactly what you call pets, (after all, you can't pet them) I still feel sad when I see one starting to decline and it becomes obvious he ain't gonna make it.

Tobias, you will be missed, buddy.



Friday, October 11, 2013

Let It Snow!

For two nights running I have dreamed that there was snow on the ground.

I figure the third time is the charm, and if I can swing a dream like that tonight, we might have snow in October.

It won't be the first time. I can remember snow in October many times throughout my life.

And don't start whining about it, you know even if we got a snow in October it would not be deep nor would it last.

One of the dire predictions around these here parts is we are gonna have a terrible winter because there are squirrels/bears/deer/turkey and everything else you can think of running amok amongst us in more numbers than anyone has ever seen.

What, are they doing last minute shopping at Wal-mart before they get snowed in?

I don't know why lots of them being seen would have anything to do with upcoming weather - but hey - I'll pass it along.

I'm more fer it than agin it.

I admit to having a skewed memory of excessively cold snowy winters. To me it was all about missing school, playing outside until I couldn't feel my feet, coming in, thawing out and going back out for more. And eating snow cream in between.

I wasn't the one laying in the snow putting chains on the tires, or laying in the middle of the living room floor covered in soot trying to unstop the chimney so the heater would work.

That would have been my cussin', tool slangin' daddy.

I don't know what Mother was doing, maybe in the kitchen making snow cream.

Of course I prefer my cold snowy winter with electricity in my house. It isn't as much fun when the power is out and we are camping out in the living room with a smelly generator roaring outside so we don't lose everything in the refrigerator/freezer and can flush the commodes.

For now, I don't want to look at the nasty realities of a hard winter. I want to dream and romanticize it.

Crackling fire, cozy quilt, good book and snow falling gently outside my window.

Let it snow!

Thursday, October 10, 2013

I'm Humbled, I'm Gobsmacked, I'm...

Medicated.

After being in worse and worse pain for several days, the pain hit the hip and after doing everything I knew to do, I took a muscle relaxant in the middle of the day.

It's helped some, but I can't stand to feel all woozy and groggy and all the other dwarfs.

But I had to say thank you.

Last night when I clicked on my blog I had exactly 10,000 page views.

When I started this a little less than a year ago, I had no idea anyone would read it.

After all, my mother doesn't have the Internet.

I remember coming to this site to do my second blog and noticed I had 44 page views. I remember being shocked and very pleased.

I know a few of you who read my blog faithfully.

Some just let me know occasionally.

Some have smarta intelligent comments when they read.

But most of you I don't know. At least I don't know you read my blog.

And I know, for sure, many of you I've never met before. Because forty-two countries have given me hits on my page.

Three or four of the countries I know are family.

Most of these countries haven't just viewed once. Many of them view all the time, most of them once in a while.

So, thanks to:

1. United States
2. United Kingdom
3. Ireland
4. Botswana
5. Venezuela
6. Russia
7. Germany
8. Ukraine
9. Sweden
10. Poland
11. Belgium
12. Portugal
13. Chile
14. Japan
15. Philippines
16. Indonesia
17. Malaysia
18. Kazakhstan
19. France
20. Thailand
21. China
22. South Korea
23. Brazil
24. Serbia
25. Romania
26. Greece
27. Canada
28. Palestine
29. Moldova
30. Turkey
31. Spain
32. Finland
33. Argentina
34. Italy
35. Denmark
36. Mexico
37. Viet Nam
38. Netherlands
39. South Africa
40. India
41. Israel

Thank you all.

Thank you all very much.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Sales are Like Fish - or is it Birds?

I've only sold a few books in the last few months, but suddenly I've sold twenty-six.

It seems like what one does several do, like naming your child Heather. It's weird, but I think we are all connected somehow.

Now, I know you are probably underwhelmed at either number, but for someone who hasn't published a book lately and who has no PR person or agent or much ability to get out there and push my books myself, that's pretty good.

I don't write to make a living ( thank goodness!), I write because I am compelled. It's a joy and a drive.

People who read my books tell me I'm bound to "hit the big time" any moment, because they think my books are really good, and I thank them.

However; you do have to be in the right place at the right time, and apparently I ain't been there.

Plus,  maybe God doesn't want me there yet, or maybe never.

That's okay. I don't want to be famous, although a little richer would be nice! However; I can't complain.

The old Apple Festival is looming this weekend and I got to get myself back to the store that sells my books locally. They've sold several and I didn't know it. Guess I should be better at keeping up with this kind of thing. Plus, a check wouldn't hurt.

So, if you haven't read any or all my books, now would be a good time to jump on the band wagon and buy 'em.  Like a lemming or whatever.

I'm just sayin...


Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Why Can't a Man Be More Like a Woman?

I swan, sometimes I think  I'm going to scream when attempting to have a conversation with Husband. He says it's my fault.

But dear reader, you and I both know wherein the fault lies. (especially if you are a female reader).

For instance: Say we have been having a discussion about a certain person. Then I say something to the effect of, "His brother lives in Atlanta, too."

"Whose brother?" Husband asks.

"John's. The man we've been talking about for ten  minutes."

"You confused me by using all those pronouns. I didn't know which he you were talking about."

WHAT?

I grit my teeth and continue on. (Yes, I am crazy.)  "Anyway, JOHN's brother's name is Marty. He and his wife moved to Atlanta last year."

"John's wife?"

Just shoot me now.

And don't dare start up a conversation about somebody's grandmother or cousin. Husband tells me there is no way he can follow that kind of conversation and he doesn't want to try.

Makes it kind of hard to tell him who is coming to visit.

Mix that in with my word displacement I have had since my little stroke on the operating table a few years back, and what you have is a two ring circus.

Daughter has rolled her eyes so many times, they rattle around loose in their sockets.

The funny thing is, Daughter and I don't have these conversational snafu's, even when I can't come up with a word or say the wrong word. (By the way, this doesn't happen when I am writing, only speaking.) Daughter just fills in the blanks, or says, "You meant to say banana, not umbrella." And I agree. Then our conversation returns to it's smooth flow.

Why Can't a Man Be More Like a Woman?

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Graveyard Shift

I spent the better part of Saturday morning and early afternoon at a graveyard.

What fun! You exclaim.

Why didn't you invite me? You pout.

Party on! You exclaim.

You people need to get a life.

As do I.

See, I had discovered this tombstone when I was at the graveyard the other day with my mother. (No, I wasn't trying to talk her into anything)

There is an old tombstone that is so pitted and blackened it is almost impossible to see not only what, but if something was engraved on it.

I got very close to it and could make out some letters, and was convinced it was an older tombstone of my great-grandmother's. My father, my mother's parents, her father's parents and my grandfather's mother's parents, as well as all his siblings (but one) are buried there. My grandfather's parents, as well as two of his siblings have newer tombstones, replaced by a relative many years ago.

It stood to reason that perhaps the older one of my great-grandmother's had remained standing too.

So Husband went with me Saturday with equipment in hand to rub the tombstone and find out exactly what it said.

It's a really super neato thing to watch as letters appear on paper as he used a dark charcoal pencil to rub across the white paper.  I remember doing the same thing as a kid to coins. Sorta like magic, you know?

A disappointment that it wasn't my great-grandmother's, but then an interesting find. She was born in 1838 and died in 1907. She was a gentleman's 'consort'. 

I looked up the word, and it can mean marriage, or an 'intimate relationship', a partnership or even harmony among musical instruments.

I was told later than on very old tombstones, such as this one, they often said they were a consort, and it does mean they were married to one another.

Learn something new every day.

Then, across the way in the church yard underneath a big old tree, two damsels were in distress and Husband and I went over to help. I stood there, helpfully. He, being THE MAN, was able to get the three lug nuts off the flat tire they had been unable to loosen.

Finally, able to journey back to town, I thought we deserved a reward and purchased ourselves egg biscuits before going on home.

Graveyards, tombstone rubbing, consorts, damsels, biscuits.

Just another day in the South.

Ya'll come see us.

We'll larn ye thangs.

Friday, October 4, 2013

Why Is It?

I'm getting a haircut in a few hours, and it started me thinking: (Oh, no, I hear you say)

Why is it when your hair finally looks really good, the  next time you wash it, it all goes to grass and you need a hair cut in the worst way?

Why is it when you get all your nails out to a really nice length, you break one and they all go, just within a few days, until you might as well be grubbing worms barehanded?

Why is it when you have an injury - sunburn, bruise, cut, amputation, whatever - that's where your friends and family will thump, slap, rub or squeeze as soon as they see  you?

Why is it when you get the farthest away from  your car that it starts raining - hard - when only minutes before the sun was out?

Why is it when you look your absolute worst, but really have to - run out to the mailbox, run in the store for a loaf of bread, run to the gas station to fill up - that is when  your Prince Charming from high school that you had a really bad crush on, shows up, looking  not a day older and dressed immaculately? (He looks at you kindly and says, "You look vaguely familiar. Are you the mother of one of the girls I went to high school with?")

Why is it when you finally hit that perfect pitch high note, or hit the ball the farthest you ever have, or hit the bulls eye twelve times in a row, or do a perfect cartwheel, there is never anyone to witness it?

Why is it when you say something absolutely brilliant, there are only a handful of dunderheads that hear it, but when you say something really, really stupid or embarrassing, it's in front of a crowd?

Why is it when you are out and about and you really have to pee, that your elderly third grade teacher stops you to chat about how  much fun she had at her 107th birthday party (that you weren't invited to) or the neighborhood hypochondriac stops you to tell you about her latest surgery/illness/episode, or you have a flat tire three miles away from the nearest bathroom and you don't have cellphone service in that area?

Why, people, why?

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Don't Look Now, But...

One of the biggest problems I have with my pain is clothing.

The old double barrel slingshot I have to wrap my, er, chest up in makes my back ache like a sonofagun.

I can't wear a belt or a fitted waist anymore, that hurts too much.

Shoes. Oh, lord. I have spent more in the quest for a shoe I can tolerate in the past few years than I spent on shoes my entire life before hand.

So, I have decided the solution for me is to join a nudist colony.

Well, except I'd have to wear socks, because I can't bear for my tootsies to be bare anymore.

And if it's cool, I'll have to wear these wonderful moccasins I found.

Of course, I don't like my neck and shoulders to get cold either, it causes muscle spasms, so maybe a nice shawl of some sort.

Then there's my legs. They  hurt worse if it gets cold, so I'd have to wrap 'em up in something warm....maybe some long leggings.

And the top of my arms get cold easily, too, so maybe arm bands.

Let's see: arm bands, shawl, leggings, socks and shoes.

I'm ready.

The question  is:

Are you?

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

I've Looked at Clouds from Both Sides Now/Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

How long has it been since you laid down in the grass, put your hands behind your head, and gazed at the clouds, identifying all the amazing things  you saw there?

Or watched the stars, waiting for a falling one, identifying the constellations?

It's been a long time for me because:

a. I'm afraid a bug would get on me  b. the ground might be damp  c. I couldn't get back up d. all the above

As a child, I would do these things alone or with a friend or two when we were so bored we couldn't think of another thing to do for fun.

"There's an elephant! There's a whale! Do you see the bear?  Oh, come on, it's right there! See?"

And so on.

And looking at the stars at night always fascinated me. Like chips of winking diamonds, they seemed alive and secret.

In 1997, when the Hale-Bopp comet was streaking through the skies, we took Daughter to a darker place than our yard to see it. I guess we did that about three times during it's streak. It interested us more than it did her, but it brought back a lot of star gazing memories for me.

We have, over my adult years, identified cloud shapes, too. Usually from inside a moving car where we might have  stretch of road to see the sky.

In this way you can watch the dinosaur lose shape, either turning into something else entirely or nothing at all.

My childhood was spent outdoors a lot, especially in summer. In fact, the door may have been locked during the day. (I kid, I kid, we never locked our doors.)

Before air conditioning, the coolest place was under or up in a big old tree, the adults sitting on the porch, maybe with the floor fan blowing from the inside of the screen door, if you could find a cord to reach that far.

How long has it been since you climbed a tree?

I don't anymore because: a. there might be a bug on it b. the bark might be damp c. I couldn't get back down (well, even up to start with) or d. all the above

But I can still sit on the porch!

And when we occasionally come home late, I lean against the car, gaze up at the sky, looking at my small patch of sky the trees don't hide...

And I make a nostalgic wish.

Today, take a moment, glance at a cloud, gaze at a star.

Even if you ain't laying on the ground to do it.