I figured I better blog tonight so no one would think I'd gone berserk and eaten my young.
Nope.
The salt truck and scraper came and Husband ran out to town like a scalded dog. That was a good thing because we were needing groceries. Husband usually grocery shops on Wednesday, so we were two days behind.
Unfortunately, everyone else was two days behind right along beside him. Plus some foul odor and loud noise was attacking the grocery store. Husband said two ladies walked by with their mouths covered with cloth. He just walked out and left the buggy.
Then he went to Wal-mart.
Husband found out there are far worse things than wives who write strange blogs.
Since Husband had such a lovely time, Daughter and I finally took the cats to the vet. I only got one teeny tiny scratch from Lilly after we cornered her attempting to put her in the carrier.
We got back home with nary another scratch. There was still some slush on the bad shady part of the road, and it will refreeze tonight, but thaw again tomorrow.
I hear it's going to snow next week.
I reckon I'm ready as I'll ever be.
Now that I got out, I remembered it ain't all it's cracked up to be.
There is no place like home, Auntie Em.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Day Three
Day Three of Entrapment:
Nothing has changed outside. All is white. My world as I have known it is gone, and I fear for my sanity.
Having lost the will to admire myself in the looking glass, my hair, although clean, has taken on a Medusa quality I did not know it could obtain.
We are running out of food. Only one gallon of milk and one loaf of bread left.
No chicken remains.
Those I thought of as loved ones are appearing more and more sinister, as though their very life is centered around annoying me to the point of death.
They breathe. In and out, in and out! I tell you, I do not know how much longer I can tolerate it!
I find myself curled up in the fetal position more often than is normal. And my thoughts? God have mercy on us all!
The animals I once thought of as pets are looking more feral and predatory every moment of every passing day.
Dear Lord, is there not a patch of brown anywhere? Are we doomed to the white out, in a winter which has lasted longer than any, surely, in written history?
The fire cackles wickedly and its tongues of flame lick out to attempt to strike me. I can no longer put a log on its contained fury!
Is it my fate to now freeze slowly to death, with only the heat pump filling the house with its lukewarm air, set at a mere 68 Degrees?
The striking of the clock is nothing but a cruel reminder that time is passing and I am no longer a part of it. I can only sit in this house that has become a prison and know that somewhere, surely, civilization continues.
What will happen next? Will they hold their breath to see if I notice? Will a cat rub up against me, coy and sly? Will we run out of pork chops?
Surely we will be rescued. Why would we be left alone to die?
I am mad, I tell you. Simply mad.
Nothing has changed outside. All is white. My world as I have known it is gone, and I fear for my sanity.
Having lost the will to admire myself in the looking glass, my hair, although clean, has taken on a Medusa quality I did not know it could obtain.
We are running out of food. Only one gallon of milk and one loaf of bread left.
No chicken remains.
Those I thought of as loved ones are appearing more and more sinister, as though their very life is centered around annoying me to the point of death.
They breathe. In and out, in and out! I tell you, I do not know how much longer I can tolerate it!
I find myself curled up in the fetal position more often than is normal. And my thoughts? God have mercy on us all!
The animals I once thought of as pets are looking more feral and predatory every moment of every passing day.
Dear Lord, is there not a patch of brown anywhere? Are we doomed to the white out, in a winter which has lasted longer than any, surely, in written history?
The fire cackles wickedly and its tongues of flame lick out to attempt to strike me. I can no longer put a log on its contained fury!
Is it my fate to now freeze slowly to death, with only the heat pump filling the house with its lukewarm air, set at a mere 68 Degrees?
The striking of the clock is nothing but a cruel reminder that time is passing and I am no longer a part of it. I can only sit in this house that has become a prison and know that somewhere, surely, civilization continues.
What will happen next? Will they hold their breath to see if I notice? Will a cat rub up against me, coy and sly? Will we run out of pork chops?
Surely we will be rescued. Why would we be left alone to die?
I am mad, I tell you. Simply mad.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Vacation!
It's vacation time at our house.
Not because we are going anywhere, but because we can't go anywhere.
It is amazing the freedom being snowed in brings. You can't fulfill any responsibilities, like appointments or school. The other end of the responsibility can't either, so it's a win/win.
We have plenty of food, so I've been a cooking fool. We have plenty of firewood, so I am "wasting" it on a fire in the fireplace, according to Husband. Like, uh, hello,what am I supposed to do with firewood?
Husband says it needs to be saved for emergencies. I'm not sure what kind, but I suppose he means if the electricity goes off. I would agree with him if it weren't for the fact that we have a whole rack thingie full of firewood.
Being on vacation also makes it easy to put things off. Vacuuming? We'll finish that tomorrow. Finish dusting the living room so all the doo dads can be put back on the table? Eh, tomorrow we'll have plenty of time.
This could be dangerous. I've seen those hoarder shows where everything gets all gommed up and you can't move around in the house, except for a skinny little trail between last decade's newspapers, which form walls up to the ceiling. (But don't worry about the newspapers - I've got that covered. I'll use 'em for kindling.)
So as the sun sets in the west on another vacation day, I give this word of advise to you:
Watch where you step, at least at my house.
But don't worry, we'll get it straightened and picked up.
Tomorrow.
Not because we are going anywhere, but because we can't go anywhere.
It is amazing the freedom being snowed in brings. You can't fulfill any responsibilities, like appointments or school. The other end of the responsibility can't either, so it's a win/win.
We have plenty of food, so I've been a cooking fool. We have plenty of firewood, so I am "wasting" it on a fire in the fireplace, according to Husband. Like, uh, hello,what am I supposed to do with firewood?
Husband says it needs to be saved for emergencies. I'm not sure what kind, but I suppose he means if the electricity goes off. I would agree with him if it weren't for the fact that we have a whole rack thingie full of firewood.
Being on vacation also makes it easy to put things off. Vacuuming? We'll finish that tomorrow. Finish dusting the living room so all the doo dads can be put back on the table? Eh, tomorrow we'll have plenty of time.
This could be dangerous. I've seen those hoarder shows where everything gets all gommed up and you can't move around in the house, except for a skinny little trail between last decade's newspapers, which form walls up to the ceiling. (But don't worry about the newspapers - I've got that covered. I'll use 'em for kindling.)
So as the sun sets in the west on another vacation day, I give this word of advise to you:
Watch where you step, at least at my house.
But don't worry, we'll get it straightened and picked up.
Tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Happy Anniversary, Baby. Got You On My Mind...
All day today I have been like an anxious child awaiting its mother's home coming. I have not been able to stay away from the windows, looking, looking.
I had to make sure it was still snowing.
Twenty-nine years ago today Husband and I got married.
There was a huge snow and ice storm the night before and we almost didn't make it to the church.
For our first anniversary there was a big old snow storm, which was great, as we were together, snug. The horror began when we turned on the television and watched The Challenger explode in mid-air.
For our second anniversary we were snowed in.
Do you sense a theme going on here?
But it was fine, I love snow, I love Husband.
Then the weather changed and our snowy anniversaries stopped.
Until today.
Today has been a lovely day of snow. There are two inches on the ground and on the trees. It's twenty degrees. We have a nice fire going. Daughter is home safe, and we cooked a wonderful meal of roasted broccoli, quartered red potatoes cooked in olive oil, and chicken cooked with garlic, and biscuits.
It's supposed to snow more tonight. So I guess tomorrow is cancelled, so to speak.
By Saturday, it's supposed to be around sixty.
Go figure.
But for now, I'm headed to the fireplace to be hypnotized by the flames. And Scrabble is awaiting my presence.
I had to make sure it was still snowing.
Twenty-nine years ago today Husband and I got married.
There was a huge snow and ice storm the night before and we almost didn't make it to the church.
For our first anniversary there was a big old snow storm, which was great, as we were together, snug. The horror began when we turned on the television and watched The Challenger explode in mid-air.
For our second anniversary we were snowed in.
Do you sense a theme going on here?
But it was fine, I love snow, I love Husband.
Then the weather changed and our snowy anniversaries stopped.
Until today.
Today has been a lovely day of snow. There are two inches on the ground and on the trees. It's twenty degrees. We have a nice fire going. Daughter is home safe, and we cooked a wonderful meal of roasted broccoli, quartered red potatoes cooked in olive oil, and chicken cooked with garlic, and biscuits.
It's supposed to snow more tonight. So I guess tomorrow is cancelled, so to speak.
By Saturday, it's supposed to be around sixty.
Go figure.
But for now, I'm headed to the fireplace to be hypnotized by the flames. And Scrabble is awaiting my presence.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Everything But
I know I said "Everything BUT the Kitchen Sink", but I lied.
I'm like that, you know.
Because today, I want to talk about kitchen sinks.
Growing up, the kitchen sink was a one holer with a drainboard attached. It was made out of cast iron and had a porcelain finish.
A towel would be folded over to pad the drainboard, so I could sit on it, with my feet in the sink, then my mother would wash me.
After all that, I would lie down with my head over the sink and get my hair washed.
This was done because it was winter and the bathroom was cold. The old claw foot tub was very deep and hard for me to get in. In fact, I had to be lifted in and out.
I remember all this in detail even though I was three, four years old.
When Daughter was a baby, she got baths in the kitchen sink too. It's easier on the mama's back, and when they are so small, it feels safer.
I love my own kitchen sink. It, too, is cast iron coated in porcelain. But it's a double holer and there is no drainboard attached. It's a very deep sink, and you can wash just about anything with ease.
When my mother-in-law died, Husband's sisters asked me what I wanted.
Now, my mother-in-law was one of my best friends. But she wasn't my mother, and I didn't want to "want" anything, being as I was not a daughter.
But I did want something. And I got what I wanted.
I wanted her dishrags and her dish towels.
And I wanted the kitchen sink.
We all knew the property was either going to be sold, or the house be neglected long enough that it would be in such disrepair it would need to be torn down.
So, a few months ago, Husband and another fella ventured to the house Husband grew up in. They had to trek through the woods because the drive-way is kaput.
Someone had stolen the little wood stove we wanted. But the sink was still there. So they loaded it up and brought it to me.
It is awaiting springtime. I am going to have it installed on the lower back porch. It will help wash dirty hands and pots when planting flowers and seed for the vegetable garden.
If we cookout down there, it can help hold dirty utensils and the like until they can be brought in to the kitchen.
But I really wanted it because it is lovely.
Not in the modern sense. It's seen years of use.
But it is full of the history of a family. Canning was done, potatoes and onions peeled. Okra cut up. Corn cleaned up after shucking and silking. Beans soaked, washed and 'looked' before being put on the stove to cook for hours with fat back to season them. Flour washed off hands after pinching off biscuits to put in the oven.
A million dirty dishes washed.
And babies washed when they were little.
Bobby Gene.
Barbara Ann.
Kenneth.
David.
Brenda.
Grandbabies, too.
It's funny what winds up touching the heart, isn't it?
I guess I'm just a kitchen sink kind of gal.
I'm like that, you know.
Because today, I want to talk about kitchen sinks.
Growing up, the kitchen sink was a one holer with a drainboard attached. It was made out of cast iron and had a porcelain finish.
A towel would be folded over to pad the drainboard, so I could sit on it, with my feet in the sink, then my mother would wash me.
After all that, I would lie down with my head over the sink and get my hair washed.
This was done because it was winter and the bathroom was cold. The old claw foot tub was very deep and hard for me to get in. In fact, I had to be lifted in and out.
I remember all this in detail even though I was three, four years old.
When Daughter was a baby, she got baths in the kitchen sink too. It's easier on the mama's back, and when they are so small, it feels safer.
I love my own kitchen sink. It, too, is cast iron coated in porcelain. But it's a double holer and there is no drainboard attached. It's a very deep sink, and you can wash just about anything with ease.
When my mother-in-law died, Husband's sisters asked me what I wanted.
Now, my mother-in-law was one of my best friends. But she wasn't my mother, and I didn't want to "want" anything, being as I was not a daughter.
But I did want something. And I got what I wanted.
I wanted her dishrags and her dish towels.
And I wanted the kitchen sink.
We all knew the property was either going to be sold, or the house be neglected long enough that it would be in such disrepair it would need to be torn down.
So, a few months ago, Husband and another fella ventured to the house Husband grew up in. They had to trek through the woods because the drive-way is kaput.
Someone had stolen the little wood stove we wanted. But the sink was still there. So they loaded it up and brought it to me.
It is awaiting springtime. I am going to have it installed on the lower back porch. It will help wash dirty hands and pots when planting flowers and seed for the vegetable garden.
If we cookout down there, it can help hold dirty utensils and the like until they can be brought in to the kitchen.
But I really wanted it because it is lovely.
Not in the modern sense. It's seen years of use.
But it is full of the history of a family. Canning was done, potatoes and onions peeled. Okra cut up. Corn cleaned up after shucking and silking. Beans soaked, washed and 'looked' before being put on the stove to cook for hours with fat back to season them. Flour washed off hands after pinching off biscuits to put in the oven.
A million dirty dishes washed.
And babies washed when they were little.
Bobby Gene.
Barbara Ann.
Kenneth.
David.
Brenda.
Grandbabies, too.
It's funny what winds up touching the heart, isn't it?
I guess I'm just a kitchen sink kind of gal.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Going Way Back
I'm working on the next article I will do for the paper I work for.
My column is entitled "The Good Ole Days".
I decided to see how far back my roots go in this county.
Not counting my Cherokee ancestors, I can go back eight generations in some branches, five in some and some I can't go back further than four because I just don't know.
There are more last names than you can shake a stick at, and if you've been living here for more than two generations, chances are you are my kin.
I can't help it, stop whining. You know you can't pick your relatives.
Most of my blood is Scots, Irish, Cherokee, English and one great-great-great grandmother who was Dutch.
It looks like the white part of my kin either came to this country and settled for a short time in Virginia or North Carolina before journeying on down to Georgia and mixing with Cherokee.
The weird thing is, none of these people, save my grandparents and one set of great-grandparents, mean anything to me.
I never knew them, they never knew me.
Isn't it strange to think that family goes back until there was only one family to start with? And that we are all related eventually?
I know all of them had some kind of influence on me genetically. Some only a teeny tiny bit by the time it all watered down to me.
My mother never has cared about her kin past her grandparents, she isn't interested in it at all.
I never was either, much, except for the Cherokee part, and that was only because Daddy was so proud of it.
But then one day I got this call saying I needed to prove how much Cherokee I had in me so the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington, D. C. could approve my baby coming home to us.
You bet I got interested quickly. It sorta stuck, especially when I found out I sit on land that was owned by a great-great-great-grandfather many years ago.
It's mostly fun for me, but it doesn't mean a lot when it comes to who I am.
Because I am God's child. I have His blood now.
I don't understand that, how it happens, why He deemed it necessary.
All I know is I know.
And that's all I need to know.
My column is entitled "The Good Ole Days".
I decided to see how far back my roots go in this county.
Not counting my Cherokee ancestors, I can go back eight generations in some branches, five in some and some I can't go back further than four because I just don't know.
There are more last names than you can shake a stick at, and if you've been living here for more than two generations, chances are you are my kin.
I can't help it, stop whining. You know you can't pick your relatives.
Most of my blood is Scots, Irish, Cherokee, English and one great-great-great grandmother who was Dutch.
It looks like the white part of my kin either came to this country and settled for a short time in Virginia or North Carolina before journeying on down to Georgia and mixing with Cherokee.
The weird thing is, none of these people, save my grandparents and one set of great-grandparents, mean anything to me.
I never knew them, they never knew me.
Isn't it strange to think that family goes back until there was only one family to start with? And that we are all related eventually?
I know all of them had some kind of influence on me genetically. Some only a teeny tiny bit by the time it all watered down to me.
My mother never has cared about her kin past her grandparents, she isn't interested in it at all.
I never was either, much, except for the Cherokee part, and that was only because Daddy was so proud of it.
But then one day I got this call saying I needed to prove how much Cherokee I had in me so the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington, D. C. could approve my baby coming home to us.
You bet I got interested quickly. It sorta stuck, especially when I found out I sit on land that was owned by a great-great-great-grandfather many years ago.
It's mostly fun for me, but it doesn't mean a lot when it comes to who I am.
Because I am God's child. I have His blood now.
I don't understand that, how it happens, why He deemed it necessary.
All I know is I know.
And that's all I need to know.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Better Late Than Never
We are finally getting the rest of our Christmas decorations down. I know the date, don't bother to tell me.
Don't make fun of me either. At least it's still January.
The cats are terribly excited, especially Eli.
But he got a little confused. I think he thought we were putting stuff on the tree, not off the tree.
So, he decided he would help.
The grey fuzzy thing is his favorite toy, a mouse. He brought it to the tree and laid it on a bottom branch.
I think this will be the last thing we take off the tree, unless he removes it first.
Ain't that sweet?
Don't make fun of me either. At least it's still January.
The cats are terribly excited, especially Eli.
But he got a little confused. I think he thought we were putting stuff on the tree, not off the tree.
So, he decided he would help.
The grey fuzzy thing is his favorite toy, a mouse. He brought it to the tree and laid it on a bottom branch.
I think this will be the last thing we take off the tree, unless he removes it first.
Ain't that sweet?
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Memory Recall Time!
If you read my blog the other day about Mother's, er, excitement at the bank, you know she can be prone to getting a little upset.
This memory keeps bumping around in my brain, so I figured, eh, hey, why not just go ahead and share. That's what blogging is all about, right?
Anyway, when Brothers were around age seven, Mother and Daddy were picking them up from school early one day for a dentist appointment.
They were parked across the street from the elementary school, waiting on my brothers to come out of the school.
In a moment, my daddy told me on the telephone that night (I was living away at the time), my brothers came out of the school. Suddenly, another little boy came out right behind them. He was a very big "little" boy, a head taller and many pounds heavier than my brothers. (He grew up to be a very big man, in prison now for murder. But this is now and that was then.)
The bigger boy walked up behind Brothers and shoved them both in the back, knocking their books out of their arms.
Daddy said he turned to say something to Mother about it, to find she was no longer in the car. He then turned his head to the left, and there dear old Mom was, slappin' that boy up a side a da head.
What a family!
I was laughing so hard at the tale I could hardly breathe. Mother came on the line, hysterically crying. "I've hit another person's child! How could I have done that?"
Laughter. Me, Daddy.
"This is NOT funny! I've done a terrible thing!"
Laughter - me, Daddy.
Ahhh, good times.
At any rate, she called and apologized to the boy's parents. They weren't too happy, but they did accept her apology.
I think this story embarrasses my brother's to this day.
Mother, too.
Not me, buddy.
Not me.
This memory keeps bumping around in my brain, so I figured, eh, hey, why not just go ahead and share. That's what blogging is all about, right?
Anyway, when Brothers were around age seven, Mother and Daddy were picking them up from school early one day for a dentist appointment.
They were parked across the street from the elementary school, waiting on my brothers to come out of the school.
In a moment, my daddy told me on the telephone that night (I was living away at the time), my brothers came out of the school. Suddenly, another little boy came out right behind them. He was a very big "little" boy, a head taller and many pounds heavier than my brothers. (He grew up to be a very big man, in prison now for murder. But this is now and that was then.)
The bigger boy walked up behind Brothers and shoved them both in the back, knocking their books out of their arms.
Daddy said he turned to say something to Mother about it, to find she was no longer in the car. He then turned his head to the left, and there dear old Mom was, slappin' that boy up a side a da head.
What a family!
I was laughing so hard at the tale I could hardly breathe. Mother came on the line, hysterically crying. "I've hit another person's child! How could I have done that?"
Laughter. Me, Daddy.
"This is NOT funny! I've done a terrible thing!"
Laughter - me, Daddy.
Ahhh, good times.
At any rate, she called and apologized to the boy's parents. They weren't too happy, but they did accept her apology.
I think this story embarrasses my brother's to this day.
Mother, too.
Not me, buddy.
Not me.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Closed for Repairs
I probably should have put a sign up on this blog, similar to that...
The blog ain't broke, but everything else in my life seems to be.
Daughter has not been well for a few months, and instead of getting better when we go to the doctor, she's gotten worse. My skinny child has lost eleven pounds.
To those who know her, I heard you gasp.
Monday evening she said, "Mama, I can't take this anymore. Something has to be done. I am calling the doctor."
So Monday night we saw another doctor, who believes Daughter has an ulcer. The doctor put Daughter on a super-dooper medication and she is finally able to eat without excruciating pain. The doctor also recommended a few other things, including a G.I. Specialist. We are awaiting an appointment.
Tuesday it was my turn to go to the urologist because of recurring infections and possibly (ha) passing kidney stones. I am now awaiting a call for a C. T. scan. I was placed on medication. One of the medications cost $139.88 (my part).
I need a minute.
Today, it was Mother's turn. Husband and I (he wouldn't go alone with her, read previous blog), took her to an orthopedic doctor because she can't raise her arm, or move it to the side anymore. Her news was her shoulder is not repairable, but the doctor wants her to go to physical therapy to strengthen other muscles to compensate for what she has lost. We are now awaiting a call from the physical therapist to set up appointments.
I guess you could say we are ladies in waiting.
Tomorrow, I get a massage. YAY!
But then, I have to take two of the whites to the vet. Eli needs (okay, no he doesn't, but I won't argue with the law in this blog) a rabies shot, and both he and Lilly need some mats removed.
If I live through putting Lilly in a carrier, Friday we are seeing a comedy at the local theatre. It is a play put on by locals. We are going as part of our celebration of our wedding anniversary.
Lord knows I could use a few laughs.
Anyway, pardon my absence this week, but you see how it goes.
If it ain't one doctor, it's been two.
The blog ain't broke, but everything else in my life seems to be.
Daughter has not been well for a few months, and instead of getting better when we go to the doctor, she's gotten worse. My skinny child has lost eleven pounds.
To those who know her, I heard you gasp.
Monday evening she said, "Mama, I can't take this anymore. Something has to be done. I am calling the doctor."
So Monday night we saw another doctor, who believes Daughter has an ulcer. The doctor put Daughter on a super-dooper medication and she is finally able to eat without excruciating pain. The doctor also recommended a few other things, including a G.I. Specialist. We are awaiting an appointment.
Tuesday it was my turn to go to the urologist because of recurring infections and possibly (ha) passing kidney stones. I am now awaiting a call for a C. T. scan. I was placed on medication. One of the medications cost $139.88 (my part).
I need a minute.
Today, it was Mother's turn. Husband and I (he wouldn't go alone with her, read previous blog), took her to an orthopedic doctor because she can't raise her arm, or move it to the side anymore. Her news was her shoulder is not repairable, but the doctor wants her to go to physical therapy to strengthen other muscles to compensate for what she has lost. We are now awaiting a call from the physical therapist to set up appointments.
I guess you could say we are ladies in waiting.
Tomorrow, I get a massage. YAY!
But then, I have to take two of the whites to the vet. Eli needs (okay, no he doesn't, but I won't argue with the law in this blog) a rabies shot, and both he and Lilly need some mats removed.
If I live through putting Lilly in a carrier, Friday we are seeing a comedy at the local theatre. It is a play put on by locals. We are going as part of our celebration of our wedding anniversary.
Lord knows I could use a few laughs.
Anyway, pardon my absence this week, but you see how it goes.
If it ain't one doctor, it's been two.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
May I Take Your Order?
I frequent a restaurant here, sometimes for the food, sometimes for the entertainment.
Because for a long time, none of the wait staff spoke English. Oh, they thought they did....
For example:
"Take order?"
"Yes, I'll have ____________."
"What dressing on salad?"
"I don't want a salad."
"What kind dressing?"
"No salad. No dressing." And yes, I started speaking louder, like that would help.
"You want no dressing?"
"And no salad."
I got a salad.
Another time, Husband, Daughter and I were seated at the hibachi. The table was already full except for our three seats.
As we listened, it was obvious the others were together and were, in fact, all part of one family. There was an older couple at the other end of the table. They appeared to be in their late sixties, maybe early seventies.
Then there were three couples with children of various ages.
When the meal was coming to an end, I noticed they got their bill and we didn't. I waited a few minutes, but when no bill showed up for us, I flagged down our waitress. I told her we wanted our bill.
"He pay for it." She pointed to the older gentleman at the end of the table.
He was staring at us.
"No, we aren't with his party. The three of us are separate," I said, pointing to Husband, Daughter and myself.
"He pay for it."
"You need to take our food cost off his bill. We are paying separate."
"No, no. He pay."
A thirty something son-in-law leaned over and whispered to me, "Eh, let him pay. He's loaded."
You just can't make this stuff up.
When it became obvious we weren't going to get a separate bill, Husband and I both apologized to the man. "If you can tell by the bill, we'll pay our share. If not, I'll get a menu and figure it out."
The man sighed heavily. "Forget it. Just consider it an early Christmas present." I think it was October.
"We'll return the favor someday," I said, thanking him profusely.
"You'll never see me again. We live in the eastern part of North Carolina. We are just passing through.
So, yeah, he pay for it.
You get the picture. And we saw other things like that happen around us on different occasions.
It didn't matter what you wanted, you got what they thought you should want.
Daughter attempted to work there. It didn't take long before her not understanding Chinese and them not understanding English got to her. Not only the communication between herself and her co-workers and boss, but the crazy mix ups like what had happened to us.
Customers took it and responded from being amused to very frustrated, depending on the customer and the size of the misunderstanding.
Daughter once told a customer she'd take the difference and pay for it herself, but the customer wouldn't let her.
I don't know what happened, but in the last few months, American wait persons have appeared on the scene.
I am suspicious that business had drooped enough that in some way, the message got across that people were getting too aggravated to eat there.
And, free meal notwithstanding, I didn't blame them at all.
Who knows? Next time, it might have been. "You pay for it."
Because for a long time, none of the wait staff spoke English. Oh, they thought they did....
For example:
"Take order?"
"Yes, I'll have ____________."
"What dressing on salad?"
"I don't want a salad."
"What kind dressing?"
"No salad. No dressing." And yes, I started speaking louder, like that would help.
"You want no dressing?"
"And no salad."
I got a salad.
Another time, Husband, Daughter and I were seated at the hibachi. The table was already full except for our three seats.
As we listened, it was obvious the others were together and were, in fact, all part of one family. There was an older couple at the other end of the table. They appeared to be in their late sixties, maybe early seventies.
Then there were three couples with children of various ages.
When the meal was coming to an end, I noticed they got their bill and we didn't. I waited a few minutes, but when no bill showed up for us, I flagged down our waitress. I told her we wanted our bill.
"He pay for it." She pointed to the older gentleman at the end of the table.
He was staring at us.
"No, we aren't with his party. The three of us are separate," I said, pointing to Husband, Daughter and myself.
"He pay for it."
"You need to take our food cost off his bill. We are paying separate."
"No, no. He pay."
A thirty something son-in-law leaned over and whispered to me, "Eh, let him pay. He's loaded."
You just can't make this stuff up.
When it became obvious we weren't going to get a separate bill, Husband and I both apologized to the man. "If you can tell by the bill, we'll pay our share. If not, I'll get a menu and figure it out."
The man sighed heavily. "Forget it. Just consider it an early Christmas present." I think it was October.
"We'll return the favor someday," I said, thanking him profusely.
"You'll never see me again. We live in the eastern part of North Carolina. We are just passing through.
So, yeah, he pay for it.
You get the picture. And we saw other things like that happen around us on different occasions.
It didn't matter what you wanted, you got what they thought you should want.
Daughter attempted to work there. It didn't take long before her not understanding Chinese and them not understanding English got to her. Not only the communication between herself and her co-workers and boss, but the crazy mix ups like what had happened to us.
Customers took it and responded from being amused to very frustrated, depending on the customer and the size of the misunderstanding.
Daughter once told a customer she'd take the difference and pay for it herself, but the customer wouldn't let her.
I don't know what happened, but in the last few months, American wait persons have appeared on the scene.
I am suspicious that business had drooped enough that in some way, the message got across that people were getting too aggravated to eat there.
And, free meal notwithstanding, I didn't blame them at all.
Who knows? Next time, it might have been. "You pay for it."
Friday, January 17, 2014
People Watching
On the spur of the moment this evening, we decided to go out to eat. We got there at the end of the early crowd and were seated immediately.
We were in the middle of the restaurant, surrounded by other folks - none of which I knew, by the way - not one.
To my right sat a couple. They were a young middle aged pair, both about 75 pounds overweight. They looked into each others eyes, held hands across the table, and talked almost the whole time.
To my left, sort of behind Daughter, sat a young father and his about five year old son. Even though they sat side by side, I never saw the daddy speak to his boy. The little boy immediately started coloring something while the father texted, checked facebook, and chatted on his phone. When the bread came, the little boy got a piece, ate a hole in the middle of it, then used it as a spy glass. When their food came, the father did occasionally glance at his son to make sure he was able to get the food on his fork.
In the next booth was an older couple. Probably in their early seventies. They had dressed nicely to eat out. They both had a terrible scowl on their face and never spoke. Not once.
Behind them was a booth full of people who were chatting excitedly about something or other. One woman brought out her ipad to show them a graph of some sort, which they all looked at intensely.
Up ahead of us was a long table full of young children, parents and the grandparents. At one point, the four year old little girl burst into song. "Happy Birthday". She sang it lustily and her family smiled. Whoever had the birthday thanked her. The baby got down once and toddled around on unsteady feet, but was watched carefully.
My family? Well, we talked some. We laughed a good bit. We were silent a little when the food first came and we dug in.
But it did cross my mind on the way home: Did someone watch us?
Maybe we'll get blogged about tonight too.
We were in the middle of the restaurant, surrounded by other folks - none of which I knew, by the way - not one.
To my right sat a couple. They were a young middle aged pair, both about 75 pounds overweight. They looked into each others eyes, held hands across the table, and talked almost the whole time.
To my left, sort of behind Daughter, sat a young father and his about five year old son. Even though they sat side by side, I never saw the daddy speak to his boy. The little boy immediately started coloring something while the father texted, checked facebook, and chatted on his phone. When the bread came, the little boy got a piece, ate a hole in the middle of it, then used it as a spy glass. When their food came, the father did occasionally glance at his son to make sure he was able to get the food on his fork.
In the next booth was an older couple. Probably in their early seventies. They had dressed nicely to eat out. They both had a terrible scowl on their face and never spoke. Not once.
Behind them was a booth full of people who were chatting excitedly about something or other. One woman brought out her ipad to show them a graph of some sort, which they all looked at intensely.
Up ahead of us was a long table full of young children, parents and the grandparents. At one point, the four year old little girl burst into song. "Happy Birthday". She sang it lustily and her family smiled. Whoever had the birthday thanked her. The baby got down once and toddled around on unsteady feet, but was watched carefully.
My family? Well, we talked some. We laughed a good bit. We were silent a little when the food first came and we dug in.
But it did cross my mind on the way home: Did someone watch us?
Maybe we'll get blogged about tonight too.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Banking Business
Husband is suffering from a nervous condition this afternoon.
He took Mother to the bank today.
All she wanted was to go through the drive-thru and get some cash out of her checking account.
Husband said he was suddenly the middle man between modern banking rules and an unsocialized pit bulldog.
What first set her off was they asked for her I.D.
Husband said it was a very young, obviously new girl at the window.
When she received Mother's I.D. she pointed out that it had expired in 2011, and she needed to get it updated before they would give her cash out of her checking account.
Oh, boy.
Two guesses about what hit the fan.
My mother (she informed them) was one of the very first customers when that bank opened. The business she managed helped get that bank off the ground.
How dare they even ask for an I.D. to start with. And besides, it cost her $10.00 to get that I.D. and she ain't paying another $10.00 for a new one.
Ever.
The poor girl left the window and got two other employee's to come and deal with the situation. At least one of them was an "old timer' (I graduated high school with the geezer) at the bank, and said it was all right to give her the cash.
The young girl apologized to Mother, saying "I'm just a little person here, I have to follow the rules."
To which my het up Mother replied, "Well they need to get a bigger person at the window."
She wanted to go in the bank, but Husband talked her out of that, telling her it would be faster to stay in the car.
She railed about the people there, how it used to be everyone knew her and now - NOW - they even had people working in there from Jasper!
Then Mother was sure she'd somehow lost the I.D. she did have. Husband tried to reassure her the bank still had it, but she took everything (a lot) out of her wallet searching for it, couldn't find it, and dumped it all in Husband's lap.
The girl brought the I.D. back and gave it to them along with the cash.
You see, Mother thinks she should be able to go in and everyone know her like they did thirty years ago. Or before, when they knew her, her mama and daddy and their mamas and daddies, for that matter.
And I understand that. I'm still amazed/appalled when I go into a restaurant and might know one or two people there.
Where do all these people come from?
Jasper?
He took Mother to the bank today.
All she wanted was to go through the drive-thru and get some cash out of her checking account.
Husband said he was suddenly the middle man between modern banking rules and an unsocialized pit bulldog.
What first set her off was they asked for her I.D.
Husband said it was a very young, obviously new girl at the window.
When she received Mother's I.D. she pointed out that it had expired in 2011, and she needed to get it updated before they would give her cash out of her checking account.
Oh, boy.
Two guesses about what hit the fan.
My mother (she informed them) was one of the very first customers when that bank opened. The business she managed helped get that bank off the ground.
How dare they even ask for an I.D. to start with. And besides, it cost her $10.00 to get that I.D. and she ain't paying another $10.00 for a new one.
Ever.
The poor girl left the window and got two other employee's to come and deal with the situation. At least one of them was an "old timer' (I graduated high school with the geezer) at the bank, and said it was all right to give her the cash.
The young girl apologized to Mother, saying "I'm just a little person here, I have to follow the rules."
To which my het up Mother replied, "Well they need to get a bigger person at the window."
She wanted to go in the bank, but Husband talked her out of that, telling her it would be faster to stay in the car.
She railed about the people there, how it used to be everyone knew her and now - NOW - they even had people working in there from Jasper!
Then Mother was sure she'd somehow lost the I.D. she did have. Husband tried to reassure her the bank still had it, but she took everything (a lot) out of her wallet searching for it, couldn't find it, and dumped it all in Husband's lap.
The girl brought the I.D. back and gave it to them along with the cash.
You see, Mother thinks she should be able to go in and everyone know her like they did thirty years ago. Or before, when they knew her, her mama and daddy and their mamas and daddies, for that matter.
And I understand that. I'm still amazed/appalled when I go into a restaurant and might know one or two people there.
Where do all these people come from?
Jasper?
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
America Must Be Brain Dead
And no, this is not about politics.
In a previous blog, I discussed the new things they are calling leggings nowadays. I was hanging up a pair from the washing machine to dry. I read the care instructions and it said not to put it in the dryer. Makes sense, as it is made outta tights.
It also said not to iron them.
Even my granny, who ironed everything including drawers and bra straps, would not iron a pair of tights.
So, this got me to thinking. I've heard people make fun of warning labels in the past (don't mistake the little paper filled thingy in your bottle as one of the aspirin and take it, Don't put the plastic bag your dry cleaning comes covered in over your child or your pet's head).
I decided to go searching (I love Google) and see what else I could come up with.
This list comes from a page entitled: "Things People Said: Warning Labels":
Enjoy!!
In a previous blog, I discussed the new things they are calling leggings nowadays. I was hanging up a pair from the washing machine to dry. I read the care instructions and it said not to put it in the dryer. Makes sense, as it is made outta tights.
It also said not to iron them.
Even my granny, who ironed everything including drawers and bra straps, would not iron a pair of tights.
So, this got me to thinking. I've heard people make fun of warning labels in the past (don't mistake the little paper filled thingy in your bottle as one of the aspirin and take it, Don't put the plastic bag your dry cleaning comes covered in over your child or your pet's head).
I decided to go searching (I love Google) and see what else I could come up with.
This list comes from a page entitled: "Things People Said: Warning Labels":
Enjoy!!
Product Warnings:
- "Do not use if you cannot see clearly to read the information in the information booklet." -- In the information booklet.
- "Caution: The contents of this bottle should not be fed to fish." -- On a bottle of shampoo for dogs.
- "For external use only!" -- On a curling iron.
- "Warning: This product can burn eyes." -- On a curling iron.
- "Do not use in shower." -- On a hair dryer.
- "Do not use while sleeping." -- On a hair dryer.
- "Do not use while sleeping or unconscious." -- On a hand-held massaging device.
- "Do not place this product into any electronic equipment." -- On the case of a chocolate CD in a gift basket.
- "Recycled flush water unsafe for drinking." -- On a toilet at a public sports facility in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
- "Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover." -- On a pair of shin guards made for bicyclists.
- "This product not intended for use as a dental drill." -- On an electric rotary tool.
- "Caution: Do not spray in eyes." -- On a container of underarm deodorant.
- "Do not drive with sun shield in place." -- On a cardboard sun shield that keeps the sun off the dashboard.
- "Caution: This is not a safety protective device." -- On a plastic toy helmet used as a container for popcorn.
- "Do not use near fire, flame, or sparks." -- On an "Aim-n-Flame" fireplace lighter.
- "Battery may explore or leak." -- On a battery. See a scanned image.
- "Do not eat toner." -- On a toner cartridge for a laser printer.
- "Not intended for highway use." -- On a 13-inch wheel on a wheelbarrow.
- "This product is not to be used in bathrooms." -- On a Holmes bathroom heater.
- "May irritate eyes." -- On a can of self-defense pepper spray.
- "Eating rocks may lead to broken teeth." -- On a novelty rock garden set called "Popcorn Rock."
- "Caution! Contents hot!" -- On a Domino's Pizza box.
- "Caution: Hot beverages are hot!" -- On a coffee cup.
- "Caution: Shoots rubber bands." -- On a product called "Rubber Band Shooter."
- "Warning: May contain small parts." -- On a Frisbee.
- "Do not use orally." -- On a toilet bowl cleaning brush.
- "Please keep out of children." -- On a butcher knife.
- "Not suitable for children aged 36 months or less." -- On a birthday card for a 1 year old.
- "Do not recharge, put in backwards, or use." -- On a battery.
- "Warning: Do not use on eyes." -- In the manual for a heated seat cushion.
- "Do not look into laser with remaining eye." -- On a laser pointer.
- "Do not use for drying pets." -- In the manual for a microwave oven.
- "For use on animals only." -- On an electric cattle prod.
- "For use by trained personnel only." -- On a can of air freshener.
- "Keep out of reach of children and teenagers." -- On a can of air freshener.
- "Remember, objects in the mirror are actually behind you." -- On a motorcycle helmet-mounted rear-view mirror.
- "Warning: Riders of personal watercraft may suffer injury due to the forceful injection of water into body cavities either by falling into the water or while mounting the craft." -- In the manual for a jet ski.
- "Warning: Do not climb inside this bag and zip it up. Doing so will cause injury and death." -- A label inside a protective bag (for fragile objects), which measures 15cm by 15cm by 12cm.
- "Do not use as ear plugs." -- On a package of silly putty.
- "Please store in the cold section of the refrigerator." -- On a bag of fresh grapes in Australia.
- "Warning: knives are sharp!" -- On the packaging of a sharpening stone.
- "Not for weight control." -- On a pack of Breath Savers.
- "Twist top off with hands. Throw top away. Do not put top in mouth." -- On the label of a bottled drink.
- "Theft of this container is a crime." -- On a milk crate.
- "Do not use intimately." -- On a tube of deodorant.
- "Warning: has been found to cause cancer in laboratory mice." -- On a box of rat poison.
- "Fragile. Do not drop." -- Posted on a Boeing 757.
- "Cannot be made non-poisonous." -- On the back of a can of de-icing windshield fluid.
- "Caution: Remove infant before folding for storage." -- On a portable stroller.
- "Excessive dust may be irritating to shin and eyes." -- On a tube of agarose powder, used to make gels.
- "Look before driving." -- On the dash board of a mail truck.
- "Do not iron clothes on body." -- On packaging for a Rowenta iron.
- "Do not drive car or operate machinery." -- On Boot's children's cough medicine.
- "For indoor or outdoor use only." -- On a string of Christmas lights.
- "Wearing of this garment does not enable you to fly." -- On a child sized Superman costume.
- "This door is alarmed from 7:00pm - 7:00am." -- On a hospital's outside access door.
- "Beware! To touch these wires is instant death. Anyone found doing so will be prosecuted." -- On a sign at a railroad station.
- "Warning: do not use if you have prostate problems." -- On a box of Midol PMS relief tablets.
- "Product will be hot after heating." -- On a supermarket dessert box.
- "Do not turn upside down." -- On the bottom of a supermarket dessert box.
- "Do not light in face. Do not expose to flame." -- On a lighter.
- "Choking hazard: This toy is a small ball." -- On the label for a cheap rubber ball toy.
- "Not for human consumption." -- On a package of dice.
- "May be harmful if swallowed." -- On a shipment of hammers.
- "Using Ingenio cookware to destroy your old pots may void your warranty." -- A printed message that appears in a television advertisement when the presenter demonstrates how strong the cookware is by using it to beat up and destroy a regular frying pan.
- "Do not attempt to stop the blade with your hand." -- In the manual for a Swedish chainsaw.
- "Do not dangle the mouse by its cable or throw the mouse at co-workers." -- From a manual for an SGI computer.
- "Warning: May contain nuts." -- On a package of peanuts.
- "Do not eat." -- On a slip of paper in a stereo box, referring to the Styrofoam packing.
- "Do not eat if seal is missing." -- On said seal.
- "Remove occupants from the stroller before folding it."
- "Access hole only -- not intended for use in lifting box." -- On the sides of a shipping carton, just above cut-out openings which one would assume were handholds.
- "Warning: May cause drowsiness." -- On a bottle of Nytol, a brand of sleeping pills.
- "Warning: Misuse may cause injury or death." -- Stamped on the metal barrel of a .22 calibre rifle.
- "Do not use orally after using rectally." -- In the instructions for an electric thermometer.
- "Turn off motor before using this product." -- On the packaging for a chain saw file, used to sharpen the cutting teeth on the chain.
- "Not to be used as a personal flotation device." -- On a 6x10 inch inflatable picture frame.
- "Do not put in mouth." -- On a box of bottle rockets.
- "Remove plastic before eating." -- On the wrapper of a Fruit Roll-Up snack.
- "Not dishwasher safe." -- On a remote control for a TV.
- "For lifting purposes only." -- On the box for a car jack.
- "Do not put lit candles on phone." -- On the instructions for a cordless phone.
- "Warning! This is not underwear! Do not attempt to put in pants." -- On the packaging for a wristwatch.
- "Do not wear for sumo wrestling." -- From a set of washing instructions. See a scanned image.
Assurances:
- "Safe for use around pets." -- On a box of Arm & Hammer Cat Litter.
Small Print From Commercials:
- "Do not use house paint on face." -- In a Visa commercial that depicts an expecting couple looking for paint at a hardware store.
- "Do not drive cars in ocean." -- In a car commercial which shows a car in the ocean.
- "Always drive on roads. Not on people." -- From a car commercial which shows a vehicle "body-surfing" at a concert.
- "For a limited time only." -- From a Rally's commercial that described how their burgers were fresh.
Signs and Notices:
- "No stopping or standing." -- A sign at bus stops everywhere.
- "Do not sit under coconut trees." -- A sign on a coconut palm in a West Palm Beach park circa 1950.
- "These rows reserved for parents with children." -- A sign in a church.
- "All cups leaving this store, rather full or empty, must be paid for." -- A sign in a Cumberland Farms in Hillsboro, New Hampshire.
- "Malfunction: Too less water." -- A notice left on a coffee machine.
- "Prescriptions cannot be filled by phone." -- On a form in a clinic.
- "You could be a winner! No purchase necessary. Details inside." -- On a bag of Fritos.
- "Fits one head." -- On a hotel-provided shower cap box.
- "Payment is due by the due date." -- On a credit card statement.
- "No small children." -- On a laundromat triple washer.
- "Warning: Ramp Ends In Stairs." -- A sign, correctly describing the end of a concrete ramp intended for handicap access to a bridge.
Safety Procedures:
- "Take care: new non-slip surface." -- On a sign in front of a newly renovated ramp that led to the entrance of a building.
- "In case of flood, proceed uphill. In case of flash flood, proceed uphill quickly." -- One of the emergency safety procedures at a summer camp.
Ingredients:
- "Ingredients: Artificially bleached flour, sugar, vegetable fat, yeast, salt, gluten, soya flour, emulsifier 472 (E) & 481, flour treatment agents, enzymes, water. May contain: fruit." -- The ingredients list on a package of fruit buns.
- "100% pure yarn." -- On a sweater.
- "Some materials may irritate sensitive skin. Please look at the materials if you believe this may be the case.
Materials:
Covering: 100% Unknown.
Stuffing: 100% Unknown."
-- On a pillow. - "Cleans and refreshes without soap or water. Contains: Water, fragrance & soap." -- On the packet for a moist towelette. See a scanned image.
Instructions:
- "Remove the plastic wrapper." -- The first instruction on a bag of microwave popcorn; to see the instructions, one first has to remove the plastic wrapper and unfold the pouch.
- "Take one capsule by mouth three times daily until gone." -- On a box of pills.
- "Open packet. Eat contents." -- Instructions on a packet of airline peanuts.
- "Remove wrapper, open mouth, insert muffin, eat." -- Instructions on the packaging for a muffin at a 7-11.
- "Use like regular soap." -- On a bar of Dial soap.
- "Instructions: usage known." -- Instructions on a can of black pepper.
- "Serving suggestion: Defrost." -- On a Swann frozen dinner.
- "Simply pour the biscuits into a bowl and allow the cat to eat when it wants." -- On a bag of cat biscuits.
- "In order to get out of car, open door, get out, lock doors, and then close doors." -- In a car manual.
- "Please include the proper portion of your bill." -- On the envelope for an auto insurance bill.
- "The appliance is switched on by setting the on/off switch to the 'on' position." -- Instructions for an espresso kettle.
- "For heat-retaining corrugated cardboard technology to function properly, close lid." -- On a Domino's sandwich box.
Requirements:
- "Optional modem required." -- On a computer software package.
Monday, January 13, 2014
911, What is your emergency?
I know you have heard these words, even if you've never personally called 911 yourself.
TV uses them on shows. And of late, there have been tales of the funny reasons people call this emergency only telephone number.
I heard a little boy tell the operator he needed help with his homework.
I've also seen heroic stuff, like when the dog knocked the phone off the counter and hit speed dial to call 911 because their master was in the floor unresponsive when he begged for dog biscuits.
Also, the brave little kids who keep it together and are able to not only call 911 but tell them where they live and ask the disabled parent who is in need of emergency services questions that are helpful to the operator.
Daughter called me at 1 a.m. a few days ago, frantic. She was on her way home, came round a very sharp curve in the darkest dark of the night and barely missed a black cow standing in the middle of said curve.
She had pulled over, knowing she must do something to prevent some not so fortunate person from hitting that heifer and killing every body involved.
I told her to call 911.
"Are you sure?"
"Yep. This is a bona fide bovine emergency. You could be saving a life. Maybe two. If they question you, tell 'em to call your mama."
Well, she called 911, and frankly they didn't seem all that surprised.
I guess being rural and all, they get this kind of thing all the time.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Wahl, thar's a blame cock fight going on at mah na-boors and I cain't get ta sleep fer all the ya-hooing a'goin' on. Ah need sumbody to come over an stop them fools."
"911, what is your emergency?"
"There's this big horse outside my house (I think it's a Belgian), and every time we try to leave, he throws back his head and says, 'Nay!'"
I could go on, but I'd like you to read me again sometime, so I'll close by telling you this:
Daughter and I were coming home last evening and up ahead we saw blue lights. Daughter said, "Right there is where that cow was out when I called you the other night."
And sure enough, as we crept closer, that heifer was out again! The deputy was herding her with his car back inside the fence, which he did successfully, scaring several cows while doing so. They all took off away from the fence.
I sure am glad I don't work for emergency services.
You never know when there'll be a serious event.
Like a cat up in a tree.
TV uses them on shows. And of late, there have been tales of the funny reasons people call this emergency only telephone number.
I heard a little boy tell the operator he needed help with his homework.
I've also seen heroic stuff, like when the dog knocked the phone off the counter and hit speed dial to call 911 because their master was in the floor unresponsive when he begged for dog biscuits.
Also, the brave little kids who keep it together and are able to not only call 911 but tell them where they live and ask the disabled parent who is in need of emergency services questions that are helpful to the operator.
Daughter called me at 1 a.m. a few days ago, frantic. She was on her way home, came round a very sharp curve in the darkest dark of the night and barely missed a black cow standing in the middle of said curve.
She had pulled over, knowing she must do something to prevent some not so fortunate person from hitting that heifer and killing every body involved.
I told her to call 911.
"Are you sure?"
"Yep. This is a bona fide bovine emergency. You could be saving a life. Maybe two. If they question you, tell 'em to call your mama."
Well, she called 911, and frankly they didn't seem all that surprised.
I guess being rural and all, they get this kind of thing all the time.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"Wahl, thar's a blame cock fight going on at mah na-boors and I cain't get ta sleep fer all the ya-hooing a'goin' on. Ah need sumbody to come over an stop them fools."
"911, what is your emergency?"
"There's this big horse outside my house (I think it's a Belgian), and every time we try to leave, he throws back his head and says, 'Nay!'"
I could go on, but I'd like you to read me again sometime, so I'll close by telling you this:
Daughter and I were coming home last evening and up ahead we saw blue lights. Daughter said, "Right there is where that cow was out when I called you the other night."
And sure enough, as we crept closer, that heifer was out again! The deputy was herding her with his car back inside the fence, which he did successfully, scaring several cows while doing so. They all took off away from the fence.
I sure am glad I don't work for emergency services.
You never know when there'll be a serious event.
Like a cat up in a tree.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Guard Dog Duties
You know how everything can be quiet and peaceful and then suddenly it's far from it?
I was on the phone to Mother when Dog began to go berserk. She had been in a deep sleep by the bed when suddenly she was three steps down the stairs, hair straight up, big deep "I'm gonna kill you" barks coming from her chest.
Someone was stealing Daughter's car.
Okay, Dog thought someone was stealing Daughter's car. It was really the tow truck coming for the car to haul it to the garage.
Apparently Daughter's car battery froze to death during the minus degree temperature we had. And maybe a gasket of some sort, too.
Now, Dog is getting older. She is headed toward ten and her back legs are miserable with arthritis. Her back leg joints are swollen and stiff, especially when she first stands up after sleeping.
So, when she finds herself about three steps down she suddenly realizes she ain't too steady on her pins.
But being a guard dog, she ain't backing down, even though we are telling her it's okay about the car. (Man, she rides in that car!) I get beside on her on the steps, and she is casting anxious eyes toward me between threatening barks. She is afraid of the same thing I am - that she is about to go arse over teakettle down the steps, possibly breaking her leg or worse and making a giant hole in the Sheetrock with her 110 lb. body.
Back legs quivering, she is trying to decide if backing up somehow is safer than going forward.
I'm a nervous wreck, and by now Daughter is standing at her bedroom door, casting anxious glances of her own.
I'm about to do a triage of some kind when Dog's legs finally steady enough that she goes slowly down the rest of the stairs, barking like a maniac, resting on the first landing for a few before tackling the other five or six steps.
Maybe that arthritis medicine we buy for her that costs more than my arthritis medicine does some good after all.
Husband comes back in the house about that time, and after Dog sniffs him, assessing the situation, she calms down.
Now, if I could do the same, we'd all be just dandy.
I was on the phone to Mother when Dog began to go berserk. She had been in a deep sleep by the bed when suddenly she was three steps down the stairs, hair straight up, big deep "I'm gonna kill you" barks coming from her chest.
Someone was stealing Daughter's car.
Okay, Dog thought someone was stealing Daughter's car. It was really the tow truck coming for the car to haul it to the garage.
Apparently Daughter's car battery froze to death during the minus degree temperature we had. And maybe a gasket of some sort, too.
Now, Dog is getting older. She is headed toward ten and her back legs are miserable with arthritis. Her back leg joints are swollen and stiff, especially when she first stands up after sleeping.
So, when she finds herself about three steps down she suddenly realizes she ain't too steady on her pins.
But being a guard dog, she ain't backing down, even though we are telling her it's okay about the car. (Man, she rides in that car!) I get beside on her on the steps, and she is casting anxious eyes toward me between threatening barks. She is afraid of the same thing I am - that she is about to go arse over teakettle down the steps, possibly breaking her leg or worse and making a giant hole in the Sheetrock with her 110 lb. body.
Back legs quivering, she is trying to decide if backing up somehow is safer than going forward.
I'm a nervous wreck, and by now Daughter is standing at her bedroom door, casting anxious glances of her own.
I'm about to do a triage of some kind when Dog's legs finally steady enough that she goes slowly down the rest of the stairs, barking like a maniac, resting on the first landing for a few before tackling the other five or six steps.
Maybe that arthritis medicine we buy for her that costs more than my arthritis medicine does some good after all.
Husband comes back in the house about that time, and after Dog sniffs him, assessing the situation, she calms down.
Now, if I could do the same, we'd all be just dandy.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
A Year Later...
Last January I started writing two different stories. One progressed faster than the other, and I had written twenty plus pages when the other story took hold and took off.
Last night, a year later, I finished this story. It is just over two-hundred pages long. As you can imagine I am quite excited.
Today I got it printed with a three hole punch done to the side and put it in a binder so I can begin to proof and edit.
This is hard work. It is annoying. It is frustrating.
Before I'm through with it, I will be sick of the book.
And then, when I think I've perfected it as much as humanly possible, someone else will look at it for me and find all sorts of errors.
And after they finish with it, someone else will read it, and find more mistakes.
I will let it sit "cold" for a while. Then I'll go back and read it again, and you won't believe this, but I'll find more errors.
And sure as shootin', after the story becomes a real live book in print, I'll read it proudly for the first time....and find an error.
It never fails.
Diana Gabaldon, one of my favorite authors, says when one closes the cover of a novel the errors reproduce.
I believe it!
But for now, the printed pages lie pristine between a binder's covers, full of hope and satisfaction.
Just waiting on me to begin.
The most perfect time for the book, because it is newborn.
I can hardly wait to hold it.
Last night, a year later, I finished this story. It is just over two-hundred pages long. As you can imagine I am quite excited.
Today I got it printed with a three hole punch done to the side and put it in a binder so I can begin to proof and edit.
This is hard work. It is annoying. It is frustrating.
Before I'm through with it, I will be sick of the book.
And then, when I think I've perfected it as much as humanly possible, someone else will look at it for me and find all sorts of errors.
And after they finish with it, someone else will read it, and find more mistakes.
I will let it sit "cold" for a while. Then I'll go back and read it again, and you won't believe this, but I'll find more errors.
And sure as shootin', after the story becomes a real live book in print, I'll read it proudly for the first time....and find an error.
It never fails.
Diana Gabaldon, one of my favorite authors, says when one closes the cover of a novel the errors reproduce.
I believe it!
But for now, the printed pages lie pristine between a binder's covers, full of hope and satisfaction.
Just waiting on me to begin.
The most perfect time for the book, because it is newborn.
I can hardly wait to hold it.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Soup Beans and Cornbread
I have mentioned southern cooking before, and made fun of folks getting "bean soup" and "soup beans" mixed up because they ain't from around here.
But yesterday as I ate this meal I had prepared (along with fried taters, chow chow and a sweet onion), I realized how much history it brought back to my memory.
I could sense my Daddy John sitting there, his one ring finger bent to his wrist from arthritis, the light glinting off his glasses, the easy grin he had when hearing something funny.
I could see my Mama Hill serving me 'pop taties' in my old green high chair, lots of family surrounding us, conversation all around.
I could hear my mother-in-law's sweet giggle, laughing at something silly Husband or myself had said, as she set the kitchen table with cornbread, soup beans and fried potatoes. She always made extra potatoes because she knew how much I loved them.
I could hear my own Mother's voice on the telephone, telling me that somebody needed to come and get a pot of soup beans she'd just finished cooking. The blessing of that is, I may hear her say that tomorrow.
How wonderful it is to see Husband's eyes light up when he knows that's what I'm cooking for dinner or supper. His favorite meal, bar none.
The simple pleasures of life are what make memories and sweetness in our life.
There is nothing better.
But yesterday as I ate this meal I had prepared (along with fried taters, chow chow and a sweet onion), I realized how much history it brought back to my memory.
I could sense my Daddy John sitting there, his one ring finger bent to his wrist from arthritis, the light glinting off his glasses, the easy grin he had when hearing something funny.
I could see my Mama Hill serving me 'pop taties' in my old green high chair, lots of family surrounding us, conversation all around.
I could hear my mother-in-law's sweet giggle, laughing at something silly Husband or myself had said, as she set the kitchen table with cornbread, soup beans and fried potatoes. She always made extra potatoes because she knew how much I loved them.
I could hear my own Mother's voice on the telephone, telling me that somebody needed to come and get a pot of soup beans she'd just finished cooking. The blessing of that is, I may hear her say that tomorrow.
How wonderful it is to see Husband's eyes light up when he knows that's what I'm cooking for dinner or supper. His favorite meal, bar none.
The simple pleasures of life are what make memories and sweetness in our life.
There is nothing better.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
A Long Winter's Night
Before I went upstairs last evening, around seven, it was a blistering five degrees on my back porch. I haven't seen that in many years, and the weather poopahs said it was going to get colder.
So, I prepared. I put an extra quilt on our bed, a lovely double wedding ring that I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed.
And I slept in a long john top and leggings.
You, youth, would recognize long john top by the other name, thermal underwear.
And as for the leggings, let's just say they aren't the leggings that I remember.
Ah, the leggings of the 1980's were baggy woolie things that scrunched down over your tights or tight pants from your knee down to just below your ankle.
I was quite dashing in my soft pink leggings, let me tell you. I looked like a ballerina on the cusp of a pirouette.
That's right.
I also had big hair, broad shoulders and high waisted, pleated slacks.
I was ravishing in my own right.
Anyway, as you may have noticed, I digress.
The leggings of today are nothing like those leggings.
Today's leggings come in a really, really tight form, exactly like tights without feet. I wear these a lot, under my britches.
They come in a heavier, non-clingy version too, which a lot of girls are wearing under dresses or under long sweaters that they think are dresses, but are, they will realize in their forties (I hope), just long shirts.
We slept well, especially with the other trick up our sleeves. I have two 'horse corn' or 'feed corn' sacks that we heat up in the microwave (how's that for ancient meets modern?). These are placed under part of the covers, and a pillow laid on top of that, toward the foot of the bed.
This creates a radiating heat that tootsies love.
Of course, four cats with body temperatures around 102 degrees lying about hither and yon upon the bed help too.
This morning, I scurried to the back porch to take a look at the thermometer (I scurried back in, too). It was a bracing MINUS three degrees.
I checked our geographical placement on the map.
Yup.
We're still in the deep south.
Good thing, huh.
Otherwise we might freeze to death.
So, I prepared. I put an extra quilt on our bed, a lovely double wedding ring that I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed.
And I slept in a long john top and leggings.
You, youth, would recognize long john top by the other name, thermal underwear.
And as for the leggings, let's just say they aren't the leggings that I remember.
Ah, the leggings of the 1980's were baggy woolie things that scrunched down over your tights or tight pants from your knee down to just below your ankle.
I was quite dashing in my soft pink leggings, let me tell you. I looked like a ballerina on the cusp of a pirouette.
That's right.
I also had big hair, broad shoulders and high waisted, pleated slacks.
I was ravishing in my own right.
Anyway, as you may have noticed, I digress.
The leggings of today are nothing like those leggings.
Today's leggings come in a really, really tight form, exactly like tights without feet. I wear these a lot, under my britches.
They come in a heavier, non-clingy version too, which a lot of girls are wearing under dresses or under long sweaters that they think are dresses, but are, they will realize in their forties (I hope), just long shirts.
We slept well, especially with the other trick up our sleeves. I have two 'horse corn' or 'feed corn' sacks that we heat up in the microwave (how's that for ancient meets modern?). These are placed under part of the covers, and a pillow laid on top of that, toward the foot of the bed.
This creates a radiating heat that tootsies love.
Of course, four cats with body temperatures around 102 degrees lying about hither and yon upon the bed help too.
This morning, I scurried to the back porch to take a look at the thermometer (I scurried back in, too). It was a bracing MINUS three degrees.
I checked our geographical placement on the map.
Yup.
We're still in the deep south.
Good thing, huh.
Otherwise we might freeze to death.
Monday, January 6, 2014
I Have a Confession to Make
I am a wee bit claustrophobic.
I have forty-two windows, plus a sky light and two doors that are mostly glass in my home.
My house, which is right at 2,000 square feet, has a lot of windows for its size.
There are also two windows in the storage room, two in the garage and two in my studio.
(My studio is really a tiny extra length to the garage with a wall and a door put up, but when I call it "studio" instead of the "back of the garage", it becomes much more elegant).
My office had two windows, and I was teased about this, because the other offices had one or none.
I don't like doors to rooms closed, either.
Now, I'm okay on an elevator ride. I don't know what I would do if one stalled, however. I might go all cracker dog on you, who knows.
One of my grandfathers was extremely claustrophobic. He made me look like I wanted to live in a hole with the top closed up.
Where I am sitting, right now, I can see out three windows without moving my head.
And that suits me just fine.
I have forty-two windows, plus a sky light and two doors that are mostly glass in my home.
My house, which is right at 2,000 square feet, has a lot of windows for its size.
There are also two windows in the storage room, two in the garage and two in my studio.
(My studio is really a tiny extra length to the garage with a wall and a door put up, but when I call it "studio" instead of the "back of the garage", it becomes much more elegant).
My office had two windows, and I was teased about this, because the other offices had one or none.
I don't like doors to rooms closed, either.
Now, I'm okay on an elevator ride. I don't know what I would do if one stalled, however. I might go all cracker dog on you, who knows.
One of my grandfathers was extremely claustrophobic. He made me look like I wanted to live in a hole with the top closed up.
Where I am sitting, right now, I can see out three windows without moving my head.
And that suits me just fine.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
It Sounds Like You
I have, more than once, had folks tell me they have read a book that reminds them of me, or of one of my books.
I always take that as a compliment, because I figure if it was an insult most people would just keep their mouth shut.
But today, one of my dear friends shared a book title with me. She said she kept thinking of me while she read it, and then went as far as to say, "It felt like you could have written this book."
Hmmm.
Guess what book I ordered as quickly as my little fingers would type?
You bet.
I mean, don't you wonder how folks see you? Especially people you love and respect?
I have people say, "Your daughter is just like you." And that is always a compliment. (Even though it isn't true, she is very much her own person, but even I see similarities that strike me to the core sometimes).
And, of course, people tell me I am just like my mother, and I ain't. But I have similarities there, too. In fact I see Daughter and Mother with likenesses all the time. After all, Mother 'half-raised' Daughter while I was at work.
And this book I am about to finish writing? Well, I know folks, and folks are going to see themselves in this book. The folks that were raised with me, went to school and church with me, and family, of course. Even though I am going to caution people that although I did use the framework of my childhood, I in no way tried to represent anyone as they really were.
What you wanna bet that will be ignored.
We'll see. Sometime this year.
We'll see.
I always take that as a compliment, because I figure if it was an insult most people would just keep their mouth shut.
But today, one of my dear friends shared a book title with me. She said she kept thinking of me while she read it, and then went as far as to say, "It felt like you could have written this book."
Hmmm.
Guess what book I ordered as quickly as my little fingers would type?
You bet.
I mean, don't you wonder how folks see you? Especially people you love and respect?
I have people say, "Your daughter is just like you." And that is always a compliment. (Even though it isn't true, she is very much her own person, but even I see similarities that strike me to the core sometimes).
And, of course, people tell me I am just like my mother, and I ain't. But I have similarities there, too. In fact I see Daughter and Mother with likenesses all the time. After all, Mother 'half-raised' Daughter while I was at work.
And this book I am about to finish writing? Well, I know folks, and folks are going to see themselves in this book. The folks that were raised with me, went to school and church with me, and family, of course. Even though I am going to caution people that although I did use the framework of my childhood, I in no way tried to represent anyone as they really were.
What you wanna bet that will be ignored.
We'll see. Sometime this year.
We'll see.
Friday, January 3, 2014
A Three Cat Night
Boy howdy, was it cold last night!
Just for fun, (no, I don't have a life, why do you ask?) I kept calling the little feller in the box what talks to you and tells you what time it really is and the temperature. Every time I called him, it was a few degrees lower.
Husband had to take Dog out at 10:45 p.m. and was surprised that it was snowing, and the ground already white.
Husband said Dog seemed scared of the falling snow and wanted back in quickly. That's a guard dog for you.
As I read in bed, my favorite pass time at night, cats began to join me. At first it was all four of them, but Eli disappeared at some point, and Daughter reported he slept with her.
That's a good thing, because I was having a hard time turning over as it was.
At eight a.m. it was a bracing twelve degrees on our back porch, there was a light dusting of snow in the woods and yard, and the wind was brisk.
I think the highest it got today was thirty-one degrees.
And snow on Sunday? Really.
Man, I love living in the South during global warming, don't you?
Just for fun, (no, I don't have a life, why do you ask?) I kept calling the little feller in the box what talks to you and tells you what time it really is and the temperature. Every time I called him, it was a few degrees lower.
Husband had to take Dog out at 10:45 p.m. and was surprised that it was snowing, and the ground already white.
Husband said Dog seemed scared of the falling snow and wanted back in quickly. That's a guard dog for you.
As I read in bed, my favorite pass time at night, cats began to join me. At first it was all four of them, but Eli disappeared at some point, and Daughter reported he slept with her.
That's a good thing, because I was having a hard time turning over as it was.
At eight a.m. it was a bracing twelve degrees on our back porch, there was a light dusting of snow in the woods and yard, and the wind was brisk.
I think the highest it got today was thirty-one degrees.
And snow on Sunday? Really.
Man, I love living in the South during global warming, don't you?
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Is It Tacky Yet?
When does it become tacky to still have your Christmas decorations up?
Let me clarify by saying: I ain't asking ya'll what keep 'em up year round. That pretty much goes without saying.
I've fantasized about having a secret room to roll the tree into, with a few extra, easily accessible bags of garlands and whatnot, but I don't have the means to do such.
Besides, knowing my family, we'd have it so full of other junk it would be a major chore to get to the Christmas stuff by the time Thanksgiving rolled around.
My rule of thumb on decorating is this: The day after Thanksgiving until no later than January fifteenth.
I usually have everything down by the seventh or eighth because I'm suddenly extremely tired of looking at it.
Today, I still am enjoying everything. It's getting colder and colder outside, we might have snow this weekend, and, well, I want to have a fire, turn on the tree lights and enjoy it.
I don't care if it is the first week of January.
I have friends who barely get the gifts unwrapped before they start ripping the tree apart. (These are the same friends who make up the bed in the middle of the night if their husbands get up to go pee).
Then I have friends who consider leaving all the red ornaments up and calling it a Valentine's tree. (These are the same friends who haven't made up their bed since 1978).
And, not to criticize anyone: I don't care. If you want your stuff left up all year, go for it.
You know everyone will secretly envy you right after Thanksgiving.
Let me clarify by saying: I ain't asking ya'll what keep 'em up year round. That pretty much goes without saying.
I've fantasized about having a secret room to roll the tree into, with a few extra, easily accessible bags of garlands and whatnot, but I don't have the means to do such.
Besides, knowing my family, we'd have it so full of other junk it would be a major chore to get to the Christmas stuff by the time Thanksgiving rolled around.
My rule of thumb on decorating is this: The day after Thanksgiving until no later than January fifteenth.
I usually have everything down by the seventh or eighth because I'm suddenly extremely tired of looking at it.
Today, I still am enjoying everything. It's getting colder and colder outside, we might have snow this weekend, and, well, I want to have a fire, turn on the tree lights and enjoy it.
I don't care if it is the first week of January.
I have friends who barely get the gifts unwrapped before they start ripping the tree apart. (These are the same friends who make up the bed in the middle of the night if their husbands get up to go pee).
Then I have friends who consider leaving all the red ornaments up and calling it a Valentine's tree. (These are the same friends who haven't made up their bed since 1978).
And, not to criticize anyone: I don't care. If you want your stuff left up all year, go for it.
You know everyone will secretly envy you right after Thanksgiving.
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