It Won't Turn Off!

The other evening, Daughter and I were on the way to pick up pizza after we had practiced what we are doing for the Christmas Eve services at church.

I had a pillow and a life sized baby doll in my lap (who will be baby Jesus, of course.)

It went through my mind I hoped we weren't stopped by police, thinking I had a real baby in my lap.

Now, for a normal person, that would be the end of that.

But for a writer? Nope.

The scene unfolds:

Blue lights go on behind us. We pull over. Policeman comes to the window and says: "Ma'am, you were reported seen transporting a baby without an infant carrier." He's staring at the doll in my lap.

I smile sweetly, hold the doll up by one arm and say, "Baby Jesus."

The cop looks at me strangely, speaks into his radio, sotto voce, but I think he says, "I may need back up."

Then he asks Daughter for her registration, insurance, driver's license, etc. She says, "I'm adopted."

End results: That week's newspaper headline: "Former Mental Health Center Director  Held in Psych Unit for Evaluation: Claims Doll is 'Baby Jesus'.

Response of my 'old' staff:

Lisa: "You leave her alone! If anyone could have Baby Jesus in their lap, it would be her!"

Tracy: "You leave Mama alone! She can play with dolls if she wants to! Is that a crime? Well, is it? I'm calling my sister, the attorney!"

Jonathan: "She's probably right. She's never been wrong before. If I were you, I'd be careful around that doll."

Tim: "I was afraid of this...I'm a psychologist now, you know."

Myra: "They, Lord help!"

And so on. 

See how hard it is to be a writer? 

You can't turn your brain off.

Film at eleven.

There's a Mouse in the House OR I Hate Meeses to Pieces...You Pick

We came home the other evening, and as I passed by Daughter's room, I saw two of our cats, Mimi and Frost, staring intently behind the Chest of Drawers.

"There's something in  your room," I said to Daughter.

She looked, said, "I don't see anything."

So, I went on my merry way.

Shortly thereafter, I thought I heard Daughter hollering, "Ow, Ow, Ow!" Not in a terribly injured way, just semi dramatic, so I went about my business. Then I heard, "Ow! Mama! Ow!"

I walked into her room, "What?"

"Mouse! Mouse! Mouse!"

Oh. Sometimes being hearing impaired can be fun.

"I told you there was something back there."

She got a flashlight and had taken a better look and found two little eyes staring back at her.

Then she wanted to know what to do. I suggested leave the cats to it. Meanwhile, Eli, my big bruiser Maine Coon Cat strolled by, sniffed, shrugged and walked into the bathroom and sat down by the food bin. He arched a brow as if to say, "I don't eat mouse. Put some food in my dish."

Daughter continued hollering. "Daddy! Daddy! Mouse! Come here!"

Husband arrives upstairs and shoos the cats out of the room.

Wait. What?

"Why are you doing that?" I ask.

"I don't want the cats to catch it. I'll set traps tonight."

Sheesh.

Praying the cats don't get hurt in the traps,I give up. He promises the room will be closed up so the cats can't get in.

The next morning, the mouse has had a fine breakfast of cheese and peanut butter and is resting comfortably somewhere in the house.

I think I heard it burp.

Daughter says it is 'sorta cute'. It must be a field  mouse, as she describes it as about an inch long. It probably came in with the stored Christmas decorations or came in while we had the door open toting said decorations into the house.

All this was a few days ago, and we havent' seen hide nor hair of the mouse.

But I feel certain we will.

Soon.

Another Year, Another Christmas Pageant

I have to admit, this year's started out a little slow. There was a lot of "down" time with kids standing around waiting on something -a cue,  maybe.

Finally, with the very first song we had some action. A  melt down by a nearly three year old. Nobody could figure out why, but he began to cry loudly and jump up and down. Mama came to the rescue and rushed him out the side door. 

At the end of the song, a little boy of around seven came off the stage crying. Never knew what that was about, either.

Gabriel had a solo. The words were being shown on a screen at the back of the church, but apparently the wrong verses were being put up at the wrong time. Old Gabe got the giggles, and finally said, "Those are the wrong words."  The finish was strong, though, with lots of applause.

The innkeeper was a regular comedian. Who knew? This kid is as quiet as they come. When Joseph asked if he had somewhere they could stay, the innkeeper looked coyly to the side and said, "No." which made the audience laugh because it sounded like "New." Then Joseph asked was he sure there wasn't any place they could stay, the innkeeper said, "We-ll, let me look around." Which he did, by turning his head up down, and back. More laughter from the audience. "We-ll," says he, "There is the stable."

Thank goodness!

In the middle of "O Holy Night", the little donkey appeared from stage right and began to wander around. The soloist was stage left, so my attention was split. Because the cow showed up, too. And, not be be outdone, the sheep showed up. The sheep is about the size of a one year old, and when she tried to navigate the first step, I thought she was a goner. But she flailed her arms, er, front legs, wildly and regained her balance. 

All the while, the soloist, either oblivious to the goings on at the opposite end of the stage, or a great actress, sang on. 

The stage began to fill up with the shepherds, the wise men, Mary and Joseph, the baby Jesus, all the angels, big and small. The animals were corralled and placed on their proper mark. 

As the soloist began her cresendo,  four or five of the littlest angels boogied on down. 

The End 

Music and Christmas Go Together....

Christmas music is a wonderful thing. 

Daughter and I sang a duet a few Sundays ago, and I will sing a solo on Christmas Eve. Folks who never sing or perform are eager to give it a try this time of year.

I think it's because we need extra outlets to rejoice. He is born, after all. The Hebrew nation didn't hear from God for around 400 years and then an angel spoke to a young girl named Mary.

By the way, do you notice in the Bible how women are so important? God spoke to Mary first after all those hundreds of years of not saying one thing. Women found the tomb empty. There were important women in the early churches, deaconess and prophetess alike. 

Anyway, we went to a Christmas musical the other night. Husband's first cousin co-wrote the score. It was held in a mega church. I'd never been in a church that was more like a concert hall before. 

I reckon you go where God calls you.

The musical was wonderful, I cried twice and rejoiced greatly.

Tis the Season!

I Broke My Scooter

I haven't blogged in a few days because I've been busy.

Busy moaning, crying, gasping, pouting, etc.

My scooter broke.

You know how when you are in bed and  you scoot your bottom over to get more comfortable?

Can't do it.

I am locked down, stove  up, tore up, messed up and hurt.

For some reason, when my bottom wouldn't scoot, I panicked.

Husband tried to calm me down, and moved me for me until I got comfortable.

I went to the chiropractor, but couldn't see the woman who has helped me before.

So I saw somebody else.

And now, I'm worse.

I got a massage yesterday and couldn't get off the table. She had already left the room so I could get up and get dressed. I had to holler, "My bottom won't move!" She graciously moved me for me.

This has got to stop.  I'm beginning to feel cheap and tawdry.

Wow! Tawdry would be a great Scrabble word!

I dug out the tinge unit, and of course the batteries were dead. They finally charged,and it gives me some comfort.

Tonight we are going to "The Atlanta Christmas Musical". Husband's first cousin is the co-writer to the score. We have tickets. Husband's Baby Sister is coming from Alabama.

MUST GO.

So I'll be electrocuting myself all night with a touch of muscle relaxant and pray for the best.

Toss a prayer up there for me, will ya?

A Little Conversation

WARNING: The following is a typical conversation around the supper table. It is not for the faint of heart.

Husband says something about where the (fill in the blank, I can't remember) is.

I sing the first line of "Where the Boys are".

Daughter, looking at me accusingly, "Is the second line of that song 'someone waits for me'?"

I smile and sing the first line again, adding the line she just told me. (I did a beautiful job, I might add).

She shakes her head. "They played that song all the time at work. I am so over that song."

Husband: "Connie Francis was very famous in her day. Just about every song she sang was popular."

Me: "She also produced Princess Leia."

Daughter: "Who?"

Me: You know, 'Star Wars'. "

Daughter "Oh. You  mean Princess Leia."  I said lee-uh, she said lay-uh.

Me: "Whatever."

Husband: "No, her mama was Debbie Reynolds."

Me: "I get those two mixed up all the time!"

Husband: "Her ex-husband, Bobby Fisher, said she was all fake."

Me: "Bobby Fisher was the chess champ."

Husband: "Oh. I mean Eddie Fisher."

Daughter: "Thanks a lot! Now that stupid song is stuck in my head."

Husband: (and he  means it) "What song?"

I begin a lovely rendition of "Where the Boys are."

Daughter: "Mama!!!"

And so it goes.

Happenin' Stuff

So much has been going on these past few days, I don't know where to start.

Thanksgiving was nice. We did the usual preparations, except we are all chipping in more and more and Mother less. She should actually be doing nothing but when you figure out how to keep her from it, let me know, okay?
Last year I was flat on my back and had to rely on Daughter to do my part, too. This year I hung in there and wasn't flat on my back until Friday. But the massage therapist has helped. If I ain't a lot better, chiropractor, here I come. I hate being on muscle relaxants too much, but sometimes that seems to be the only solution. Daughter and I are doing a duet at church tomorrow, so I may be hollering for help in putting on my pantyhose. I'm not sure it's possible.

Speaking of being flat on one's back, one of my dearest, bestest friend's husband fell off the roof and landed flat on his back. He has grievous injuries to his back and at least ten if not more ribs broken. One surgery has been done, the "real" surgery is set for Monday if his lungs have healed enough.

I am heartbroken for them. Their lives have changed forever. As she once told me, "There was  your life before you fell, now you have a life for after you have fallen."

If you are of the praying sort, get to it, please. They need it.

I have been asked to speak to the genealogy society here. I reckon it's because I'm so old they figure I can remember way back yonder. Unfortunately, I'm so old I can't remember way back yonder, so I'll read some of a book or two of mine and we can laugh and talk about it.

I can still talk real good.

And, speaking of books, mine are still selling pretty well. If you've missed one or two, you need to contact me. Also, Christmas is coming up and I have a book for just about every age.

Oh, and please raise your hand if you know my password for my e-mail.

Eh, me neither.

Later.

Do You Smell That? Part 2

Okay, so the charred rat was taken away to the woods, the air finally cleared and our house was beginning to get warm again.

I went out to the studio to blog and do some other work on my computer, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something scurrying close to the baseboards.

I'm sure you know what this was.

I sat really still, and in a few minutes, the mouse got braver and came out into the room, about two feet from me. When it started toward me, I said, "Okay, that's a little too brave." I started clapping my hands and the mouse spazzed.

Frantically trying to find a tiny uncovered place underneath the door that leads to the garage, it kept banging its head on the rug that was stuffed there. But finally, it found the place where it had come in and disappeared.

Mice: 2   Humans 0. (I know the first one fried, but talk about disrupting our lives!)

I gave Husband the good news. He asked, "Do I have to kill it?"

"Not if you don't mind all our wires being chewed in half. The choice is yours."

He sighed heavily and set traps.

No sign of a creature stirring today.

Not even a mouse.

Something's Fishy - I Smell a Rat

As you know, we haven't had heat in our downstairs since Saturday. It was 23 degrees this morning. 

Chilling news.

We took the little electric heater from the upstairs bathroom down and made do yesterday.

But this morning was a different story. When I hadn't heard from the service people by 9:05 a.m. I called them. I was on hold for an awfully long time, but finally someone came on and said they'd be here this afternoon.

So we set about building a nice fire, which began to warm the living room (a little bit, it had to warm the firebox first) and put the electric heater on the other end of the room. We got up to a brisk 61 degrees in the living room, but it felt  much colder. The cold seemed to be coming off the walls and floor in waves.

Not more than half an hour later, the office called back and said they'd had a cancellation and would be here in a few minutes.

The fellow arrived about a half hour later, turned on the heat pump and a foul, burning smell filled the house. He went down stairs. Banging and thumping could be heard through the floors.

Eventually he came a'knocking at the door. "I found yore problem. But I don't know if ye want to see it er not."

"Is it a rat?" I asked. I had told Husband when the whole thing began it smelled like burnt meat. And I don't care how old the "little boy" is, I knew that gleam in his eye. He was about to show the girl something to squeal about. (no matter how old the girl is!)

The man grinned at me, and brought forth a very black, charred mouse corpse, it's tail suspended between the grip of a pair of pliers.

Now, I don't know why a mouse would decide to croak right on a heat strip of our heat pump, but he surely did.

The service tech had us back in business in no time, though the smell took a little while to go away.

We decided to keep the fireplace fire, the first of the winter.

I look forward to more fires, but I hope they are under more pleasant circumstances with less drama.

Speaking of drama, there was  more of that later on, but we'll chat about that next time, 'k?

FIRE!!

Yesterday, while still in jammies, just after coffee, we began to smell something burning in our house.

The smoke alarms were quiet, there was no smoke. The animals were calm.

I, on the other hand, was freaking out, at least on the inside.

Our house burned when I was seventeen, and once that happens, it changes you. I don't think about it much anymore, but boy, I was thinking about it yesterday morning.

Husband and I commenced to feel of walls, outlets, floors, ceilings and everything else that would stand still. Nothing felt hot. The switch box seemed fine. The attic space was cool and odor free.

I called the fire department and explained. A very nice guy said he'd send someone out.

A long time went by - maybe a half hour. Finally a guy (the same one I talked to on the phone, turns out) pulled up in a big red truck with a few lights around the hood.

He had this neat little sensor in his hand. It looked like a small TV on a stick. Anyway, it detects hot spots inside walls, or floors, or ceilings. He found none.

The smell was almost gone by now. He asked questions about the dryer (hadn't been on), the heat (yes, we'd used it numerous times already) and if all the lights worked. We went through the house and turned on every lamp, which is a big job in my house.

He said he was still worried, but couldn't do anything else. He also warned me, that if the smell came back to call 911, explain everything that had transpired. "We will decide if it's an emergency. If you had called 911 to start with, someone would have been here in a matter of minutes.  Instead, I had to round up a truck, and then wound up having to come myself. If you called 911, it's a first responder and everybody hops to it."

I meekly agreed to do this. We went about our day. Then last evening, it started getting chilly, so I went to the thermostat and turned the heat up. Guess what? The smell, oh, the smell.  It was worse; stronger than before.

I quickly turned the heat pump off altogether, and we aired out the downstairs a little. This morning the smell was still present, but faint.

So early today, before coffee, we (read Husband) hauled the portable heater downstairs and plugged it up. It got the temperature from 62 to 65 in the living room, which is quite acceptable.

We also have the fireplace if needed, so we'll be okay until Monday morning when a serviceman is supposed to call and come.

Thank God our house is still standing.

Thank God.

Busy Days

The past couple of days have been rather hectic. 

Day before yesterday I had lunch with a friend. She has retired, and we vowed we'd have lunch about once a month. Many months have passed, and although we have scheduled 101 times, this was the first time we actually, you know, ate together.

This doesn't sound like much to the average person - going out to lunch- but it's something I have to get over, which usually means bed for the rest of the day.

Whatever. It was worth it. 

Yesterday was the funeral day. Husband's friend was being put to rest. The funeral was out of town. It was an unusual funeral, for many reasons, and when it was over it could not have been raining any harder.

We were hungry; I had not had any food since breakfast. By the time I got in the restaurant, I was soaked. Yes, I had an umbrella. In fact I had a very  large umbrella. But my legs were soaked anyway. Through lined pants and leggings underneath that. Ugh.

We ate like pigs and drove home in a heavy rainfall.

Needless to say, it was another get-me-to-bed-quick kind of evenings. 

Tomorrow I'm having lunch with another friend then taking Mother to the doctor.

I think I'll just go ahead and get ready for bed now.

Dis and Dat

Looking back on most days, I don't understand why I am not downright svelte.

I go in and out of rooms on a constant basis, because once I get there I can't remember why, then I have to go back and remember. Then, of course, when I finally do remember, I have to go back in - quickly, so I don't forget again - and do or get whatever it was I started out for in the first place.  This entails going up and down stairs, I want to add. Why ain't I skinny?

Yesterday I reached in my winter coat pocket,wearing it for the first time this year, and felt an envelope. On the outside of the envelope it said: 'Kathi Hill:  Contempt of Court, Friday'. My heart skipped a little beat and I thought, intelligently enough, "HUH?"

The old light bulb came on and I remembered we saw a play by that name last year; this was the envelope the tickets were in.

And finally, I have to have some new clothes, people. Most my dress clothes are from when I worked, which was fine for the first decade of retirement, but they are beginning to look a little - shall we say - dated. 

You can send your donations for this endeavor to my street address, or I'll meet ya in town anywhere you say.

Over n Out, fer now.

Ups and Downs

Our household has had an emotional roller coaster kind of day, all before noon.

This morning early, Husband's first cousin sent a message that the  Atlanta Christmas Musical being held the first weekend in December at the First Baptist Church of Woodstock, was a part of what he had been collaborating on, having helped write the music to it. He hoped that we would be able to attend.

We, of course, bought tickets on-line with eager anticipation, not to mention a smidgen of pride.

The phone rang a little later, and caller i.d. said it was this first cousin's older brother. Naturally, we figured it was big brother calling to brag on little brother and ask us to go to the concert.

Instead, he was bringing news of death. 

One of Husband's life long buddies had passed away this morning. Husband was stunned - still is - but even more so to learn his buddy had been quite ill for almost a year and no one had told him.

This was the 'wild one' of the bunch - unable to stay married due to a roving eye, never settling for this or that - always reaching for something else. The last Husband had heard, a few years ago, was that he was up north somewhere.

Little did Husband know the  man had been in an assisted living facility an hour away.

So, Husband is grieving on two counts - missing the chance to say good-bye and losing a friend to death.

And rejoicing on the other.

You  just never know, do you?

Lost and Found

Last night at Bible Study we looked at two of the lost and found parables that Jesus told when He was trying to get understanding through the thick headed, puffed up, know-it-all Pharisees. One was the lost sheep, the other the lost coin. You can find them in the Book of Luke, Chapter 15.

If you aren't familiar with the stores, the gist is, if you lose something, you leave what you know you have and seek out what it is you lost. Then when it's found, you rejoice and tell your friends.  (As the angels in Heaven rejoice when a lost soul is found.)

Oddly enough, I found something today I've been looking for, for at least three weeks.

Actually, Daughter found it by  mistake. She was looking for something else and stumbled over it.

For some reason, when I write a song, the lyrics and melody fall into my head at the same time.  But, as with anything that is new, if you don't record it some way, it's lost. I was on my way to lunch with friends and this song fell into my head. As soon as I parked, I sang it into my camera, recording it for later.

Well, that camera bit the dust last year. I still had the sims card, and assumed everything was still on it.

Not my song.

So Husband helped me look through every sims card we  have, and all his records of downloaded photos, etc. There were some videos, but not my song.

Daughter was looking for something we had, moments before recorded, and couldn't find it. We came to the conclusion that because the battery was low, the camera didn't really record. But while searching for the video, she went into windows media player and there it was!  

I did, indeed rejoice and tell Husband. 

I've worked on it all afternoon, and someday, if I can find someone to play a jazzy little tune on the piano for me, I might just sing it somewhere.

Any volunteers?

Givers

There have a been a few occasions in my life where I have been stunned by a giver.

It was not the monetary value of what they gave me.

It was the way they gave me a gift.

Three come to mind immediately.

One: At work one day, one of the women I supervised had on a shirt which was a pretty shade of peach. I loved the way the sleeves were made, too. I bragged on her, telling her how much I loved the top and how good it looked on her.

A few days later, she brought me the shirt, all clean and pressed, as a gift. She said the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that the top would look really good with  my complexion, and she wanted me to have it.  I still wear that shirt today.

Two: Years later, one of the women at work had on a pair of very unusual and beautiful earrings. I once again complimented a co-worker, and told her how beautiful I thought they were. The next day she brought them to me, saying she had thought about it, and since I didn't have pierced ears, and these were clip on, I'd get far more use out of them than she. I still wear those earrings to this day.

Three: A third co-worker visited my house briefly. She had gone shopping and showed me some of the things she had purchased, including an oval box that could hold a photograph inside the lid.
She used the bathroom just before she left. The next day at work, she gave me this beautiful box, saying she noticed that it would exactly match a tiny clock and picture frame I had setting on the console there. She felt compelled to give it to me. It holds a picture of my mother, age five or so in it, to this day, perfectly matching the things it sets among.

If I think much longer, I know I will think of others who have done this for me - like my second grade teacher who let me pick out a book off her book shelf because she was retiring. It meant so much to a seven year old to get a big book from a beloved teacher.

 Or my friend presenting me with an apron she'd seen and just knew it had Blue Willow dishes printed all over it - it didn't - but if you think I was disappointed for one minute, you would be wrong. There are many  more....

I thought of this because Daughter found some candy we have been looking for for two years. I'm sure she did the happy dance in the aisle at Target, and I surely did in the kitchen when she presented the bag with a flourish.

I will share a few with the friend of the earrings gift, but only a few because she's gone and got herself the diabetes. But it is one of her favorite flavors, and I can't resist giving her a few.

These three woman in my past in the stories, as well as others, make me want to be a better person, and I thank them: Myrna, Myra and Connie, Mrs. Hudson, Janice.

From the bottom of my heart.

Pillow Fight

As ya'll know, I am a dang cripple. Some days worse than others, some days worse than that.

Anyway, at night, or even when I have to rest during the day, I have a thing with pillows. Husband calls it my nest, I call it just tryin' to get fixed.

There is the pillow under the covers at the foot of the bed that I can press my feet against to stop pain in the soles. There is a heated thingie on top of said pillow, and a pillow on top of that on top of the covers to help hold the heat in.

There is the pillow that I put between my legs that must be long enough to allow my to feet rest on it, and go past my knee  joints, so that my hips are properly aligned.

Then, of course, there is the pillow under my punkin head.

By the time I get situated with all this, I am panting. Who knew lying down at night could be so hard?
And, then, I have to turn over.

Sigh.

It's a wonder there is any room left for Husband. Not to mention Frost, Eli and Mimi, which comes to about fifty two pounds of feline.

But we manage.

However; if you are thinkin' on askin' for a spend-the-night party at my house, be sure you bring a sleeping bag. 

It's that or the couch.

And, by the way; for some strange reason, we have no spare pillows, so you'll have to bring your own.

Whoosh!

I remember sitting in class in seventh grade (back when dinosaurs roamed the earth). The windows were cranked open, and I sat close enough to them that I could feel the breeze. We were in history class. For some reason that day, the teacher was talking about, not the past, but the future.

She wanted us to calculate how old we would be when the year 2000 rolled around.

We set to work. It would happen the month before my 46th birthday.

A lifetime away. I was impressed by how very far away that time was from my springtime, seventh grade classroom. And how very old I would be when that time arrived.

Woe is me.

It is an interesting thing to me how small moments like this stand out throughout one's lifetime. Little things, mostly.

I don't even know why I was thinking about that today.

So much has happened in my life since the year 2000 rolled in. Some good, some not so good.

Makes me see fleeting time as  nothing at all.

We are truly like dust in the wind.

If You're Happy and You Know It

I don't care if Daughter is happy.

Well, that's not exactly true. Of course, when she is unhappy I feel that way a tad myself.

What I mean to say, is, I'd rather her be at peace and know where she's headed in this world, even if it means being unhappy at times.

And, being a Christian, I want her to be in God's will; which is the only permanent happiness there will be anyway.

I'm not sure God really cares if we are happy, either. Happiness is a fickle emotion that comes and goes, usually due to circumstances. 

He's more concerned with our joy; certainly a different thing than  happiness. I think we forget that most the time. Or confuse the two.

There are times when I am most unhappy. But I still have the peace and the joy that I received from The Lord God; and that will not be taken from me, even if sometimes it is a tiny little ember than can barely be felt.

Do I want Daughter to be happy?

Eh.

Do I want her to have joy?

You bet I do.

My New Sous Chef

Daughter has a job. I hate Daughter's job. Not the job exactly, the fact that she even has a job. I am used to her being here to help me when she wasn't in class.

Now, I have hired a housekeeper. 

Now, I have to have someone else help me in the kitchen.

Enter Husband.

Sigh.

He is my new Sous Chef, I explained. He said, "Huh?"

I said, okay, you are my  new helper. He said, "Oh." None too enthusiastically, I might add.

So, today was spaghetti and salad day. Now, I have to concentrate when I am making my sauce. So I assigned Sous Chef to making a salad.

The first time he's ever made a salad, he tells me.

The man is sixty-six years old.

But I believe him: ("Do I peel the radishes?")

At any rate, he made his first salad, I got the sauce to taste reasonably well and we ate.

The aftermath, the clean up, was difficult.

It looked like two rabbits had been in a vicious fight in the middle of the vegetable garden on the island. And the stove looked like mass murder had occurred where the sauce had popped here and there while it simmered.

But we got it cleaned up, just in time to be hungry again.

I'm too old for this.

Carpel Tunnel Rules!

Raise your hand if you have Carpal Tunnel.

Ha! Trick question. If you have Carpal Tunnel, you can't raise your hand. (well, maybe some of you can, beats me.)

It is one of the minor ailments I have, but after working on my book yesterday and getting eight pages done, Carpal Tunnel wasn't so  minor.

If you are a writer, contemplate this: How easy is it to read eight pages of a novel versus to write eight pages of a novel? And, no, don't send your therapist's bill to me.

It's like comparing having to floss versus a root canal.

Don't be a writer unless you just hafta.

But the trip is exhilarating. You go into 'flow' and don't know where the time goes. One has a great sense of accomplishment when the rush is over. As  you read what you've done, edit as you go, and then let it get 'cold' for further editing, it does feel like you are on top of the world.

That  may not last long; however. Like when you go back and read it after it's 'cold' and you say, "What the heck does that  mean? Can I really not spell anything correctly?"  Etc.

Still, this past week I have accomplished a great deal. Searching all through this stupid computer to find hidden poems, essays and short stories that for some reason were filed in a hundred different places; compiling them into one file and printing them out so I can actually see what I have was very satisfying. As was working on my current novel. 

Who knows? Someday you may be forced have the privilege of reading this load of junk fascinating collection.

Until then, somebody get  me the ice pack. My arm is killin' me.

Turning a Sow's Ear into a Wal-Mart Purse

Several years ago, when we built our garage, we added an extra twelve feet in length, partitioned it off and called it Husband's studio.

At first he was enthusiastic. Painted the walls with the color he picked out, bought a few framed prints, put up valances in dark blue, that kind of thing.

He put his art supplies in it.

Then it sat and gathered dust and cobwebs and general nastiness as years went by. When he did decide to do art, he lugged stuff from there to the kitchen table, thus disabling two places.

I finally cobbled out a corner of the studio for a work computer, thinking that I could go there and be alone to work.

Ha.

My family all have working legs and you know where those legs took them.

At any rate, about two months ago, I stopped and looked around me. This little room had potential, if I didn't think I'd smother to death every time I went in.

So, I went to work. By that I mean I put Husband and Daughter to work.

Now it looks rather spacious. I have a good file cabinet, a work table, an armchair for company, good lighting and shelves for all the books I have for sale.

Husband still has his own computer out here, plus his easel and art supplies. He even perked up and said this now looked like a place where he might be able to paint or draw.

As soon as the floors are cleaned, I'll have a pretty spiffy place. Give us a few days to get that last chore done, and I'll give you the grand tour.

It won't take long, the place is twelve feet wide.

What a Weekend!

Around eight o'clock Friday night my body exploded.

Okay, not really. But man, oh, man, it sure felt like it.

I was fine one second (in fact I'd had a pretty good day) and the next I had a full blown (pardon the pun) stomach virus.

Achy joints, fever, chills and all sorts of intestinal phenomenon took place. Finally, last night, about 48 hours later, it passed. (Pardon the pun, again).

At some point yesterday, late morning, maybe, I thought I really needed to come downstairs, if only for a few minutes. My fever had broken, so I wobbled on down for a few minutes.

Good Lord.

Husband had been in the kitchen.

Alone.

There was no discernible counter space seen. Both sinks were completely overrun with dirty dishes. The bottom dishwasher drawer was open. Somehow Husband had managed to get it stuck in that position.

The good news is, there were still a few clean dishes left in it.

He had attempted to fill the sugar canister, as it had emptied (mysteriously). But a large clump came out and he wound up spilling a third of it on the floor and surrounding areas.

If I hadn't been sick to my stomach before, that would have cinched the deal.

I think I swooned.

Even the fish, who resides on the window sill over the kitchen sink, was looking at me frantically. PTSD, I assume.

I never got as far as the pantry, where the two tall trash cans are, but I can guess.

I wobbled back to bed, and as soon as Daughter got up, I mewled to her that she had to clean up the kitchen.  She assured me those were her plans, not to worry.

Worry?

Who me?

By last night, the kitchen was back to the normal happy place it was designed to be. I was not afraid to eat something from it; feeling secure it no longer held any hidden plagues.

And I was feeling better, too.

Whatcha wanna bet I did not lose ONE pound through all this?

Ah, well.

It's good to be back.

Three Years Later

On October 20, 2012, I blogged. This was my second blog, really, because I'd blogged one time a year previously, then forgot about it.

Since 2012, I have blogged 620 times. (Today is 621).

As of right this minute, 27,756 visits have been made to my blog.

60 countries have read my blog.

I don't understand why people far away, with whom I have no connection, would read my blog. Not just once, but again and again.

Maybe humor connects us all, like music.

Whatever the explanation, if there even is one, I thank every single one of you, wherever and whoever you are.

UP(s) UP(s) and Away

Husband and I have lived in the same place about twenty-eight and a half years. 

We have had a zillion deliveries from nice legs gentlemen in the big brown trucks that are the opposite of downs.

The other fellas, those who are FED with xes find us, too, sorta. They deliver to the garage. Now our garage doesn't look like a house. It looks very much like a garage. Why they do this is way beyond my understanding, but it is a fact, nonetheless. 

But suddenly, our dependable, brown truck fellas can't find us.

We have become invisible.

They have been trying to deliver a package for almost a week. We've given them very detailed directions plus our phone number. No one's called, no package has been delivered.

When we call them, they are cheerful and positive. They take our phone number assuring us there is a driver in the area who will call us right away.

No way.

I miss their pretty legs  smile.

My Trip to the Big City

Boy, do I hate traffic.

I forget how bad Atlanta traffic can be (not intellectually, but emotionally) until I'm in the thick of it again.

Yesterday was my doc appointment down yonder. We got south of Husband's home county when traffic came to a sudden standstill. Very odd thing to happen there, in the middle of the day. We found out why.

A terrible wreck (going in the other direction) had just happened, the responders were jumping out of ambulances and firetrucks, grabbing gloves, stretchers, etc. They were running to people lying about on the ground. I tried not to look too closely, I am not a rubbernecker by nature.

I just started praying.

But traffic didn't clear up. That's because we came upon another wreck, also going the other way. It was older, and although there were still some firetrucks left, it was mostly cleared. I figure that's what had traffic backed up so badly before the first wreck we saw even occurred.

I was wrong.

We were pretty much at a standstill, traffic as far as the eye could see both ways, and we were barely into Cobb County.

Finally we saw what had started traffic buildup: a funeral procession. It was military, I was told later. A dozen police vehicles, twenty or more motorcycles with flags, and lots of other cars in the procession were going slowly up the interstate. Traffic had stopped on both sides to honor it.

What is usually an hour and fifteen minute trip was a full two hours. I walked into my doctor appointment with five minutes to spare; only because my little voice had told me the day before we needed to leave really early. I actually listened to the little voice. Whoda thunk?

When we got out of the doctor's office, guess what? Yup. Traffic was really bad.

So we did what was smart. I knew physically I was doomed no matter what we did (and I was right, somebody dial 911, I'm hurtin' too bad to do it myself) Why sit in traffic when you can go to your favorite restaurant and eat like a pig?

I had only eaten breakfast, lo many hours previously, not knowing I would be in traffic forever, so I was one hungry woman.

I don't know what this place does to their chicken, but it is altogether a different chicken than your mama cooks. Not saying your mama doesn't make good chicken, I'm sure she does. But this chicken is cooked over a wood fire, and they put sooper sekrit stuff on it that makes you almost weep. Of course I had mashed taters and spinach cooked in olive oil with little chips of garlic thrown in.

A moment of silence, please.

We usually don't order dessert in restaurants because: a. it is ridiculously expensive and b. we are too fat already.

But Husband was feeling expansive (ha!) and we decided to indulge.

The waiter described it thusly: "It's an apple crostata, which we won't be serving much longer. Cooked in a skillet over the wood fire until the crust is toasty brown, it is then smothered in vanilla bean ice cream with a cinnamon syrup."

Translation, in case you don't speak Eye-tallion: We fry it up in a arn skillet and put vaneller ice cream on it then drownd it with a sweet surp till it gives up the ghost.

They served it up in this little iron skillet about the size of a bread and butter plate that would tickle your granny to see.

The weird thing was, it must have had some kind of magnet attached to it, because over and over, I had to keep stretching my arm further to get my share. It kept zooming over to Husband's side of the table, no matter how many times I scooted it back toward the center.

What it was, was, the best fried apple pie I have ever put in my mouth, and that's saying a whole lot.

Have mercy.

When we left the restaurant, it was still bumper to bumper (what is wrong with these people?), so we went to our favorite department store to kill another hour.

I got some Christmas shopping done. (Don't hold your breath, it was very little) and bought some necessary things: a new spatula as the handle of mine had snapped off, a really cool picture frame for mere pennies, some socks, stuff like that.

Finally, traffic had cleared and we journeyed to the house.

Only took us seven hours to get there and back.

I'll try to forget about what it does to me until April; my next appointment with doom and doctor.

That Old Black Magic

What happens at my house sure ain't white magic. And it sure seems magical, but not in a good way.

I can, and certainly will, give you multiple examples. If I didn't I wouldn't have a blog.

I have scrubbed every inch of kitchen counter. I have emptied and filled a dishwasher, washed all the "can't put in the dishwasher" dishes, fed the fish, checked the grocery list and vacated the kitchen for less than three minutes.

Upon re-entering, both sinks are full of dirty dishes. There are crumbs of unknown origin on all counter surfaces, we are out of everything and the fish looks hungry.

See what I  mean?

Oh, and get this:

I will have washed eleventy billion loads of laundry. Not nary a basket full of anything except maybe a smidgen of lint. Not one dirty sock, not one wet washcloth.

I am once again gone for less than three minutes and two baskets are running over with dirty clothes.

And don't get me started on the garbage. 

That truly is black magic.

Don't Look Now...

Well, my hair has finally grown out enough that I look like me again.

I don't know if that's good or bad, but I do know it's a relief for me.

Thank goodness we age gradually, or we couldn't take it.

Can you imagine looking twenty-five and getting up the next morning and you've taken the leap to forty? 

From forty to sixty?

Sixty to eighty?

We couldn't take it. I mean, if a hair cut does  me in, I can't imagine  a fast forward in aging. 

It's bad enough as it is. I've noticed that I seemed to age in jumps and starts. I'll look the same for a long while, then suddenly, for about six months, I can almost see myself getting older. then it stops, (thank goodness!) for a while.

Anyway, I think I'm going to leave my  hair at this length - not as long and "poofy" as it was - but enough to actually know I have hair. 

Husband always says, as I walk out the door, "Just don't get a little ole lady hair do."

I always assure him I won't.

I have no idea what that is, but don't tell him.

Can You Speak Pelican?

It is common knowledge that I am an animal lover. And animals generally love me, too.

I often go to someone else's house, or the vet, or an animal shelter and wind up with their pet in my lap, at my feet or on my shoulder, depending on the pet. I mean, I wouldn't want an Old  English Mastiff on my shoulder.

I've heard over and over: "Sweetie never has done that before. They are always afraid/shy of/hateful about strangers. But, boy, they sure like you!"

I've had a snarling guard dog that was flinging itself against a chain link fence turn into a tail wagging puppy when they saw me. I ain't making that up.

Something you may not know is that when I dream of animals they almost always talk to me.

I'll continue when you stop snickering.

Now:

I thought this was a curious thing, and asked a few others if they had dreams like this. The answer was always no.

So, I looked it up. You know the Internet is always right, so I was somewhat comforted by the information I gleaned. I looked at several different sites and they all said basically the same thing.

Dreaming of talking animals shows insight, superior knowledge and wisdom.

How they came to that conclusion, I'll never know.

But that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.

Beware!

I received an advertisement in the  mail promising me a cure all for everything!

Stopped up drains! Headaches! Body pain! Spelling issues!

You name it, whatever the problem, this cured it.

Believe it or not, it wasn't the outlandish promises that turned me off as much as all the exclamation points!

Yes! It's true! So many drive me nuts!!

BUT!

When I wrote the novel, "The Year of Nine: Where the Rain Begins", I used a lot of exclamation points.

I struggled with this a great deal in the beginning, but the book is written first person by a  nine year old. And nine year olds think and talk with a lot of exclamation points. At least I did, and the ones I know presently do, too.

So I went ahead and followed my gut instinct and used exclamation points.

Although the rule is: careful with the exclamation points, they are annoying; there is an exception to every rule.

How 'bout that!

The Boy, Jesus

We saw the movie "War Room" Friday, and one of the previews of upcoming movies was "The Young Messiah".

Watching it, I figured it came from either the "lost books" of the Bible (which aren't really lost, just not recognized as Holy Scripture in the Bible of today), or the book Anne Rice wrote several years ago about Christ's childhood, based on these 'lost' books. (these books are in the Catholic Bible.)

We really know very little about his childhood, and everyone loves a good mystery. I wondered as a child what Jesus was like as a child. 

I'm sure it will be a carefully made movie, and He will be recognized as God's Son. All of it will be beautifully done, and all look like Truth. But there is a fine line when you mix Truth with what ifs and maybes. 

Be careful little eyes what you see...
oh be careful little ears what you hear...

Be well founded so fantasy doesn't get mixed up with reality.

People Are Funny

If you walk this earth for long, you will find all sorts of odd and funny behavior in your fellow man.

Yesterday, at Mother's, Other Brother and his lady friend served us supper. "Us" being Nephew, Nephew's Wife and my wonderful grands,(nephew and niece) their children, Boy age four and Girl age six months, Mother, of course, Daughter and myself.

There was lots of noise, as everyone is prone to talk at the same time at our supper table. May be bad manners, but it sure is fun.
Anyway, Nephew was holding Baby Girl and trying to eat with one hand. His plan, apparently was to feed her an occasional bite of mashed potatoes while he enjoyed his meal.

Not so. We have a lot of Irish in our blood, and that means we eat a lot of potatoes. Once Baby Girl got a taste of mashed taters, she wasn't about to let her daddy forget. 

He would feed her a spoonful, she would wallow it with her lips and tongue, as babies who are just learning to eat do, then, if there wasn't another spoonful offered immediately, she pitched a holy fit. 

It was comical to watch. Poor nephew couldn't even get a fork to his mouth before the mad screaming started. As soon as he fed her a bite of potato, there was blessed silence for about six seconds. It was comical to watch.

Then today, I sent Husband to a local deli for some food to add to our supper plates. He got there as folks were getting off work with the same idea, so he said there was a small crowd waiting.

They had a new lady: middle age, stout, friendly. Husband said she didn't do eye contact, though. At some point she sneezed and he said it sounded close to the Tarzan yell. Her co-workers looked rather alarmed, not to mention the waiting customers.

She conversed about her sneezes to Husband, saying her family made fun of her about it.

Then she took a few steps, turned her broad back on customers and co-workers alike, and burst into the song by The Guess Who, "American Woman". Movements included.

Husband said everyone looked astounded, and one very young, introverted co-worker winced.

Then the lady went on about her business, whatever that was.

I bet every one of you reading this blog can recall something odd or downright funny that you have seen in the last week or so, leaving  you shaking your head, hopefully with a smile on your face.

People are funny.

Busy, Busy!

Boy, I have had a busy time!

I spoke at a book club on Thursday as their guest author. What fun! If you have never done this, put it on your bucket list. All ya gotta do is write a book and get invited to one.

I had a doctor's appointment on Friday, and afterwards we went to see "War Room". It goes to show you don't have to be a Hollywood star, or spend a billion dollars on a film to make it good. 

We ate out several times, and my kitchen is still a total wreck. Even if we are only in and out, it seems like the old kitchen just can't stay clean.

Husband picked green beans, which I cooked today. I don't think I've ever cooked anything fresh from our garden on October 3 before. 

The above made the kitchen worse, so I  unloaded the dishwasher, loaded it back up and started it. There are still dishes in the sink.

Have you noticed it's raining? No? What the heck is wrong with you??

Other Brother went to the Braves game last night. He was only slightly drowned. 

Okay, I've put it off long enough. To the kitchen I go! Charge.

Really.

Confession is Good for the Soul, Right?

I won't be able to blog again until Saturday (maybe) because I will be pretty overwhelmed for the next few days. 

So I wanted to blog about something really important; a really good blog.

Unfortunately, I couldn't come up with anything even close. So, you'll have to settle for this little story.

When I was but a mere lass many, many years ago, I had a boyfriend. He had borrowed our pastor's car to take us on a date to the dance. We were fortunate enough to have a "teen canteen" with a live (sort of) band. Their repertoire was limited, but what they lacked in talent they  made up for in volume. 

The dance was always well chaperoned by parents, church members, pastors and the like.

So generally speaking there was no hanky panky nor hard drink unless a certain someone (who shall remain nameless) managed to slip in alcohol into the punch when the server's back was turned.

We were always warned of this victory, so those of us who were teetotalers could abstain from the punch until an adult caught on.

Anyway, my date picked me up a little early and we decided, since we had about fifteen minutes, we would go parking.

I don't know what the youth of today call parking to smooch, or if they even do that anymore, since most of them seem to have so much more freedom than I ever had.

There was a building under construction up on a hill, which seemed like a good, private place to smooch, so that's where he drove to.  We did, indeed "park". But in a few minutes it became obvious that we were not alone, that in fact there were two young men who had also parked to drink - and drink. 

They were having a jolly old time and came over to chat. 

We decided to make a hasty retreat to the dance. So my date cranked up and went - no where. The tires had sunk down in the mud of the newly scraped parking lot. It had become a pigpen after a good rain that morning. 

I began to panic. If I didn't show up at the dance, would someone call my home to inquire of my whereabouts? What if we had to walk out? How would I explain mud covered ankles? 

But the two drunken boys came to our rescue. They said they'd push from the rear while my date applied gas.

Sure enough, that worked. For us.

They, however; were encased in mud from drunken head to drunken toes. 

We waved a merry and grateful goodbye, leaving them standing there, a bit stunned.

My date drove by the local gas station that had a water hose outside and rinsed the car off.

We got to the dance no more than ten minutes late; and no one was ever the wiser.

Until today.

Wanna Get Married?

When my  mother was the age I am now, she had been widowed two years.

I knew at the time that she was widowed at a fairly young age. Of course now, looking from this side of it, I understand it even more.

I remember about a year after Daddy died, I brought up the subject of her dating and possibly remarrying.

She set me straight right quick. She said that although she'd bring my daddy back in a heartbeat if he could be healthy, she had no intentions of getting involved with a man, ever again.

My parents' marriage was somewhat rocky at times, what with Daddy  not ever wanting to grow up and take responsibility.

And she didn't seem to mind living alone after Daddy died, and then her mother dying, either. 

I've wondered about myself. Would I want to get married again? I don't know. I can't imagine living without Husband, much less living with some other feller.

Besides, who the heck would put up with living with  me?

I have seen people get married in their geriatric years. I had a great-aunt (by marriage) who remarried in her seventies. They traveled and seemed to have a pretty good old time. She outlived him, too. I think she was ninety-six when she died. She never had children, so maybe that was one reason she wanted someone to share more of her life.

It certainly would have been strange for me to have a "step-father". I was thirty-four when Daddy died, not in much need of a new daddy.

And I have found amazing resistance from grown children who fought for the parent to  not remarry.

Is that any of their business? Sheesh.

Anyway, food for thought today. 

I hope for most of us, it is only thought and never a reality that we have to face - to live alone - or chose another.

The Way a Man Wears His Clothes

Husband ran a lot of errands the other day. One was to pick up some special vitamins I take. He does this every couple of months, so he's quite chummy with the receptionist.

He informed her he'd purchased a new flannel shirt for walking in the woods, and was sure it made him look very masculine. He always jokes with her this way, since he's old enough to be her pa.

He brought the shirt home and it does, indeed, look 'masculine'. It's that dark, bold black and red checked number that hunters wear. Husband is a hunter, all right. He hunts for keys, glasses, important papers, and anything else he just laid down. 

He says he bought this shirt for walking in the woods with the dog so he doesn't get shot, which is a good idea.

So, he puts the shirt on this morning. "This is an extra large," he says, "It fits okay, but I just have a massive upper body."

Later: "I haven't worked out in a while, but the sleeves are really tight across my biceps."

Later: "I'm having trouble buttoning this shirt. They have put the buttons on the wrong side of this shirt!"

Turns out it's a woman's shirt.

You  just can't make this stuff up.

Zzzzzzipcode

As I mentioned earlier, our newspaper is featuring a page of articles written many years ago.

They are now up to the year 1964, and mentioned that zip codes were being implemented.

Boy, did that bring back memories!

I was 9 or 10 and I remember being so excited! (I have no idea why, looking back..)

I remember adults grumbling that it was just one more thing to keep up with, one more number to memorize (little did they know!)

I also remember them raising Cain over having to dial an extra number on the phone when the telephone company implemented a rule that one must dial a 5 before the other 4 digits. (little did they know, again!)

I began practicing the zip code numbers over and over until I was sure I knew them by heart.

I saw it as the ever expanding world I lived in, a part of growing up.

The adults saw it as an aggravation.

I think I am beginning to understand their side of the whole thing.

Supper Time Activities

Supper last night was a bit of this and tad of that.

I had a small serving of the last of the green beans out of the garden.

I had less than that of a spinach/feta mess that Daughter brought home from a restaurant.

I had about a forth of a hamburger steak, once again from Daughter's leftovers.

Half a cup of soup - Daughter, again.

A biscuit - you guessed it: leftover.

I know I've had worse suppers, I just can't remember when.

Husband ate some leftover soup beans along with a baked sweet potato.

Now, you women know exactly what all that was about.

Supper?

Nah.

I was cleaning out the fridge.