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.