Look, Just Tell Me the Right Time

In the  last year, or maybe a little longer, a very annoying policy has cropped up anywhere you make an appointment.

You call,  you make an appointment, say, for one p.m.

The day before the appointment, someone calls you to remind you of it. Then at the very end, they say, "Please arrive ten (or fifteen or twenty or thirty) minutes early in order to fill out the paperwork."

I don't do it. I arrive five minutes before my appointment time just like I've always done.

If they want me to be there at 12:45 instead of 1:00, then make my appointment for 12:45. They could let you know that you will be filling out paperwork first, because, like, you might not know that since you've lived under a rock for twenty years.

I'm not sure why this bothers me so much, but it does. 

Maybe it's because I plan my getting read time and my travel time to actually  match my arrival time for my appointment, then the day before they screw it all up.

I don't like it one little bit, so I have become a bit of a rebel regarding this. 

Not once has anyone scolded me  for not pitching my tent in front of their offices and arriving a day early to fill out paperwork.

Seriously, this is one little thing that drives me nuts.

Thanks for  listening. 

And if ya want to, join my rebel cause. 

We'll call ourselves OFWDLC

(old fogies who don't like change)

The Birds

I am reading a book, "South of the Etowah" by Raymond Atkins. It isn't a  novel, but a collection of essays regarding his thoughts on particular subjects.  It's very entertaining, you ought to grab a copy to read. And if  you  like Southern writing, by all  means, purchase his novels too. You won't regret it.

One of the things he has written about is the movie, "The Birds", one of Hitchcock's  little darlings.

He reviews the movie, so to speak, from a humorous, recently watched view point.

It's certainly different from the way I remember it.

When I was a kid, there was a theatre on the square. My cousin and I went to the Saturday matinee almost every Saturday. Those were the days when movies weren't rated (that I know of, anyway). My daddy never asked what was playing, he just forked over the necessary cash (twenty-five cents) and if I was lucky and he was feeling generous, I got another quarter for popcorn and Coke.

One Saturday, instead of Elvis or Roy Rogers or Disney, it was "The Birds" playing. Who knew? I mean, doesn't that sound innocent enough?

Boy howdy. It was menacing from the beginning. Not to mention weird. And then all heck broke loose and all of God's little winged creatures became extremely ticked off about something or other and ganged up on the humans. 

The very worst was the old man who had apparently left his window open when he went to bed. Bunches of crazed birds swooped in and attacked him, getting the jump on him because he was sleeping.

The gory scene of the next morning showed him slumped up against the wall underneath the window.  He had on red pin striped pajamas and the red in the stripe perfectly matched the bloody, pulpy mess that was where his eyes had previously been.

If a parrot had lit on my shoulder requesting a cracker, I probably would have run screaming into the streets, incoherent for the rest of the summer.

Needless to say, when we came out of the movies, we were terrified and kept glancing up at the sky, holding on to one another in fear, all the way home.

I haven't seen the movie since then. You can imagine my shock at Mr. Atkins' opinion that the movie was totally lame and unbelievable. I guess he ain't nine years old anymore.

Come to think of it, today, most nine year olds might think it's lame. I don't know, and I ain't gonna find out. Some things are just better off left alone.

The only other movie mistake I can recall was the movie, "Lady in a Cage". Now, you would think some parent in the county would have been a little quizzical about that one, but nope, Nada, huh uh, and just not so. 

It was about this handicapped woman who had an elevator installed up the side of her staircase. Some teen age hoodlums broke in  her house, locked her in the elevator (which really did resemble a cage) and began to set up housekeeping, abusing her on occasion, trying to find whatever they thought she had.

Scared again? You betcha. Scared and scarred.

Maybe all our loving mommies and daddies out there thought the movie was about Lady from "Lady and the Tramp" being crate trained.

Darned if I know.

Closer Than Before

I have noticed in the past year or so, those that have gone on before me seem closer. 

My great-grandmother who loved me fiercely for the first eleven and a half years of my life.

My mother's parents who took me places like the fair, the zoo, and restaurants in Atlanta.

My daddy's parents who let me "help" in the grocery store, whose garden I walked in and first heard about Br'er Rabbit and the gang.

My daddy. 

I don't mean to say their ghosts haunt me, or I hear them or see them. That's not so.

But their presence, who they were and are, seem to be closer to the forefront of my mind and heart.

When I cook a certain thing, say a certain thing, smell, feel, touch - they come rushing back like yesterday's freshness.

Why is that? I have always loved them and thought on them fondly after the grieving softened. 

Why are they so much more real to me now, after all these years? Instead of their memories fading, they have sharpened and come alive.

Perhaps it's because I am getting older.

Perhaps it's because my mother is now an elderly woman.

I don't know.

It's a fond comfort, something I welcome. But it does puzzle me.

I just don't know.

A Tale of Two Dishwashers

I don't usually talk about them, because it sounds (to me) like I'm bragging that I  have not one, but two, dishwashers.

When the dishwasher drawers first came out, I thought it was a swell idea. Since the one we had put in when we first built the house sounded like a 747 was landing in the room when it ran, we had to be selective about the timing for our dishes to be washed.

Then the dishes started coming out nearly as dirty as when they went in.

I knew I was retiring shortly, and that our income would plummet; we figured the time to buy a new dishwasher was at hand. Seeing the new drawer dishwashers set my little heart a pitter pattering. We were going to buy one and have a big, deep drawer put underneath it.

However; because of having to move plumbing and electrical mess around, and having the drawer built, it was going to cost us more than purchasing a second dishwasher to go under the top one.

So, we did the cheaper thing.

You get used to things quickly. For nearly thirteen years I have been accustomed to two dishwashers. One always being loaded, then when full to run, the other one being emptied of clean so it could be loaded. 

My kitchen has very little counter space. I built it for a dishwasher. I actually said when we were building, "If we only have enough money for a stove or a dishwasher, the dishwasher wins."

And, now, suddenly, I have NO working dishwasher. 

Through a handful of circumstances that I won't go into here, the saga continues. Husband, Daughter, and I are getting pruney fingered and we don't like it one bit.

I was going to give up dish washing for lent, but my family protested too much. 

Somebody, please, invite us over for supper and don't let us even think about washing dishes!

A Poem to the IRS

I'm so very tired of sitting on my butt.
I feel like my life is in a boring rut.
But taxes are due.
IRS will pursue
If I don't get it done on time.

So I spent the day with eyes glazed
Looking at the years maze
And wondering why oh why can't magic appear
And make all this dreadful math stuff disappear.
That way, I'd be sure to get it done on time.

The day has passed
I feel harassed
But I got her done
I think I won!
And I did it on time!

How do You Spell Procrastination? T.A.X.E.S.

Because of my recent increase in pain, I haven't felt like blogging (or anything else that isn't necessary). But I feel a whole more like blogging that I do slogging through all the paperwork I have to do in order to take our taxes to be done.

So.

A friend has been helping with my family tree. So far no horse thieves. 

I've been to the chiropractor. Didn't see any horse thieves there, either. Well, that I know of.

It's unseasonably warm, just like it was in  March of 1993 right before the blizzard hit. Just sayin.  (and just kidding, I hope!)

Husband is going to play Pontius Pilate at church Sunday. Pray for Daughter and me.

If you don't hear from me tomorrow, you know I buckled down and started on those darn taxes.

Ugh.

I'm Offended!

Before I commence on the "real" blog, I hope you have noticed that I have not blogged in more than a week. I haven't been on blogger vacation, it's just that a lot has been going on that's too boring to even blog about, so you know it's really, really boring stuff.

Anyway, in looking at the news and the real news, a.k.a. facebook, I have come to the conclusion that I am just not offended enough.

Everyone as of late seems to be deeply offended by at least one thing a day. 

I simply don't have it in me.

The latest was Land's End catalog. They interviewed Gloria Steinem.  Apparently they are pushing a new line of clothing and thought interviewing her (among others to come or perhaps were to come) would give the readers a fresh look at their stuff.

WRONG.

Instead, people were deeply offended. Mostly, I think, because she is pro-abortion.

They lost a boat load of business. Churches who ordered their school uniforms cancelled. Pro-lifers who stated they were steady customers in letters to the catalog explained they would be customers no more. 

I understand you can no longer see her interview on their website, nor can  you read the article. It is as though it never happened. Well, except in their giant drop in sales, that is.

Speaking of abortion, that's about the only thing that really offends me.

Explain to me how a pregnant woman coming out of the Seven/Eleven gets shot and the shooter is charged with 2 murders, but the same woman can waltz on down the street (not shot, of course) and have an abortion of the same baby, and it isn't considered murder, but a "woman's right"?

Me? I think we are sacrificing our children every day and calling it our "right". 

But other stuff?  

Not so much.

I may not think it's right. I may not like the color or the size. I may think it's a sin, even. But that's between you and God. Unless you want my opinion (please, please don't ask) you won't hear from me. 

Besides that, I've learned that generally people who ask your opinion are asking because they want to fight about it.

I'm too old for that sh-stuff.

Now just watch. I'll probably get all offended tomorrow.

It's bound to happen.