Another October Another Post

Every October I give thanks to each and every one of you, wherever you may be, for reading my blog.

I blogged one time in October of 2011. Didn't blog again until October 2012.

This blog brings us up to 704 published blogs.

35,986 hits as of right now on my blog. This means it's been read this many times, or at least someone began to read it and stopped. 

Also, if you are like a friend of  mine who saves up and reads the whole week at once, it only gives one hit, instead of the seven someone else might have given it.

Seventy-six countries have read my blog, most of them more than once. 

What do you suppose someone from Algeria or Thailand or the Netherlands think of my blog?

So, once again, I want to say thank  you from the bottom of my little old southern, Appalachian, redneck heart.

A Good Hair Day

The other day I had a really good hair day.

You know the kind - it looks good from the front, sides, back and even top. Every hair looks like it was born perfect.

I looked at myself in the mirror, because it's been a long spell of not perfect hair days.

As Pee Wee Herman says, "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

And that is truth.

A lot has been going wrong with my looks lately - losing a crown, growing old - that kind of thing.

So it was nice to have good hair for a few hours.

I reckon my guardian angel gave a look and figured I needed a little boost.

Who knows?

Next, I might have a good light day, where I'm in perfect lighting all day and people can't get over how young I look.

For my age, of course.

I Crown Thee

I lost a crown.

I feel sorta like one of those shamed beauty queens who must relinquish the title and give all the stuff back.

I'd had this crown for at least twenty-five years, so it was kinda hard to swallow.

Thank goodness I didn't.

Three dentists have been confounded as to how it stayed on in the first place, being as it is way too big for the tooth.

Dentist #3 says there had to have been a filling on top of the tooth, and when the crown fell off, the filling came off, too.

Don't ask why I've seen three dentists, it's a long story, and it has  nothing to do with disliking any of them. Just a comedy of events that has this dang crown out of my  mouth  more than in.

Now, I have an appointment to begin the lengthy and EXPENSIVE process of replacing this crown with another permanent crown that is hopefully just the right size. 

You  know, I've been looking at this crown a lot. When a crown is in your mouth, it looks just like a tooth. Not so much out of your mouth. It looks more like a tin can with white paint on top.

Think of it as a wig for teeth.

I don't understand how this piece of metal dipped in porcelain can cost more than my first car. If you're a dentist, why don't you explain it to me, cause I sure can't figure it out.

I'll just be glad to have one that doesn't keep popping out every other day. 

If you see me in the near future, don't be offended if I am talking to you with clenched teeth, or refuse to smile. 

I don't think I have to explain.

Why is it?

Our four legged family, which consists of a dog and three cats, has a real problem with our downstairs half-bath.

I just don't know what it is.

If I go in there to you-know, I can't in peace. The cats crowd in, especially the whites, jumping on the console and then onto the sink, looking at me as though I should leap up and turn on the cold water to a trickle so they can be entertained while I'm there.

Well, I didn't invite them, and I can't leap up, which usually means they are bored and Eli starts to pick on Frost. There is general growling and hissing and somebody (usually Frost) leaves in a huff.

We have yet to have a bulldog that can tolerate me being in there alone (or with a cat/cats). 

Our half bath is tiny (think small elevator) and it's difficult for a big old bulldog to get back out. They can come in pretty easily, but there's no backing up, turning around and walking back out without great effort. So, they come in looking all worried about me, and then they go out (if they ever figure out how to do that), looking all worried about themselves.

Come to think about it, bulldogs look worried pretty much all the time. I guess I'm picking up on their mood.

It has to do with the size of the room, because upstairs bathroom causes no problems at all, nor does any other room.

But now that I think about it, I'm seldom alone in the upstairs bathroom, either.

And it's bigger. So three cats, a dog, a husband and a daughter can all come in at once.

I apparently deserve no privacy.

I wish they'd get it together enough to put on some kind of show.

Make the time go faster.

Wait. Do you hear that? I do believe it's circus music...

Things I Now Know Are Not True

When I was a child, I believed a lot of things that I now know are not true.

1. Our house was not dirty and needed paint. It was really gray. The other houses in the neighborhood were white, so you can see how I reached my conclusion.

2. My face will not freeze like that.

3. My eyes won't get stuck and be crossed for the rest of my life.

4. All dogs are not boys, nor are all cats girls.

5. Christmas (or summer) will never, ever get here.

6. I have all the time in the world.

7. People I love will live forever.

8. Bad things happen somewhere else.

9. I will never grow old like everybody else does.

10. If a praying mantis spits in my eye, I'll go blind.

                         Okay, maybe I still believe the last one.

Newsfeed

A few days ago, Husband was eating almonds. He hand a handful and was popping them in his mouth. Dog was looking at him wistfully, and Husband remembered he'd promised her a dog biscuit.

He's chatting with Daughter and me, as we were sitting at the table playing cards.

He goes into the pantry to get the biscuit, and the next thing I know he's spitting crumbs.

On his next bite, he had put the dog biscuit in his mouth.

Dog didn't appreciate the almond, either.

Last evening, Daughter went to one of the fast food restaurants to buy Mother, Other Brother, herself and me supper. I won't say which fast food joint, but their ancestors were Scottish. Daughter arrived back at Mother's, and I began taking our food out of the bag.

In anticipation, I knew Mother's was the only food in a box, the rest of us had wrapped, small hamburgers.

On Mothers was a tape. It said: Quarter Pounder  Must be Well Done. American Cheese Only.  3 pieces of bacon only.  cooked onions only.

I didn't read that tape until later. Mother opened the box and said, "This isn't a fish sandwich."

No monkey.

For some reason, after reading the taped o.c.d. commands for the hamburger, we all got hysterically tickled. Just imagining this person arriving home in anticipation of this precisely made hamburger, and opening up to find a fish sandwich....I dunno. We cracked up.

Yes, we do  need to get out more.

To make this even more amusing, Daughter had wanted something from the grocery store, so Mother asked her to buy tartar sauce so she could put extra on her fish sandwich she was having for supper. (ha!)

She came back with cocktail sauce. We ribbed her about that, as that was the funniest thing of the day so far. It was quickly forgotten in the sandwich debacle, however.

She got a little revenge telling on her daddy and the dog biscuit.

I wonder if the person ate the fish sandwich.

Am I Really Losing It?

So, I go to the doctor to establish myself as his patient. I am weighed and then the nurse says, "Let's see how tall you are."

I know how tall I am, five feet eight inches, so that will come as no surprise. Except she says, "Five feet, six inches."

I stand there for a minute, and say, "Are you sure? I've been five/eight for a long time."

"Yes, I am," says she. "See the marker there?" And walks off.

Well, no, I don't see the marker there. 

I check my pants. They aren't suddenly too long. 

I fret about it all the way home.

I mean, I know people shrink. My poor mother has shrunk four or five inches. But she knows it. Her clothes know it. Stuff she can't reach anymore knows it.

I haven't noticed any difference.

Husband says, "You've not shrunk. You're the same." But I think, what if he's shrunk two inches, too, and just doesn't notice?

I rush to the pantry when we get home, and scoot up against the wall where we have measured Daughter all her life. When she was very small, she wanted me to put my mark, too, so we could see how fast she was catching up with me. I pull away, and I'm at the same place I've always been. That makes me feel some better, but as soon as Daughter gets home I tell her to get back to back with me. 

Daughter just happens to be five feet eight inches tall, too.

We remain the same height.

Whew.

But then I start thinking.

What if she's shrunk two inches, too...

So You Think You Can Write A Book

Maybe you can. Maybe you have. And if you have you know how hard writing a book is.

Especially after "The End".

After the end, there is endless rereading by the author. Editing and proofing follows every single reread.

After you think you might throw up if you have to read the book again, you pass it off to "readers"; folks who are sick kind enough to read the book for you, red pencil in hand. These folks are usually English majors, people who have proofread or edited in a professional manner, or other authors. They have a keen eye for mistakes and aren't afraid to share them with you.

After you change all that mess, you, the author, get the joy of rereading it. Again.

It's then off to the publisher who  changes the manuscript into an interior file, make it looking just like a book!  The publisher then sends it back to the author to read it and make sure it's okay to go to the printers. 

It never is. This time I found twenty something errors, one so glaring that I couldn't believe someone, especially me, had not seen before.

Publisher sends correction page(s) back and asks you to review again. (You know what this means.) Fortunately for  me,  Daughter took half and read it and I read the other half.

Of course, she found some mistakes. I sent a correction sheet. He sent corrected text back. I checked to make sure he'd corrected the mistakes, but did not read the book again.

There's some things a person just can't do.

I am in love with the book cover, both front and back. I think you'll like it, too.

If there's more mistakes in there when you read the book, well I think they reproduce when the book is closed. Diana Gabaldon said that, and I think she ought to know, being a famous author and all.

I haven't even talked about the photo shoot for the cover, or having to have my own durn picture struck. Eww.

Of course, many authors have nothing to do with the outside cover, but I'm too controlling and usually by a few pages in I know what the cover should look like. 

Also, there is the fearful task of trying to make sure you thank all the folks who helped make the book what it is. I am always afraid I'll leave someone out, even though I take notes.

The next step is receiving the manuscript back from two authors who are previewing the book in order to do blurbs on the cover about how great it is. If they don't like it, I'm in a heap of trouble.

Once the publisher gets a hard copy back from the printer, guess who has to read the book again.

But this time will be different because, magically, I will hold a book in my hand that I wrote.

I'll read it, I'll pray it's as funny as I think it is, the printer will print, and I will get books weeks after that.

So, say a little prayer that a book signing will occur in  mid-November.

If I'm not too tired to do one.

Sweet Old Things

There is a rose bush blooming in my yard, close to the porch banister. It's not a fancy rose, just a small, nearly red bloom that is trying for one last hurrah before fall.

The unique thing about this rose bush is that it came from my great-great-grandmother's yard. And maybe her mother's yard before her, no one remembers now that my grandmother is gone.

We have other bushes and flowers in our yard that have come from Husband's mother, and my grandmothers, and my mother.

We have a few antiques in our house, but not very many, and none, far as I know, worth a whole lot. Other furniture is reproduction furniture, most of which I purchased before Husband and I married. (Now that I think about it, maybe it is antique by now!)

I started collecting a certain china pattern when I was eighteen. When my grandmother found out that was the pattern I wanted, and no one carried it anymore, and also that I was going to garage sales and yard sales looking, she gave me a vegetable bowl and a platter. She told me she once had the whole set, but over the many years of using it daily, it all was broken one way or another except for these two pieces.

She came by the whole set by collecting them from the barrels of sugar and flour my grandfather would purchase for the grocery store they owned.

When  my great-grandfather's sister died (this was the other side of my family), her daughter called to let me know there were two pieces of the china if I wanted to look at them before they  had an estate sell the next day. I did. Of course, they expected money, which made my grandmother furious!

After some years, the pattern became popular again, and instead of finding a plate for twenty-five cents, they were priced at twenty-five dollars.

I don't get a new piece very often anymore, not unless it's something unusual.

And photographs! Now, we do have some old photographs of family.

I sat Daughter down and began discussing what was really valuable in the house - photographs of ancestors, what dishes came from family, and other do-dads that had sentimental value.

She squirmed and said it made her uncomfortable, she didn't want to think about me dying, ever. I explained to her it wasn't me leaving I was thinking about, but her. And when she did leave to make her own nest somewhere, I wanted her to have memories. So that when I died, she'd know what was valuable.

There is no price tag on this stuff. But it's what one should take away with them from their parent's estate: the things that connect the love from one generation to the next.

Not bank accounts.

Because someday, I want her to show someone her yard and point to a rose bush and say, "That rose bush came from my great-great-great grandmother's yard. And maybe her mother's yard, too. No one really knows."

Texas Week

My cousins who visited for a week, weren't born or completely raised in Texas. Their daddy got transferred when they were up pretty big kids, but that's where they attended high school and finished being raised and settled.

They don't wear cowboy hats or boots (at least not in the summer), but they are proud of their state.

We had a good week, reminiscing, eating, laughing and going over photographs that they brought with them of our grandmother's side of the family. For many of the pictures, none of us could identify anyone in them.

That  made me sad. Did folks think that in over  a hundred years their ancestors would know them? Surely not. It would have been nice if they, or the generation that came after them, had labeled them.

Texas Cousin's mother had labeled some of them before her death, and had made a list (which I forgot to scan) of births and deaths of folks.

I scanned some of  the photos in my computer, and will finish that task soon. I suppose  the ones I don't know I'll just file under the family name.

If you are a picture taker, please identify your subject. Even if it's a pretty  tree. "Taken in great-aunt Joan Doe's back yard." It will mean something to folks on down the road of time.

It really will.