Beans!

Sing with me:

Twenty-one quarts of beans on the shelf,
Twenty-one cans of beans,
Take one down,
I'll smack your crown,
Twenty-one quarts of beans!

Bean Mania - Save Me!

If you read my blogs you know I call my Mother, Mother. But for the sake of this blog, she'll be Mama.

Mama is manic. This was caused not by a mental illness, but by a bushel of white half runners.

Lord!

As you know, when a bean is born, it is born. We can't change the date or put it off. It just is.

So my bushel came up, Husband went and got, and then we were in a dilemma.

In the  midst, when we should have been fixin, we had to go to Dalton to the ENT because both Mama and me was gettin deafer by the minute.

Husband is yelling at me this morning, by the way. He swears his volume has not changed a bit. So I told him to change it.

We brought the beans home and spread them out on the cold tile in the sun room and turned the fan on them.

Still, Mama fretted all day. It wasn't so bad  on the way to Dalton, but on the way back I could actually hear her, and it got bad.

We set to the minute we walked in the door, grabbin pans and knives and such and started stringin and breakin beans.

With the four of us workin our fingers to the bone (Mama, me, Husband and Daughter), we got about two thirds of them done.

Mama called this mornin and said she'd been up since 4:30 a.m. breakin' beans. (She made Husband put the remainder of what was unstrung last night in a sack and she took them with her, as I have an appointment at noon and couldn't get started early.)

I didn't even know they still have a 4:30 a.m.

She was talkin fast and loud on the phone about what all we can have for lunch, and how we needed to know how many rings and lids we needed from the Pig. Run all that together as one word, and say it LOUD and you'll see what I was hearin before coffee.

Mama is also thrilled because they turned up her hearing aids and she can actually hear better.

They turned mine up, too.

Anyway, this afternoon and tomorrow we'll be fixin and cannin beans.

He'll have more beans in Monday and Mama says she might just want some more.

All I ask is everyone just speak a little softer, okay?

You're givin me a headache.

And Life Goes On

Today is my mother's 85th birthday.

Which means I'm old.

Not to focus on me, of course, that was just a passing thought.

She and I have been through an awful lot these past sixty years, seven months and three weeks, and that's not even counting her throwing up constantly and being hospitalized off and on during her pregnancy with me. She said when I left her body the sickness left  her, too.

The doctors said there was something in my system she was allergic to.

She's probably felt allergic to me a lot since then, too.

Anyway, we have had plans in the past. Some of them came to fruition, some did not.

We even  have big plans right now.

Beans. Lots of beans.

Nothing like a three generational bean fixin to bring a family close together.

Even  Husband is in on the thing, having to go get the beans, bring up all the canning jars from the storage room, and maybe being talked into stringin' one or two.

Maybe not.

Tomorrow we have a big trip planned to Dalton to the ENT to hopefully get all four of our ears working better.

And so it goes.

There's lots to be said for day to day living with family.

Happy Birthday, Mother.

May it be a year of plans and family.

Where'd That Guy Go?

Conversations have turned to the unusual lately, maybe because of Molly.

I have "heard" her twice since she died - once at daybreak the day after, when I heard her stand up and take a step or two off her bed and then snort as only bulldogs can do. And today, when I was putting towels in the dryer, I heard her climb the last few steps and click across the bedroom floor about half way across.

Which, as we say, brings on more talk.

My niece shared with me that last night their three year old woke up at about one a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep, which is very unusual for him. He wanted this, then he wanted that, and he just wouldn't settle down.

Finally he asked her to rock him back to sleep, so they went into the living room to do just that. He went to sleep as she rocked. She rocked just a little more to make sure he was sound asleep when she smelled something burning. She texted her husband who was asleep in the bedroom and asked him to come in the living room. He, too, smelled something burning and went into the kitchen. A wooden spoon had dropped down into the bottom of the dishwasher and had already turned black with the heat and was smoking.

My niece feels sure if the three year old hadn't been restless their home would have burned.

A few days prior to that, they were visiting my mother, my  nephews grandmother. Niece said she noticed her son looked rather hard at a spot behind the couch, and kept giving it a glance for a while. Then he went into another part of the house. When he came back, he looked again behind the couch and said, "Where'd that guy go?"

My niece and sister-in-law looked at each. Niece asked: "What guy?"

Her son explained the guy who had been standing over there. She thought perhaps a man had been standing outside the sliding glass doors and alerted her husband and uncle. They took a trip around the  house, but saw nothing unusual.

When my great-nephew was questioned, he pointed to a spot behind the couch and said, "Right there."

When they got home they tried to question him, but he's three and had gone on to other things.

You see, my nephew talked for a long time to my daddy after he passed away and would share with us what was said. Nephew was four years old at the time, but remembers that, and just wondered, if maybe....

My chiropractor shared that when her son was four they were living in a house and neighborhood that had been built during the civil war era. Her four year old son asked her, "Who is that man?" and pointed to the bottom of the stairs. There was no one she could see, but he was adamant, "That man in the hat!"

Since he couldn't describe the kind of hat, she pulled out lots of pictures until he said "That's the one." It was a top hat.

She shared the story with  neighbors and many shared similar things that had happened within their families in that neighborhood.

When Daughter was about six, my niece, who was the same age, was staying with us. They had been downstairs playing, but then my niece came up and was talking to me as I did laundry. Daughter came up shortly, and flew into the laundry room. With wide eyes she exclaimed, "Mama, there's a girl in my room!"

It takes all of four steps to get to her room from there, but no girl was to be found. I checked everywhere. The front and back doors were locked. No one else was in the house but us. Daughter could describe everything about the girl, who appeared to be a teenager with a blonde ponytail. She was standing at Daughter's chest of drawers, and Daughter wanted to know why that girl would be looking through her stuff.

You tell me.

A few months after our Boxer, Sam, died something strange happened.

Every night of her life, as we all settled upstairs in our beds, she would step out on the landing and listen. When she was satisfied all was well, she'd come in and bed down for the night.

One night after her death, I'd gone back down for something and decided to check the front door. I looked up and literally gasped. There on the front landing was the silhouette of Sam, as though she was still guarding our house. I hollered and told Daughter and Husband to get down the stairs NOW.

They did, passing right by Sam's shadow. I told them to look up when they stood by me.

"It's Sam!" they both agreed.

We cried.

And last but not least, when Brother of Many Surgeries was in ICU on the older wing of an Atlanta hospital, he felt someone touch his foot. He griped to Wife because he was trying to sleep and she griped back because she, too, was trying to sleep on a cot and had not touched his foot. This happened more than once, and Wife figured it was the plethora of medications he was on. That is, until she had her feet propped up on his bed and "someone" grabbed her great toe. She screamed.

They shared this with staff who shrugged and said, yeah, stuff like that happened in that room all the time and would they like a different room? Brother of Many Surgeries declined because he figured whatever this was it didn't hurt him and who knew what was in the next room?

I could go on with stories I've heard, and I'm sure you have a few of your own. Even if you haven't experienced anything first hand, I know you know someone who has.

Ain't life peculiar?

What a Day!

What a day!

I've been like a gerbil on one of those wheel thingies where somebody turned the motor on full speed ahead.

We are trying to get pictures made of the inside and outside of our house and garage to make sure it is insured sufficiently.

Now, that sounds easy. Snap a few pictures, slap it on a thumb drive and you are done as soon as you drop it off at the insurance office. Right?

W.R.O.N.G.

Things like french doors, special ceilings, ceiling fans, wood floors, raised panel doors and cabinet doors, masonry fireplaces, turned banisters and posts, odd shaped corners, special windows, etc. All this makes a difference as to whether your house is standard or customized or some other ranking thing above that.

That, of course, doesn't cover that you are supposed to open drawers, closets and cabinets for snapshots inside them.

Our drawers? Our closets?

Oh, lawd.

Ain't nobody wantin' to see that.

As it is, I had to make up the bed,  move all the baskets of dirty clothes for the washing machine/dryer pic, make sure I wasn't in pictures where mirrors were involved. And try to keep cats out of the pictures, at which I was unsuccessful.

Then I'd think I was finished and realize I hadn't made a picture of the skylight in the bathroom, or the parquet floor in Daughter's room.

And we measured the square footage wrong.

At last, between that and a few other unsavory chores, my day is as shot as a rabbit huntin' shot gun shell.

Keep your fingers crossed I know how to load the pictures to a thumb drive....

Speaking of Dogs...

I couldn't help but think of this story while grieving over Molly, our dog.

This story is included in a book I wrote, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree". Keep in mind it's written in the language of Appalachia, but you won't struggle if you just go with the flow.

The conversation takes place between Missouri and her sister, Kizzie. They are in their late eighties. The scene takes place about 35 years ago.

Kizzie shook her head, grinning. “Do you remember when the Reverend James Folsom got called up to the Clemmons’ household? Old man Clemmons sent word and told him to git thar quick, so the reverend got in his old truck and flew up thar to see what the matter was. Old man Clemmons met him thar on the front porch and told Preacher Folsom that Mizriz Clemmons’ dog had died two days ago, and she had him laid out in the parlor on the couch, waitin’ fer the Lord to raise him up.”

          “Land sakes! I don’t recall hearin’ about this, Kizzie. What in the world did Preacher Folsom do?” Missouri sounded shocked.

          “Well sir, he took hisself a deep breath and entered thur house. Thar laid that old dog with a blanket and a sheet up to his nose, just like he’s in a hospital or suhum. Preacher Folsom says, ‘Mizriz Clemmons, I understand yur dog died.’ And she says, ‘No, God told me He was gonner raise him up, and I’m a’waitin’.” Kizzie shook her head. “Preacher Folsom ast her would it be all right with her if he called somebody to check the dog to see if he was dead, and she said that would be perfectly all right with her.

          “So, Preacher Folsom, he gits on his two way radio and calls the EMT’s and tells old Roam Patterson to git thar quick with a shovel and a stethy-scope. Roam says ‘I beg yur pardon?’ and the preacher says ‘You heared me and make it snappy!’ Here comes Roam in the fire truck with the lights a’flashin’ and the si-reen a’blarin’, screamin’ up the hill, and comin’ to a screechin’ halt in front of the house. He gits outta that truck in a hurry.  Preacher Folsom meets him at the door, explainin’ the situation quick like. Roam approaches the couch, and pulls the covers back, gentle like, looks in the dogs eyes, and puts the stethy-scope on the dogs chest and listens. Then he slowly shakes his head and says to Mizriz Clemmons ‘I shore am sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but that dog is dead.’”

          “Oh, lord, what did she do then?” Missouri asked.

          “She said okay, they’d have to bury him. So, she sends all the men folk out in the yard to find a decent burial place. They pick a spot under a bloomin’ Lilac bush. Preacher Folsom told Roam to git the shovel and start diggin’. Just as they had a hole big enough, Mizriz Clemmons made ‘em stop and she run back in the house and got this beautiful quilt to wrap up the dog. Preacher Folsom says ‘But that’s a good quilt!’ and Mizriz Clemmons, she says, ‘And that was a good dog.’

          “They bury that dog in the three hundurd dollar quilt, and then Mizriz Clemmons turns to the preacher, and ast him to say a few words over the grave. He did.” Kizzie finished with a satisfied look on her face.

          “Reckon what Mizriz Clemmons did after that?” Missouri wondered.

          “Well, she went out and got herself another dog, what else?”

          What else, indeed.

                                                    *********

Saying Good-Bye to Molly

Molly Dog had a big job to do today.

She was in the business of dying.

She had a few rough days previously, but I guess one is never prepared.

Many years ago, when we were told to come get her, Husband hurried to where she was. He opened the truck door and she turned her head and looked.

She came flying through the meadow, went slap dab through the middle of the creek, soared into the truck seat, skidded across and jammed herself up next to Husband as close as she could get with her head on his shoulder.

I reckon we had us a dog at that point.

She was absolutely beautiful. Every time I walked her, some fella, usually in a pick up truck, would come to a screeching halt to admire her. Young or old, they loved her bull doggy stance, her intense stare coming out of her half-white, half-black face.

That stubby tail never wagged for anyone until she knew you were safe to be around her family.

And her family included our crazy cats. She considered them hers. Eli especially will miss her, since she's been there all his life.

                                                                     Eli and Molly                                                
Once, we had the great idea to take three cats to the vet all at one time. Molly watched and listened to their carrying on. When we started loading them up, she practically pushed Daughter down to get to the car. She hopped in the back seat and refused to budge.

Nobody was going anywhere with all her babies.

So Daughter rode in the back seat between a hundred and ten pound bull dog and two cat carriers.

Molly tried to save Husband from a bear. And although she couldn't get outside, she really did save him, because her barking alerted him to something going on he couldn't see. The bear was strolling down the driveway headed straight for him, but was aggravated by Molly barking on the porch, so it turned around and went the other way.  Meanwhile, Molly was frantically racing back and forth from front door to back trying to get out of the house. Other than that episode, she hated the smell of a bear and would get back in the house as quickly as possible.

When she was young she and Daughter would play chase. It usually ended up with  Daughter in the back of the truck yelling for help.

This morning our bouncy, barky, fun loving dog couldn't stand up. Her breathing was labored.

I thought she would die before the day ended. But finally we called the vet, not wanting a night to pass with her in that shape.

The vet came, checked her, said, "It's time. She's never going to get back up."

Daughter got in the floor by her and I sat on a low stool on the other side.

Molly put her head in Daughter's lap.

Those eyes were trusting, loving us until the end.

Husband took to the woods to dig a grave and grieve in private.

But before he went, he laid down in the floor by Molly and stroked her head and told her all sorts of secrets that were just between the two of them.

She had earned a white muzzle and knobby joints.

She was a good girl and we loved her so.

And she loved us right back.

Goodbye, old girl. We will miss you.

Sins at the table

I thought I was going to have to take a trip to the local ER the other evening due to an accidental overdose of green beans.

Daughter wasn't home. There were "a few" leftovers. Green beans specifically.

Husband said, "There aren't enough for both of us. You can have them and I'll open a can of soup beans."

I was giddy with greed.

You see, those particular type of green beans are my favorite. They are full of shell beans, and when cooked get almost a mushy soup beany flavor, but not quite, because of course, they are green beans.

And I ate enough for two people.

And I suffered.

Lawd, how I suffered.

I truly felt like something might have to come up before I could ever have peace again.

What was I thinking?

Did I truly believe I could get away with such gluttony?

I mean, after all, it was green beans, not cheese cake or chocolate pie.

But, as they say, even too much of a good thing isn't.

And it wasn't.

Lesson learned, right?

Nope I did it again, today, just a few hours ago.

Somebody call an ambulance.

I don't think I'm gonna make it this time.

A Joyous Post

Gather 'round, Brothers and Sisters for I have a wonderful tale to share.

You've heard of the perfect storm, no? Well, tonight I had the perfect meal.

Details, you say, details!

Here they are:

The bread was fresh. Never opened until that very moment. I carefully removed two pieces. Crusty, fresh, soft in the middle...

I lovingly removed the Blue Plate from the fridge and got a nice, wide knife with which to apply it liberally on both pieces of the bread.

Then I reached for the tomato.

Yes, Brothers and Sisters. It was dark red, almost bursting through its skin. The smell was divine.

I washed it carefully.

Getting a sharp knife, I sliced through the top and laid it aside.

Then I reverently sliced more onto the open, waiting bread.

Cutting the sandwich in half, I gently carried it to the table.

I poured my drink.

The sweet milk was so cold that it felt like I was pouring it on me instead of in me.

Bliss.

Need I say more?

Going Up, Sir?

Our downstairs half-bath is very small. Just a pedestal sink and a pull chain toilet, with a small, thin console to hold towels and such.

We also have fairly tall ceilings downstairs, making the bathroom tall and skinny in shape.

In other words, it's shaped like an elevator.

Fact is, every single time I go in there, that's what I think about.

How it's just like an elevator.

Except, of course, it doesn't have up and down buttons and you don't push a button to close the door, you simply pull the knob toward you.

And there's no music. Definitely no music. Unless you bring your own.

And, well, obviously it has a commode and a sink, unlike any elevator I've ever seen.

Oh, and it has a full size window, too.

Yep. It's just exactly like an elevator.

Manic Man

A new television show debuted in the 1970's giving us a new super hero, "Manic Man", also known as Mork. "Mork and Mindy" was a huge success and introduced us to one Robin Williams.

If you have ever watched Robin Williams more than, say, thirty seconds, it was obvious he could barely stay in his own skin.

Was this man brilliant? Oh, yes. His mind was quick silver, and his mouth was able to keep up with it, filled with humor, intelligence, sarcasm and keen observations.

Being in "the business", I often gave Mr. Williams shade tree diagnoses. Manic Depressive. Addict. Hyperactivity. A dash of Aspergers.

I've wondered how much appropriate professional advice the man ignored. I know he dried out more than once. Living inside this man must have been torture at times. No wonder he drank or did drugs. I'm sure he craved calming down something fierce.

So, why didn't he get medical help to calm down instead of cocaine and alcohol and who knows what else?

Maybe he did. He stayed clean for twenty years.

Or maybe he was afraid if he calmed down all the time he would lose that unbelievable comedic timing he possessed.

I don't know.

It's just profoundly sad that a man who brought so much laughter and joy to others was unable to achieve that blessing for himself on a level that would have given him great satisfaction.

I want to say rest in peace, Robin Williams.

God knows you never have been able to before.

Oops

Our local newspaper was punked last week. Someone turned in a photograph of a mountain lion taken with a game camera, stating it was in the eastern part of the county.

After the newspaper was published and the picture was put on their facebook page, someone from Mo. saw it and sent them the same picture shown in a newspaper there two years ago.

Of course, the editor has apologized, and talked about how many folks responded to the facebook post, claiming when and where they, themselves, had seen a mountain lion in this area. One of the people who runs a rescue wildlife center, who has actual, rescued mountain lions behind a fence, stated she knew for sure we still had mountain lions around here because the wild ones had come around when one of her female captive mountain lions was in heat.

Well, goodness, if that didn't bring one out of the woods, what would?

A person working for Department of something or other stated in all his decade of working here, he'd never seen proof /evidence of one in this area, but would certainly not tell people they didn't know what they were talking about. You see, the mountain lion has been considered no longer in residence in the North Georgia mountains for several years.

All this took me back to two incidents in my own life.

One, when I was a small child, occurred when I was with my parents coming home from their friends house. It was summer time, and our car windows were down. Daddy had just pulled out into the highway, when he suddenly pulled over on the side of the road and said, "Listen."

A hair raising scream came from across a field, somewhere around the edge of the woods. And again. After about the third time, Daddy explained it was a mountain lion.

The other incident was a few years ago at dusk. Daughter and I were headed to town for some reason. Suddenly, leaping off the bank in front of us was a mountain lion! I slammed on my brakes and watched him touch the middle of the road on his first jump, then bound off down the ravine with one more leap. His tail was as long as his body.

Daughter turned to me and said, "Wow. Big kitty."

I told her she had just seen something many people doubt still in existence here.

Well, one is, for sure.

Make fun of me if you will. Doubt me if you want.

I don't care.

It's not like I claimed to see Bigfoot or something.

Although, I do have a friend who is very tall, pretty hairy, and wears a size 22 shoe....

Hmmmm.

Something Old Something, Well, Old

I was sorta cleaning out the shelves in the refrigerator (only the front, I won't lie), when I noticed a crack in the plastic at the very front of the shelf.

This is where the heavy stuff like milk is held, so I guess someone (Husband) banged the jug down too hard and cracked it.

That's my theory, anyway.

Here this is, a refrigerator practically brand new, and it's got a crack.

Now, I couldn't exactly remember when we purchased this refrigerator, so I asked  Daughter, who is still young enough to like, actually, have a memory.

"2008." Came her swift reply.

See, I told you it was new.

To me, a refrigerator that is only six years old is new.

The first refrigerator in this  house was originally purchased  in 1979 as a scratch and dent, which it was.

Then, after only twenty-nine years of service, it up and died on us.

When we (quickly) transferred as much as we could to my mother's fridge and then hurried on to town to purchased a new refrigerator, I felt a little guilty. But dead is dead and we had frozen foods on the line, so purchase we did.

We spread out in the store so as to find what we wanted as quickly as possible. All three of us, independently  of each other, picked out the same refrigerator.

It was obviously meant to be.

When the Refrigerator Delivery Men delivered our new fridge, they also offered to take off the old one for us at no extra charge.

I was appalled when they set down the new one next to the old one. Had our old darlin' really looked that bad?

Why, yes it had.

The aforementioned Refrigerator Delivery Men were astounded that our old refrigerator was twenty-nine years old.

"Lady," and I quote one of them, "You will never, ever, ever have a refrigerator last that long again."

They then reverently toted the old gal out.

We said a tearful good-bye to our faithful friend.

No sir, I guess they don't make refrigerators like they used to.

And Darkness Descends...

Math is truly a four letter word in  our house.

I soared though school pretty much until Algebra.

Well, come to think of it, there was a rough patch in sixth grade when they introduced "new math" and no one, including the teachers, knew what the heck was going on. That's what we writers call foreshadowing. But I didn't know then. I was innocent in the evil ways of math.

But for the most part, real math - you know add this, subtract that, etc., made sense and I could do it if I paid careful attention.

In fact, I was responsible for an almost two million dollar budget and managed to keep it in the black. Peers even came to me asking for pointers on how to manage their budgets.

Poor, unsuspecting hopefuls. They had no idea how thin the ice was upon which they trod.

But the day I entered Algebra class was the day  my ego took a horrific beating. I had suddenly entered a world where nothing made sense, and no matter how hard I tried, it still didn't make sense. I distinctly remember a test where I was confident I had gotten nine out of ten correct. When I got the test back, the one I thought was wrong was right and the ones I thought were right - well.

Husband hired himself a tutor to get through what math he was forced to take in college, and then simply erased it all from his mind as quickly as possible.

I had high hopes for Daughter. Perhaps this baby I held in my arms would be a math whiz and even be able to explain it all to dear old Mom and Dad.

Ha and Nah.

Daughter has a math class this semester. She thought she was done with math, but suddenly another one popped up like an unwanted pimple.

Gather hands right now, dear reader, and pray fervently that there will be a small break in the clouds for a short period of time so that Daughter can pass this math.

Then she, like  her father, can wipe it from her mind and store things there that really matter.

Like texting.

The Appalachian Life

I am reading a book by Deany Brady entitled "An Appalachian Childhood". It is a collection of her memories of being born and raised in the backwoods of Appalachia, dirt poor but well loved.

Some of the things she says reminds me of my life - even now. For instance, she explains that dinner is what most call lunch and supper is what some call dinner. Still that way at my house.

Another thing she talks about is the youngest child is called "the baby" until another baby arrives. That was always true in my family. In fact, my nephew was "the baby" until he was six years old and my niece and my daughter arrived within three months of each other. If we had a family gathering, they might be called "the babies", but usually they were referred to by name so as not to confuse everyone.

She talks about "pilot snakes". That rang a vague bell and Husband says he remembers snakes being called that. But we didn't know what kind of snake that was. So I looked it up. I'm  no clearer than before. Some sites say it is another name for copperheads. Others say it is a chicken snake or a rat snake, and they got the name "pilot" because they made way, or piloted a way, for poisonous snakes to come in.

Mrs. Brady is a few years older than my mother. We spoke on the telephone, revealing that she remembers my mother in school. Mother remembered her and her sister, too.

 My mother's family was far from rich, but they were much better off financially than Mrs. Brady's family. As far as I know, my mother never went hungry or without clothes and shoes. They lived in fairly decent dwellings, and I believe, as an only child, she was a bit spoiled. Mrs. Brady's childhood was one that many people envision when talking bout the "old" Appalachia - severe poverty and struggle.

When I spoke as a guest author at a book club, with the book discussion surrounding my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree", someone pointed out I didn't mention this terrible poverty in my book. I did, but not overtly, because my family did not suffer in this way.

You really do  have to write what you know.

Mrs. Brady lives in San Francisco with her daughter. I haven't finished the book, but it will be interesting to find out how she got from here to there.

High School Annuals

I was looking through my mother's high school annual yesterday. The name was the Arrow Head and it was published in 1946.

Two things got my attention: The first was many of my mother's teachers were also my teachers. However; by the time I got them they was used up and near dead.

In Mother's annual, they are young, unlined, and many still unmarried. The bloom of youth was in their faces. They looked eager and  hopeful.

When I got 'em, middle age had severely advanced upon them, if not geriatrics. They had grown  kids, they were lined, grey haired and pooped.

No wonder I misuse the English language like I do. I thought it was because I'm from the south.

The second thing that struck me was how some people in the annual look just like people I have known. One girl in particular looks exactly like a lady I knew growing up who wasn't even from here.
I know  you could say, well the gene pool was mighty small in isolated areas back then, they were probably kin.

Maybe so,  but in looking at names and knowing folks, I don't think so.

Yet, a half dozen people were strikingly similar to another half dozen people I know.

But you know, when you think about it, how many different ways can a mouth, nose, eyes and chin be structured? How many eye and hair and skin colors are there?

It's a wonder we don't all look like each other's twin, or at least first cousin twice removed.

And while I'm at it, don't you look familiar to me?

So Far, So Bad

You know those mornings when you try to get out of bed and every joint feels cemented together?

Yeah? Well, welcome to my morning.

Then I hiced up one of my very long legs on to the bed to put on a sock on a foot that was at the very end of my very long leg and there upon said leg was a tick.

EWWWWW!!!

He (or she) had just attached itself to my leg like a toddler you're trying to leave at the sitter's.

So I did what any independent, strong willed female would do. I hollered for Husband.

He came with tweezers and plucked that sucker off my leg;then we doused  it (my leg,  not the tick) with rubbing alcohol and triple X antibiotic ointment. Husband then  saw to it that Mr. Tick was flushed, and I don't mean its color.

This people, all happened before I could get out of bed!

Then I'm told I've been duped! Hornswaggled! Hoodwinked! Fooled!!!

The corpse-under-the-bed-for-five-years was a spoof written by a spoof journalist for a spoof newspaper which has no disclaimer unless you go to their website.

It was unbelievably terrible because, well, it was so bad it was hard to believe. But I believed anyway.

Well, hardy, har, har.

At least I missed (barely) stepping into that giant pile of dog poop someone left on the walking trail this morning.

But Husband didn't even see it coming.

And it isn't even lunch time.