I'm sure you all saw the article about the woman who was arrested for something or other, put in the back of the police car, and left alone for a few.
She proceeded to rip up the car with her teeth.
She is now being charged with a felony.
I thought, "Wow, that woman is crazy!"
I stand corrected.
That was before I started a simple task this morning. I wanted to buy three tickets through Ticketmaster for Husband, Daughter and myself to hear some great Christmas music in December.
At first, it looked pretty sweet. Great seats still available, all seats together, and a reasonable price. I was surprised at how well the tickets were already selling, and very happy we could get the seats we wanted.
I proceeded to check out. And, as they say, that's when the fight broke out.
I don't have an account, so I clicked on to make a password. Then it told me there was an account already listed under my e-mail. (It had just told me there wasn't).
I was instructed to click on 'get a new password', so I did. Went to my e-mail to see what my password was. I waited at least a minute before I received it. Signed in again. But, they said, to insure my financial security, I had to enter my credit card number again. So I did. They said there wasn't an account attached to that particular credit card number. I had a total of three tries before - well, I'm not sure before what. I did it again, which put me down to one try, which I didn't even try.
You know that little clock that Ticketmaster has ticking on the right side of the screen? It says when that runs out your tickets are 'thrown back'.
Of course, the little clock went to 00:00, and I think you know what that means.
Let me tell you, I was about to go all Clay Aiken fan on them. I've seen that, and it ain't a pretty sight.
I finally was given a 'temporary' password, went back into the fray (for the last time, I decided). The tickets were still there. I got 'em.
Now I just have to print them out.
Cop cars, watch out.
Showing posts with label Clay Aiken. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Clay Aiken. Show all posts
Friday, October 10, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
Bow Ties
Our new pastor of almost four months sports a bow tie every Sunday. He is a spiffy dresser on Sundays and admits he loves clothes.
This, of course started an immediate copy cat effect, as evidenced by Mr. Cool:
I believe Pastor has truly started a fashion trend. When I googled famous men in bow ties I got hundreds! For instance:
Chuck Bass
Crooner Clay Aiken
Pee Wee!
Winston Churchill
I was astounded at the hundreds of recent photos of fellas in bow ties, some famous, some infamous and some just regular guys.
Then I stumbled upon some not so famous guys that are near and dear to my heart:
This here is my great-great-grandfather, William Cisero Sawyer. Never knew him personally, but I figure he's pretty important to me anyway.
This young man is Bill Sawyer, my grandfather, at age twenty-four. He happens to be holding my mother. Looks pretty proud, huh?
And this dashing fellow is Husband, age twenty four. Taken for his college year book.
And I couldn't stop until I added the cutest nephew in the whole wide world (even though this picture is a bit out of date, since he himself is a daddy now):
And I, yes, little old me, have discovered the reason behind the epidemic.
If you haven't guessed it yet, may I present the culprit:
That's right. The elusive rainbow bow tie pasta.
It always goes back to food, doesn't it?
Monday, March 4, 2013
Don't Give Me Any Bull, But Give Me A Bulldog Anytime
I love bulldogs.
I don't even care what kind of bulldog.
When I was a toddler, and on into childhood, we had a Boxer Bulldog named Jinx. I have thought a lot about her in the last little while because of the book I am currently writing. She was fawn with a black mask. My mother tells me when I was very small, they could let me play in the yard without watching me too closely, because Jinx babysat. If she thought I was getting too close to the street, she'd grab the back of my diaper and pull me back into the yard.
Up into my adult life, I thought Jinx was a boy. We were talking about Jinx at the super table one night, and I called Jinx a he. My daddy looked at me like I was crazy and informed me Jinx had been a girl. He shook his head at me, hardly believing I didn't know.
Well, I didn't.
Our neighbor, two doors down, had a male Boxer (for sure). I think his name was Winston. My parents used to love to tell the story of me slipping off from the watch care of one grandfather and going to the grocery store down the street, owned by my other grandfather. This of course, scared grandfather number one and made him angry. As he was marching me back to his house, holding me firmly by the hand, Winston trotted up to us and took my grandfather's hand in his mouth. I was crying, he was being stern, and I think the Boxer just decided to be on the safe side he would supervise the whole thing. He didn't like the way my grandfather was handling me, but on the other hand, he knew him and didn't want to react too harshly. The dog wouldn't let go until my grandfather got us back to the house.
My daddy had Pit bulldogs off and on all his life. Most of them were gentle, intelligent animals. Only one in my memory became too territorial and Daddy had to get rid of him because we lived in a rather congested area and he became fearful the dog was going to bite someone who came too close to the house.
I have pictures of my daddy at different ages when he was a kid, and he's always hanging on to some white Pit.
I have a picture taken sometime in the early 1900's or late 1800's. I don't know the people's names, but I know they belong to my daddy's side of the family. There's a white Pit in the picture.
The last car my daddy owned was one of those "land yachts" of a Cadillac. I was visiting them one day and parked behind his car. I noticed his white Pit, (notice a trend here?) Snowman (my brother's named the poor dog when they were little) was asleep, with his head snuggled up to the rear tire of Daddy's car.
Just as I started to get out of my car, Daddy came out the door and motioned me back in my car, saying he had to run to town. He got in the Caddy, cranked it up and his tail lights came on.
I freaked out, seeing what was about to happen, as the dog had never moved. I screamed, blew my horn frantically, but it happened anyway.
Daddy ran over Snowman's head. As Daddy rolled over the dog's head, he realized what had happened, stopped the car, and leaped out, white as a sheet.
I got out of my car, crying hysterically.
Snowman got up, shook his head, growled at my daddy and stalked off. Pouting over the incident, he would have nothing to do with my daddy for over a week. But the dog finally forgave him.
Right after my husband and I got married, we purchased a female Boxer, named Samantha. Of course we called her Sam. She was sharp, sweet and 'my dog' for sure. A few years later, Husband rescued a male Boxer from the dump, who was nearly starved to death. We named him Buster. He was dumb as a box of rocks, but lovable. Sam was the boss from the start. Buster died from cancer at age eleven, but Sam lived on till she was almost fifteen years old.
I remember when we brought our newborn daughter home, Sam became guard and nursemaid. She wouldn't let Buster near the baby for weeks. He stayed cowed behind a chair almost the whole time, trying to figure out what the heck was going on.
One day Sam came out of the woods with a wallet in her mouth and dropped it at Husband's feet. We called the owner and he came and got his wallet, fascinated that Sam had done the right thing, when a lot of people would not have.
The day she died I got home from work and noticed she was lying half under Husband's car. She never did that, and I found it odd. She looked so sweet from a distance, her cobby head resting between her paws. But as I got closer, I realized she had died.
The next dog we were blessed with was a Bull Mastiff. At a 127 pounds, she was a giant of a dog and her heart was about as big. She was the smartest dog I've ever had, and I do believe if God had "loosened her jaw" she could have carried on quite a conversation. Belle was a good girl. She terrified people, even if she was asleep on the porch. I have several funny stories of grown men practically weeping at the sight of her.
Then, for a brief five months, we had a giant Boxer named Sampson. He weighed in at 95 pounds, which is huge for a Boxer. He was absolutely stunning. He'd never been socialized or house trained and he was already seven years old. But he took to all that like a duck takes to water. He was a real clown, and kept us laughing. He loved to hear Clay Aiken sing "Solitaire" in the car. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP: After the long note that Clay sings in the middle of the song, Sampson would press the re-wind button and listen to it again. I have witnesses to this, people.
Sampson was stolen from our front yard, being left alone less than five minutes.
Probably by Clay Aiken.
Next came Molly. She was an American Bulldog. Half white face, half black face (except the black side gradually whitened with age). She was white with black spots, sort of Dalmatian like. She weighed about 110 pounds, was low slung and broad, and loved the cats.But she hated dogs.
When Molly passed away last year, I fully planned on another Bull Mastiff. But I was caught off guard by Husband who found a free nine month old American Bulldog named Bonnie. For the first three months she drove me crazy. She was almost a feral dog, having known nothing but a ten by ten pen with an aggressive brother.
After those few months of agony, she has settled. She weighs around 85 pounds and is still growing.
Who knows what will be in our future? I want a Dogue de Bordeaux but they cost. A lot.
If you don't care for dogs, you are now in a zombie like trance, never to be resuscitated.
But if you are like me, I hope you have a smile on your face.
I don't even care what kind of bulldog.
When I was a toddler, and on into childhood, we had a Boxer Bulldog named Jinx. I have thought a lot about her in the last little while because of the book I am currently writing. She was fawn with a black mask. My mother tells me when I was very small, they could let me play in the yard without watching me too closely, because Jinx babysat. If she thought I was getting too close to the street, she'd grab the back of my diaper and pull me back into the yard.
Up into my adult life, I thought Jinx was a boy. We were talking about Jinx at the super table one night, and I called Jinx a he. My daddy looked at me like I was crazy and informed me Jinx had been a girl. He shook his head at me, hardly believing I didn't know.
Well, I didn't.
Our neighbor, two doors down, had a male Boxer (for sure). I think his name was Winston. My parents used to love to tell the story of me slipping off from the watch care of one grandfather and going to the grocery store down the street, owned by my other grandfather. This of course, scared grandfather number one and made him angry. As he was marching me back to his house, holding me firmly by the hand, Winston trotted up to us and took my grandfather's hand in his mouth. I was crying, he was being stern, and I think the Boxer just decided to be on the safe side he would supervise the whole thing. He didn't like the way my grandfather was handling me, but on the other hand, he knew him and didn't want to react too harshly. The dog wouldn't let go until my grandfather got us back to the house.
My daddy had Pit bulldogs off and on all his life. Most of them were gentle, intelligent animals. Only one in my memory became too territorial and Daddy had to get rid of him because we lived in a rather congested area and he became fearful the dog was going to bite someone who came too close to the house.
I have pictures of my daddy at different ages when he was a kid, and he's always hanging on to some white Pit.
I have a picture taken sometime in the early 1900's or late 1800's. I don't know the people's names, but I know they belong to my daddy's side of the family. There's a white Pit in the picture.
The last car my daddy owned was one of those "land yachts" of a Cadillac. I was visiting them one day and parked behind his car. I noticed his white Pit, (notice a trend here?) Snowman (my brother's named the poor dog when they were little) was asleep, with his head snuggled up to the rear tire of Daddy's car.
Just as I started to get out of my car, Daddy came out the door and motioned me back in my car, saying he had to run to town. He got in the Caddy, cranked it up and his tail lights came on.
I freaked out, seeing what was about to happen, as the dog had never moved. I screamed, blew my horn frantically, but it happened anyway.
Daddy ran over Snowman's head. As Daddy rolled over the dog's head, he realized what had happened, stopped the car, and leaped out, white as a sheet.
I got out of my car, crying hysterically.
Snowman got up, shook his head, growled at my daddy and stalked off. Pouting over the incident, he would have nothing to do with my daddy for over a week. But the dog finally forgave him.
Right after my husband and I got married, we purchased a female Boxer, named Samantha. Of course we called her Sam. She was sharp, sweet and 'my dog' for sure. A few years later, Husband rescued a male Boxer from the dump, who was nearly starved to death. We named him Buster. He was dumb as a box of rocks, but lovable. Sam was the boss from the start. Buster died from cancer at age eleven, but Sam lived on till she was almost fifteen years old.
I remember when we brought our newborn daughter home, Sam became guard and nursemaid. She wouldn't let Buster near the baby for weeks. He stayed cowed behind a chair almost the whole time, trying to figure out what the heck was going on.
One day Sam came out of the woods with a wallet in her mouth and dropped it at Husband's feet. We called the owner and he came and got his wallet, fascinated that Sam had done the right thing, when a lot of people would not have.
The day she died I got home from work and noticed she was lying half under Husband's car. She never did that, and I found it odd. She looked so sweet from a distance, her cobby head resting between her paws. But as I got closer, I realized she had died.
The next dog we were blessed with was a Bull Mastiff. At a 127 pounds, she was a giant of a dog and her heart was about as big. She was the smartest dog I've ever had, and I do believe if God had "loosened her jaw" she could have carried on quite a conversation. Belle was a good girl. She terrified people, even if she was asleep on the porch. I have several funny stories of grown men practically weeping at the sight of her.
Then, for a brief five months, we had a giant Boxer named Sampson. He weighed in at 95 pounds, which is huge for a Boxer. He was absolutely stunning. He'd never been socialized or house trained and he was already seven years old. But he took to all that like a duck takes to water. He was a real clown, and kept us laughing. He loved to hear Clay Aiken sing "Solitaire" in the car. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP: After the long note that Clay sings in the middle of the song, Sampson would press the re-wind button and listen to it again. I have witnesses to this, people.
Sampson was stolen from our front yard, being left alone less than five minutes.
Probably by Clay Aiken.
Next came Molly. She was an American Bulldog. Half white face, half black face (except the black side gradually whitened with age). She was white with black spots, sort of Dalmatian like. She weighed about 110 pounds, was low slung and broad, and loved the cats.But she hated dogs.
When Molly passed away last year, I fully planned on another Bull Mastiff. But I was caught off guard by Husband who found a free nine month old American Bulldog named Bonnie. For the first three months she drove me crazy. She was almost a feral dog, having known nothing but a ten by ten pen with an aggressive brother.
After those few months of agony, she has settled. She weighs around 85 pounds and is still growing.
Who knows what will be in our future? I want a Dogue de Bordeaux but they cost. A lot.
If you don't care for dogs, you are now in a zombie like trance, never to be resuscitated.
But if you are like me, I hope you have a smile on your face.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
There was Another Anniversary Yesterday
I saw on something or other that ten years ago yesterday was when Clay Aiken sang on TV for the first time, when we heard his audition for American Idol.
I remember him walking out and me groaning, feeling like he was going to be splattered all over the place. It was as though he was trying to look as awkward as possible. You could tell he was nervous. And when he spoke and had the same Southern accent as I do, I almost cringed.
But then he sang. I hollered at my husband to come in the room. I said, "That boy may not win because of the way he looks, but you won't hear a better voice."
I was right. On both counts. Except there was all the hoopla saying that he really did win, if phone lines had been big enough to take all the calls.
His voice is one that actually does something to me. No matter how long I go without hearing him sing, the minute I do, it's like myself stands up and takes notice. I guess his voice speaks to me somehow. I've had other singers do that from time to time, but Clay Aiken is the only one who does it almost every time.
All my family likes his singing, and we have seen him perform live several times. He is a funny, down to earth young man that engages the audience in a way that makes you feel like you know him. In fact, the one time I've actually talked to him, it was like talking to my nephew, who is close to the same age and uses the word "whatnot" all the time in speaking.
But then again, I have yet to be star struck. I've never wanted anyone's autograph or anything like that.
I had forgotten that I heard him sing for the first time on my wedding anniversary.
Anyway, music is a wonderful and mysterious thing. So many kinds, so many singers, so many instruments out there, it leaves almost no one out.
Aren't you glad that the good Lord blessed us with this thing we call music?
I know I am.
I remember him walking out and me groaning, feeling like he was going to be splattered all over the place. It was as though he was trying to look as awkward as possible. You could tell he was nervous. And when he spoke and had the same Southern accent as I do, I almost cringed.
But then he sang. I hollered at my husband to come in the room. I said, "That boy may not win because of the way he looks, but you won't hear a better voice."
I was right. On both counts. Except there was all the hoopla saying that he really did win, if phone lines had been big enough to take all the calls.
His voice is one that actually does something to me. No matter how long I go without hearing him sing, the minute I do, it's like myself stands up and takes notice. I guess his voice speaks to me somehow. I've had other singers do that from time to time, but Clay Aiken is the only one who does it almost every time.
All my family likes his singing, and we have seen him perform live several times. He is a funny, down to earth young man that engages the audience in a way that makes you feel like you know him. In fact, the one time I've actually talked to him, it was like talking to my nephew, who is close to the same age and uses the word "whatnot" all the time in speaking.
But then again, I have yet to be star struck. I've never wanted anyone's autograph or anything like that.
I had forgotten that I heard him sing for the first time on my wedding anniversary.
Anyway, music is a wonderful and mysterious thing. So many kinds, so many singers, so many instruments out there, it leaves almost no one out.
Aren't you glad that the good Lord blessed us with this thing we call music?
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