Wednesday, November 22, 2017
I'm home with some kind of cold and pulled chest muscle combo. (When I mess up, I do it big time). Between the coughing and that HUGE pot of soup I had to lift for work Tuesday onto a stove top UP and exceeding my height abilities, I've had better days. :) ( I know, I made the pot of soup and I should've stopped adding ingredients, but it was good).
So I've avoided the news today as much as possible so it doesn't take away the breath I do have. (Although I do know David Cassidy perhaps can now R.I.P.)
So here's to all of y'all, hoping you have a day filled with happiness and just the right amount of food!
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
For years you've made me smile with grandbaby pictures when the world was evil or just plain mean. Thank you.
For a while, my family requested that photos of the latest addition not be shared, until all the adoption stuff was ironed out. Whatever it was they worried about originally is no longer a problem. The fact they have two adopted children 16 years APART in age might be one in the future. :)
I post this because Gracie (20 months) seems to have the same expression as the bear: he use to live in my office, but he went home with her. Hope this one makes you smile. :)
Saturday, October 28, 2017
It's been an exhausting few weeks getting the calendar for our non-profit charity ready. Oh, creating it was fun! Chasing after Board Members to keep reminding them I didn't have ad copy (or payment for such!) was the tiring part. We use a fantastic company in Louisiana, Fox Printing, allowing me to do everything online. All was well: I'd downloaded the calendar, proofed everything and it was headed to print. Then I went through my invoices to make sure I had one for everyone...which is when I made a horrifying discovery.
I'd left out a $350 ad! What made it worse was this guy was a repeat customer for the calendar and one of the first to get everything to me.
Trying not to panic, I sent an e-mail, asking if I could redo just one page, at the end. Two minutes later the phone rang and my rep Melissa was telling me to take a deep breath, we'd get it fixed. I jokingly told her I'd always wanted to yell, "Stop the presses!" but not like this. We got it fixed, putting delivery just one day off. (Yeah, I'm paying for my mistake. Delivery would've been yesterday but since it's UPS...no delivery until Monday).
In the meantime, while I was waiting for the Guys to get their stuff together (I should point out that Hubby had his completed...then again he has me to nag..um, remind him) I worked on the annual Shop Calendar for Hubby. This started years ago when we had our first Chocolate Lab, Smoke. It began with a hunting theme but over the years has morphed into whatever happens during the year to spark my creativity. I must say, Kim Ayres, I know how it must feel to have a subject like me who hates being photographed: Smoke would see the camera, sigh and slink away. Hubby still has the calendars in the Shop and his long time customers often ask to peruse through them. There's about 17 years worth, with the addition of Boudreaux and now one starring Bourbon.
Ah Bourbon. Hubby calls him our problem child, while I prefer the phrase, "all boy". Hubby will proclaim him stupid, I insist he's just stubborn. Last night proved my point. Bourbon has been wearing a shock collar (I know, I didn't like the idea either but on a scale of 1 to a high of 7, it's on 1). He's only gotten zapped three times in two weeks, now preferring to stop what he's doing after the warning vibration. B. usually just wears it in the Shop but last night Hubby left it on to teach him a lesson about stealing my pillow off the couch. He actually perches like a vulture, waiting for me to forget to move it, then he snatches it and runs off. Twice I walked away and he did nothing. Scott took the collar off. Fifteen minutes later I forgot and Houdini snatched the pillow. And yet, when Hubby and I both said, "No!" at the same time, he dropped it in my hand.
I tell you all this to explain this year's calendar theme. And yes, although I downloaded both calendars the same day, Hubby's is already back and hidden until Christmas.
The original artwork:
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Begin day by oversleeping. Check.
Take dog out so husband can sleep off pain of wrenched back. (Condition courtesy of 13 month old, 95 lb. enthusiastic Lab who escaped from truck at Post Office on Tuesday and pretended to be deaf. Said escapee proceeded out of parking lot at high speed to chase a log truck, narrowly missed getting hit by a car, toured the houses next door and only came running when Hubby put truck in gear as if to leave him.)
Come back in, hand Inmate #1 a dog treat. He runs to sit on couch and eat it, eyeing Hubby warily.
Check on Hubby. Condition update: may not be back. Could be kidney stone.
Offer to stay home to keep eye on Hubby rejected.
Caution dog to be good and stay clear of Hubby. I think dog nods. There are rumors of a shock collar in his future.
Arrive at work. First two events of my day canceled to attend mandatory District meeting. Place note on door for Group 3 to expect me at 12:30 p.m..
Intestinal track objects to last night’s dinner. Run to bathroom.
Read news. Learned Press Secretary is daughter of former Gov. Mike Huckabee.
Back to bathroom. Not sure if it’s dinner or the morning news.
Go to meeting. Sit through power point presentation dealing with integrating online registration. Concept applies to only five of the 50 people present.
Break into groups. Supervisor tells us to count off, “1, 2, 1 ,2…” to split us into two groups for 20 minute sessions.
Coworker asks, “Am I a 1 or a 2?”
Resist urge to smack my forehead. These people work with children after school. Supervisor and I help them count. One looks confused. I resist urge to smack another forehead.
Counting system puts me in a group having nothing to do with my job. Learned 4H isn’t just for raising cows/chickens to show at county fair. Now they teach computer coding and rocket building.
Go to 2nd group. First group still being held hostage.
Glance at watch. Have to be back in 30 minutes to let in my group. Exit to car.
Car turns traitor. Without warning, engine won’t turn over.
Review my accumulated knowledge of vehicle malfunctions. Two minutes later, call Hubby….who is at work 30 miles away.
Am instructed to check battery cable connection. Send photo of gizmo placed over battery to ensure that the message, “Remove cover to check battery” isn’t a trick. Why hide the battery?
Did I mention it’s hot and humid outside?
Checked cables. Didn’t help. Cursed. Didn’t help either but it made me forget the heat for a moment.
Sister-in-law to the rescue, on her day off. She has jumper cables. (And yes, we know how to use them).
SIL can’t get close enough to my car. Asks me if I can back up. I simply reply, “I can’t” and watch that, “I did NOT just say that!” look glint in her eyes.
SIL has to leave parking lot, go around block and enter from the other direction.
Call office (50 feet behind me) in case Group 3 wonders where I am. Get answering machine…because they’re all eating BBQ.
SIL and I get car cranked. Report to Hubby. Am advised to IMMEDIATELY go to auto place down the street and have battery replaced.
SIL insists on following, yet somehow ends up ahead of me due to traffic lights.
Call the office. Get a human. Tell my sad tale, add I’m on my way to get a new battery, so if Group 3 calls, I’ll get there.
Note to self: people filled with BBQ can only mutter, “Okay” after a trying personal moment is shared.
Enter the Forbidden Zone…a.k.a. auto parts place, where women are generally invisible or huffed at.
Am waited on by woman I actually see eye to eye with. We exchange notes on the dangers of being short. She tests my battery…it’s at half speed.
The purchase tests my wallet. When did batteries get so damn expensive?! You’d think it was gold plated. Mine was the “Silver Level” . Honestly, I expected a little bling.
Nice guy installs battery as SIL and I wait. Hand him battery cover, which fell into floorboard in 2 pieces. He notes one is upside down. Feels need to literally point that out while reading the crap about removing cover to get to battery. Lose cool chick points.
Did I mention how dang hot and humid it is?
Return to work. Find twice the number expected in Group 3. Apologize profusely. They’re in cars, eating lunch. And smiling.
Call Hubby to give update. Hear shock collar has just been delivered.
Note to self: don’t jump out of truck at Post Office and run around being nosy.
Life is filled with moments that make you go, “ARGHH!”. But senior citizens have experienced enough of those moments to show sympathy instead of anger.
Next goal. Uneventful ride home.
Reminder to self: country deer have their eye on the ladies right now, not cars.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Wednesday, September 20, 2017
Recent news events brought to mind something I hadn’t thought of in years.
When I was a child, we’d visit my Grandmother in North Carolina, who I called Memaw. Now technically, she was my great aunt… it’s a long story. Suffice to say she raised my Mom as my “real” grandmother (who was Memaw’s sister) died when Mom was only 3. Memaw was the oldest of 11 children and was married to the brother of my “real” grandfather. For years they tried to have children. After three miscarriages, at the age of 42, she had Sonny, who was born with a hare lip and double clef palate. For years he endured surgeries to correct those birth defects. (I’m sure there’s a PC term for that now, but when he was born, that was it.).
Stay with me. This really does relate back to today’s news.
Mom used to joke, “I didn’t have you for me, I had you for Memaw.” Maybe it was because I was the first born too or the fact Memaw was the only one in the family I ever grew taller than. We simply connected on a different level. She taught me to crochet and I swear she passed down those “farm woman” genes to me, right along with the peach cobbler recipe. There was an unspoken rule that you didn’t praise anything in her house too highly, because she’d try to give it to you. I once commented on a cute little 3 legged clay pot on the sun porch. Yep, it went home with me that day. I’d later learn during a tour of the Catawba Indian Museum that her 25¢ garage sale find was an authentic piece of Catawba art. The man at the museum told me if it was signed on the bottom, it was made to sell to tourists. If there was no signature, it was older and, to his mind, better because it wasn’t a tourist trinket. Mine is unsigned and I treasure it.
That’s sweet, but how does this relate to today’s news?
Sonny lived at home with Memaw for most of his adult life. Except for the year he went to live in Washington, D.C., where he worked for the C.I.A.. Yes, that C.I.A.. I’m not kidding. We use to ask what he did, only to have him gravely whisper, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” Coming from the guy who threatened to pummel us if we ever stepped foot in his room, we believed him. (And yes, we did get inside once, only to be disappointed to find that the “weirdest” thing in there was a collection of Mad magazines). I was in my late 30s before he finally admitted that, as a photographer, he’d worked in a lab, analyzing photographs. He swore it wasn’t pictures I’d be interested in but if the C.I.A. was looking at them….
Sometime before Sonny returned home for good, he sent Memaw a souvenir sign, which she hung in the bathroom. I’m sure the mother in her believed a gift from a son deserved to be displayed. The fact that it hung in her bathroom probably was a silent commentary on exactly what she thought of its content. And yet, for years I’d look at that sign and grin, knowing deep down it was probably weird for a teenager to find such subject matter amusing. So yes, when the day came that Memaw asked me if there was anything I’d like to have, I shyly noted I’d like the sign in the bathroom. She seemed mildly surprised, but she was not one to refuse the request of a grandchild…especially one as sentimental as me. I don’t remember why we didn’t go get it right then and there. It was probably time for peach cobbler.
Somewhere along the way, the sign disappeared. Memaw was distraught, for she had promised it to me. I told her not to worry. If it ever turned up, I’d still be glad to have it. It never did. I wonder if the C.I.A. came by to repossess it?
I may not have it in hand, but the sign’s image never left me. Today, it’s slogan is truer than ever. The sign was a cartoon of an old fashion toilet, the kind with a tank high above the seat and a pull chain. In the background was a faint image of the Capitol building. And written in bold words at the bottom…
“Flush twice. It’s a long way to Washington.”