Welcome to my blog. Thanks for coming! One day I hope my little piece of internet real estate will be home to lots of family photos, pictures of my scrapbook and card art, with some random thoughts and memories posted on a somewhat regular basis. Mostly my world is very predictable, but occasionally some excitement will find me, so visit often. Who knows what useful (or useless) information you may find here.


Thursday, February 25, 2010


Today I am thinking of the poem "Footprints In The Sand," the age-old question weighing heavy on my mind. Why is it that bad things happen to good people? This is a question that most all of us have struggled with at some point in this journey called life. Perhaps especially so for believers (in God). There are those prosperity preachers on TV who will promise that belief in God (along with a hefty donation) will guarantee you wealth, health, and happiness. This is a lie from the pits of hell, and I fear for these men and women when their day of judgment comes. Believers are promised "a life more abundant", but the error comes with the interpretation of the word "abundant". Certainly we shouldn't take it to mean an abundance of riches, health, favor with man, good "luck", etc. Still, it would seem that God would show a little favoritism to His followers, and give us a break sometimes from the wicked and tragic things that happen. Well, that's not the case either. I don't even pretend to know and understand the ways of God. I probably have more questions than you do. All I know is there are laws of nature, processes of illness, and results of poor choices that are no respector to any human... believer or not. Yes, God is a God of miracles, and should He choose, any specific individual or situation can be changed. It's the why-didn't-He-change-MY-situation-with-a-miracle thing that boggles the mind. As such, believers and unbelievers alike must suffer through tragedy, illness and death, loss of property, the heartbreak of divorce, wayward children, family crises, and any number of awful things that befall us. God never promises any of us, especially the believer, a life void of storms and trials. What He does promise, however, is that He will never leave us, and He will walk through the storms and trials with us (or as reflected in the poem, will carry us through.) I know this to be true, as I have experienced that in my own life many times. So what's the difference between a believer and a nonbeliever? Nothing, in regard to the bad things that come our way. They're gonna happen. Everything in regard to feeling the hand of God holding us up in our time of need, and the promise of hope that He will never leave us. It is knowing this to be true that gives us the strength to face the tough days ahead.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Bigfoot Lives!

Memory fails me on this, but I believe it was the late 60s, early 70s when the Bigfoot frenzy was at its peak. Every "documentary" of the Amazon-sized man-ape creature ever made found its way into our living room. We were fascinated with out-of-the ordinary things like the Canadian version of the abominable snowman (Sasquatch) and UFOs. A couple of years ago, we here in Georgia had our own version of a Bigfoot Hoax . Most people don't believe that such a creature ever existed, but everyone needs a hobby, and of someone wants to spend time and resources investigating the possibilities, then it's fine by me.

I am here today to testify, however, that Bigfoot does indeed exist. And it is sitting in my office chair typing this blog. This past Christmas Eve, in my haste to make it to the candlelight communion service at my church, I took a nasty tumble off of my porch. Somehow, in all my gracefulness, I turned my ankle on the top step and tumbled down onto the cement driveway, banging my knee and my elbow, and twisting my shoulder into some contorted position that would qualify me for the Circ de Soleil. Banged my head on the concrete too, but thankfully the cement wasn't broken. Happily, the plate of peanut-butter-pretzel-peanut candy I was carrying landed intact, still covered with the Almighty Kling Wrap, and was salvaged. For that candy to have been lost would have been worse than my wounds! As I lay on the driveway, catching my breath, mentally assessing my injuries, I realized the merits of the "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercials and the Life-Alert necklaces worn around the neck. My cell phone was in the car, parked quite a few paces from me. Once I determined that I wasn't hemorrhaging and that I could wiggle all my appendages, I crawled to my car, somehow pulled myself into the driver's seat, contorted myself to reach my purse in the back floorboard, retrieved my cell phone and called Whitney, who was inside the house, but hadn't heard my scream as I fell, and didn't notice the earth shake as I hit the ground. Cement. She rushed out to assist me, then I had her drive me over to my mom's house, where the family would be gathering after the communion service. Upon inspecting my wounds, I found my elbow was slightly denuded, and my knee had a nasty gash, but there were no obvious bony deformities. My aunt Joyce, who had already arrived, gave me some chewable medication derived from a plant called "leopard bone" that is supposed to prevent bruising and swelling. I put ice on the knee, and gave passing acknowledgement to a small, slightly reddened area at the base of my calf, right above the ankle joint. It felt a little sore, but no obvious swelling or bruising. My knee seemed to be the most painful injury, and even now, some nine weeks later, the open wound hasn't entirely healed. I was amazed that the "leopard bone" seemed to have indeed kept me from bruising. I bruise quite easily, and normally would have awakened the next day with the entire right side of my body a lovely palette of purple. I never saw the first bruise.

Strangely enough, about three weeks after the fall, the tender area at the distal end of my calf started hurting pretty badly, and a huge knot appeared. I showed it to my PCP, and in reading my medical record, noted that she described it as "a knot the size of an egg". Yep, that's about how big it was. And it looked very strange. Didn't really hurt that much, it just wouldn't go away. One day I stopped by the ortho office where I used to work, and Dr. M. examined me and explained that it was a hematoma, but the location of it doesn't allow for normal absorption. There's not much tissue in that part of the leg, so the hematoma has nowhere to go. I could expect it to get bigger and smaller, and bigger again before it went away. He could try to aspirate it (ouch!) and drain some of the offending fluid, or I could just let it absorb on its own, but it might take several months. I opted for the latter, since it wasn't painful. A bit of difficulty with getting my big fat foot into most of my shoes, but hardly worth a needle probing around in my "egg".

It seems my hematoma has decided to start the absorption process with a vengeance. The knot has decreased in size by about 50% over the past several days. All of the content has drifted down into my foot. I Am Bigfoot. It is very uncomfortable, even at rest, and quite painful to flex and extend the foot. And it's not very pretty either. No amount of pedicure or nail polish can disguise the fact that my foot looks like the offspring of the Michelin Tire Man. Hope I don't need to go anywhere soon that requires a decent shoe. I'm stuck with my Skecher croc-like thingies. Good thing my normal work attire only involves warm socks and fuzzy slippers.


Saturday, February 20, 2010

What Would You Ask?

So, today is shaping up to be a very busy day, as I knew it would. I enjoyed the morning sipping coffee, eating biscuits and homemade cheese danish with DJ. {Insert side story here:} Often on Saturday mornings we will have coffee and David will go somewhere and get us a yummy breakfast biscuit. Today David had to attend a seminar for newly-inducted city council members, so it was just us girls. Before going to her house, I scooted down to the local biscuit house and picked up our favorite breakfast cuisine. When I arrived at her house, David was just getting ready to walk out the door. I said to DJ "He's not supposed to be here, I didn't bring him a biscuit!" She told me she was making cheese danish, but to go ahead and eat mine while it was hot. I offered David a biscuit but he said he had already eaten. So I laid hers on the counter, and we migrated to the den, and thus began our Saturday morning gab-fest. And we do love David with all our hearts, but it was fabulous to have just girl time. I ate my biscuit, and she waited on the danish. When she went to the kitchen to take it out of the oven, I heard her say "where did this biscuit come from?" I told her it was HER biscuit. Dang... she didn't realize I had brought her a biscuit! I said... Debbie Jo... do you truly think I would have brought myself a biscuit without bringing you one? And we just laughed it off, and she ate her lukewarm biscuit while we waited for the cheese danish to cool (And yes, we both ate cheese danish, even though we had already devoured our biscuits... our fat and calorie count for the morning was already at the heart-attack level, so what will a few more hundred calories and fat grams hurt at this point, huh?) But the rest of the morning I have been bothered to think that she actually thought I would sit in front of her and eat my biscuit without taking one for her. Just kinda breaks my heart a little bit, doncha know? We laughed about it a few more times, but I'm still a little sad about it. We had a wonderful visit and our topics of conversation were all over the place. Just like we like it. :-)

All that being said, three hours later, I had to tear myself away so that she can enjoy her day at home alone, and I could come home to some long overdue chores. And to get ready for Lucy Jayne's baby shower tonight. Last night I had to correct the spelling of her name (Jayne with a "y") on a personalized gift, and today I get to organize the contents of the little toy-box/container thingy with all the goodies inside. It was so much fun shopping for a baby girl!! Lucy Jayne is my great neice who is due to arrive in a few weeks! My baby brother will be a grandpa!

I'm (obviously) home now, staring at the pile of laundry that needs folding, the dishes that need washing, the dirty laundry waiting to be done, the floor that needs vacuuming.. well you probably get the picture. And what am I doing? I'm blogging about a thought I had a few minutes ago.

While giving myself a little mini-pedicure, for some crazy reason, I thought a-one, and-a-two, and-a-three... and the vision of bubbles in the air on a black and white television, and Lawrence Welk with his conductor's wand came to my mind. Where, oh, where on earth did THAT come from?? You know how sometimes you have one thought that leads to another and then another? Well I thought about being a kid and watching the Lawrence Welk show at Mama Nay and Daddy Bill's house. I seriously hated that music! But I loved to watch them pat their feet and nod their heads, and listen to Mama Nay sing along with the Lennon Sisters. I remember people would get up and dance to that awful music, but they looked so happy all dressed up in their Ward and June Cleaver clothes, as the bubbles floated past them.

And then I wondered: Did Mama Nay and Daddy Bill ever dance together?

I already have a long list of questions that I would ask them, if given the chance. So many things I wish that I'd have asked before they died. Some of the questions are important ones, relevant to our family history. Some of them trivial things about life in "the olden days". But... given the chance... I'd also love to ask them if they ever danced together.
What question would you ask of a deceased loved one if you could?

Friday, February 19, 2010

Farmer's Furniture, Athens, Georgia

If you've been a long-time reader of my blog, you may remember that on occasion, when I find myself happy with customer service, I will give a shout out to the company. I really love to do that! And quite honestly, I don't do it enough. I think everyone who earns it, deserves to be told that they have done a good job. Likewise, everyone who does not earn it should be told as well. I would gladly have voiced my concern over the quality of an item purchased at the Athens Farmer's Furniture, but the manager was too busy to see me.

Here's my story: When Corey was born 18 months ago, we (meaning my mom) purchased a rocker recliner. Everybody knows... when you have a baby in the house, you need a rocker. And after our experience with sitting up many long nights to keep Leyland in a semi-recumbent position because of her reflux, we decided a combo recliner rocker would be the way to go. We needed a smaller-sized chair to fit in the room, not one of the big, billowing-marshmellow-pillow styles. We found one that we felt would work at the Farmer's on the Atlanta Hwy in Athens. Granted, not a very expensive chair at all, and granted, most of their furniture is pretty much low-end merchandise. I get that. However, the chair was still a couple-hundred dollars and some change. I also sprang for the $40.00 'stain-resistant treatment', knowing that the chair would probably see more than its share of spills with a toddler and a baby in the house. (I do not recommend this. It was wasted money. The chair did not "wipe clean with a damp rag" as promised.) The chair lasted about a year. First some minor little things, then the Stanley Steemer guy was a little rough with it causing further damage, and finally, with no abuse at all, just regular daily use, one of the wood support things broke, a spring came loose under the bottom and was sticking in the floor, the mechanism that pops out the footrest was broken, rendering the chair in permanent foot-up position. I am ashamed to say that I have let the chair just sit in the corner in my den in this pitiful condition for five or six months. There was always some reason that I couldn't take it back. Yes. I said "take it back". For sure I didn't expect them to replace the chair, but I certainly didn't think that I should pay $20.00 to take it to the landfill. I simply wanted them to dispose of the chair for me.

Since today was such a beautiful sunshiny day, and my dad's truck was available, I decided it was the perfect opportunity to take the chair back to its home, so they could give it a proper burial. I loaded the chair onto the truck, and off to Athens I went. Just outside of town, I decided to pass the slow-poke in front of me. I felt a sort of bump, and looked in the rear view mirror and YIKES the chair had lurched forward, and was sort of perched on the tailgait! This would never do! I pulled off the road, turned the chair around so that it was more aerodynamically positioned, and tied the rope around it. (My daddy would have had that rope intricately woven around the chair, and it never would have tipped over in the first place!) I arrive at the store, and a very nice gentleman associate directed me to customer service, where another nice associate went to fetch the manager. She returned to tell me that the manager was busy and couldn't see me, could I make an appointment, or possibly come back tomorrow? I told the nice sales associate that I was returning a chair that was broken and could someone please help me load it into the dumpster for disposal. I told her that I didn't think I should have to pay a landfill to dispose of the chair when it was obviously a sub-standard piece of furniture. Well, I think the phrase "piece of junk" was what I actually said. "Wait just a minute, please." So she goes back to the manager, and returns to tell me that "the manager said the dumpster is full, and the other dumpster only takes cardboard, and well, we have to pay to have it hauled off." Oh dear. I feel my face getting red. I offered, (truly in a nice voice) to the associate that I would just dispose of it myself on the front lawn, since they had other furniture on the lawn advertising a Blowout Sale. (Ha... one look at my chair and they'd see the REAL definition of "blowout"). She just looked kind of helpless. I thanked her kindly for her time, and told her that I was NOT taking the chair back home with me. And I SERIOUSLY resisted issuing a word of warning to a customer who was obviously about to purchase a sofa. But I didn't. It wasn't the salesman's fault, and I didn't want to knock him out of a commission on a very un-busy Friday afternoon.

I'm really sorry to have to post a bad customer-service experience, but I feel a little better knowing that I also give credit where good credit is due.
If you perchance happen to visit Farmer's Furniture in Athens this afternoon, be very careful if you park on the side of the store. There is a broken recliner in one of the parking spots.

Not Only Is It Not Illegal....

But apparently they do it all the time. I did speak with someone in the Insurance Commissioner's office, and she said that it is done all the time. "They have the right to protect their collateral". Yeah, I get that... and I guess it's legal, and I reckon they must do it all the time... but it still doesn't seem right to me. Or to quote Mammy from Gone With The Wind.... "It ain't fittin'. It just ain't fittin'......... Ain't fittin'." So folks.. be sure to check the content of all your mail, even if you think it is junk mail. Who knows what expense you might be incurring if you just toss it away.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

This Should Be Illegal

Several years back I read a book called Simplify Your Life. My life is like a multi-faceted gem, with bits and pieces of me aimed and reflected in many different directions at any given time. A full plate, if you will. It has been that way as long as I can remember. Well, that's not entirely so. It has been that way since becoming a single parent in 1992 with a first-grader. In order to live on my own (as opposed to living with my mom and dad, or living in a refrigerator box under the bridge), it was, and is necessary for me to work a full-time job, and at least one part-time job. Once Whitney reached middle-school age, life became even more hectic in that she was involved in band and other extra-curricular activities that kept both of us pretty busy. I believe it was during this time that I discovered the above-mentioned book, and decided that if anyone's life needed simplifying, it was surely mine. There were lots of great tips in the book, and I recall putting many of them into practice. The main one that has stayed with me through all of these years is the one regarding junk mail. When I first read the book, I had a post-office box in town. "Go through your mail and throw out the junk mail before leaving the post office." I loved that one. Now I know why there was always such a giant trash receptacle in the post office lobby! I would go through and throw away the junk mail in THEIR trash can, and never even take it home. How wonderful that was! For many years now, I haven't had a P.O. box, rather my mail is delivered to a mailbox at the end of my driveway. I still try to utilize this tool, though, and immediately sort through the mail, and separate it into Junk Mail, My Mail, and Whitney/Dustin's Mail. I'm fairly good at making it to the trash can with the junk mail in a timely fashion, but sometimes I'm a slacker, and leave it lying around on my desk, my nightstand, my floor.. you get the picture. I'm not really a tree hugger, per se, but I do like to do my part in saving the planet, and don't really enjoy seeing a lot of wasted paper. Therefore, I have opted to receive a good many of my bills and correspondence electronically. Saves a few trees, and saves me from having to sort, file, and keep up with all that paper. Yet and still, some of those same companies continue to send me mail. 98% of it is junk mail and goes straight into the trash. Which brings me to the main point of my post.

Yesterday I noticed a "letter" from Wells Fargo, who holds the note on my car. I pay my bill online, and don't have any other accounts with them, so I assumed this was another "invitation" to loan me some money. Something looked a tad different, though, so I decided to take a look. Inside I found a letter stating that I must verify the collateral securing my account is properly insured. bla bla bla. Bottom line is, if I don't prove that I have insurance within 15 days, they will "buy" insurance for me, and add $799.00 to the unpaid balance of my account, and will charge interest on the amount. OR they might divide up the premium and add it to my car payment each month. Bear in mind, this $799.00 policy would only be insurance to cover loss or damage to the vehicle, not liability or personal injury.

Are you kidding me? Is this even legal? How many people will toss their letter into the trash, like I almost did, and subsequently incur this ridiculous expense? I dunno... maybe this is a routine, or normal thing to happen, but I don't recall ever having to do this before. I'm just so thankful I didn't toss it away. Especially after the fiasco I've been through with my mortgage company being shut down by the feds, and all of the time, trouble, and expense resulting from that. Sheesh.

So let me just add that to my List Of Things To Do. I suppose I need to pay more attention to my "junk" mail. No telling what I might inadvertently order or sign up for by default if I fail to return the enclosed refusal, or fail to call or e-mail. Good grief. I think I need to read that book again. I'm feeling the need for some serious simplifying. Or perhaps a book on cloning myself might be more useful.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

I Know Where The Boogeyman Lives

I'm not quite sure when or where, but at some point, Leyland has been introduced to the shower. She was not impressed. When asked if she wants to take a shower, sometimes she will absently nod her head yes, perhaps thinking she is being invited on a fun adventure, but when it sinks in what she is about to do, she will shake her head adamantly and say "NO!" She does love to take a bath, though, and doesn't mind at all when you pour a bucket of water over her head to rinse her hair. Last night the little rascal was staying up later than usual, and when I finished my work shift at 11:00, I asked if she would like to take a bath with Greemaw. Oh yes! That was a treat she hasn't had in quite some time. She was so excited! So off we go into the bathroom where I start the water running. I lifted her over into the tub, at the same time realizing that there were no towels in the closet. I told her I'd be riiiiiiiight back, I was going to get a towel. (Now, before you call DFACS on me, she is nearly 3 1/2 years old, and I was just stepping into the next room.) When I put her into the bathtub, there was still some of the initial cold water, and the last thing I heard as I was walking out of the bathroom was her giggling, saying "Greemaw it's cold!" Not three seconds later, she let loose a blood curdling scream that I swear, must have awakened the dead for miles around. Out of the tub she came, running from the bathroom wet and nekkid. I got to her within nanoseconds, and tried to figure out what was wrong. I could see no blood, no bones were prodruding through flesh, and there had been no crashes or other alarming sounds from the bathtub... just her screams. Whitney reached her almost at the same time, and she wouldn't stop screaming long enough to tell us what was wrong. I went to the tub to see if per chance a bug was in the water, or something else that may have frightened her. And then I found the reason for her hysteria. Normally, we have a rubber duck thingie that covers the spout, to keep little munchkin heads from bumping against it. I had failed to replace the rubber duck after my shower the night before. Nope, she didn't bump her head on the spout, she pulled the shower button a little bit -- enough for a few small streams of water to sprinkle from the shower head. Oh dear. She was hysterical. We finally got her calmed down, but attempts to get her into the bathtub failed miserably. We finally had to pretty much hold her down, and douse her with enough water to bathe her and get a quick shampoo job. She was screaming the entire time. I could feel her little heart pounding underneath my hand. Poor thing is probably scarred for life. We'll probably have to drug her to bathe her from now on. So if you see our little princess with a cloud of dust around her and buzzards hovering overhead, you'll know why. And when you are tucking your little ones into bed at night, and they tell you they are afraid of the boogeyman under the bed or in the closet, feel free to reassure them to fear not... the boogeyman officially resides in the shower head at The 409.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Monday, February 8, 2010

Work It, Mr. Sunshine!

What a gorgeous day it is today! Before work I needed to run some errands, and was surprised to find it so delightful outside! I even opened the sunroof in my car for a bit, because the sunshine had things pretty warm inside! It would sure be a nice day to be out and about. Probably just as well that I have to stay inside and work, though, because much more exposure to it would have me in a frenzy of spring fever for sure. And then I'm afraid I'd just get disappointed again in a few days or weeks when the cold days return. And I'm sure they will. I'd like to think we've broken from winter, but I've never known that to happen this early. Oh well... I'll just enjoy it from the window in my office, and appreciate the rare gem of a day that we've been blessed with. So, come on, Mr. Sunshine... work it hard today!! We're so happy to see you! Please don't stay away so long next time!

Wednesday, February 3, 2010


I was raised on homemade biscuits.As a little girl, I watched in amazement as Mama Nay would conjure up the delightful little personal-sized bits of heaven. She had this pantry in her kitchen, and one shelf was reserved for the old wooden trough-looking bowl thingie that she made her biscuits in. I never saw her empty it, though I'm sure she must have cleaned it out from time to time. When she would take it out of the pantry, there would always be a little flour inside. She'd pour out a new little mound of flour, then bore out a little hole in the middle. Next she would pour in some buttermilk, and then a little scoop of lard. Then right before my eyes, she would work those beautiful, arthritic hands of hers round and round, and with each pass, a little bit of flour from inside the mound would cling to the mixture, until it got to just the consistency she wanted. I was always fascinated by that. The mound itself never got "wet", it just somehow faded into the moistness until it formed the dough. Then she would break of a little piece, roll it between her hands, place it on the flat, black iron skillet and gently pat it down to just the right height. Oh no... no cookie-cutter biscuits in our house! Each little roll was made with love, formed and shaped to perfection. There's no telling how many biscuits were made from that wooden bowl, and countless hours were spent by her grandchildren and great grandchildren watching her work magic. She always made extra, and at any given time, there would be a plate of biscuits in her little jelly cabinet with a cloth thrown over it. Nobody ever went for want of a snack, not when there were biscuits and peanut butter around. By the end of the day, the plate would be empty, but tomorrow always brought with it a new batch to enjoy. There never was, and never will be, a pan of biscuits like Mama Nay made. Now my mom runs a pretty close second. Or at least she did back in the olden days. Nowadays folks don't use lard so much any more, and my dad likes a smaller, flatter biscuit than we used to have. So instead of two nice, big, fat, fluffy biscuits swimming underneath the white milk gravy, you have to have four. Four biscuits sounds like an awful lot, but not so much when they're practically bite sized. I'd be ashamed to admit how many of them I have actually eaten at one sitting. Because, though small, they still rank right up there with Mama Nay's in the taste department. Almost. Must be the lard. Add in some cream-taters and some red hot smoke-links, or some fried cubed steak... and you've got a meal fit for a king. Well, a southern king, anyhow. Heart attack on a plate, no doubt, but man, that's some serious good eatin', I don't care who you are! I my own personal self never quite got the knack of making biscuits. After my first few endeavors, there was no one to encourage me to try again. My biscuits were best used for target practice, or in some cases, could have been registered with the feds as legal weapons. I probably don't know anyone, at least from the south, who doesn't like a good biscuit. Whether it be used to sop up some soghrum syrup like my Pappy used to keep on hand, or to mop up what's left on your plate after dinner, to eat cold with peanut butter, or for toasting at breakfast the next morning. I pretty much never met a biscuit I didn't like. Well, except for the aforementioned failed efforts at my own cooking. Years ago, fast-food joints got on the breakfast bandwagon and started serving breakfast biscuits. Some of them are actually pretty good, and can be quite addictive. It's so easy to swing into the Bojangles or McDonald's and pick up a 99-cent sausage biscuit, or any other variety of delectable meat byproducts of their offering.

This morning, as we were bringing Corey home from the hospital, I decided I needed myself a biscuit. Whitney and Corey had eaten at the hospital, but I hadn't eaten yet, so I swung into the Bojangles for a quick fix. In and out really fast, I had just pulled back onto the highway, when from the back of the car came this tiny, pitiful little voice that said "I want a biscuit." Whitney and I just looked at each other, and Whitney called me a "mean Greemaw" for not getting poor little Leyland a biscuit. Then we just died laughing. It just never crossed my mind to get the little pumpkin a biscuit. And with a voice that got more pitiful with each sentence, Leyland continued, "I'm hungry", "Greemaw I want a biscuit". "Moooommmmyyy, I want a biscuit!" Well, after Bojangles, there's nowhere to get a biscuit. Whitney and I poked at each other about it (I mean after ALL, Whitney is her mama, SHE should have thought about feeding the little tyke!!!) We kept promising her something to eat when we got home, but right outside of Statham, came the most pathetic little whimper ever, like someone who has been starved on a desert island for three weeks, and like a weak little kitten, she said "Biiiissscuiiiiiittt". Bless her little heart. Thankfully, The Old House was still open and still serving breakfast, so I went in and got the little princess her own personal egg biscuit. Their biscuits are square, and huge, so once we were home, I cut it into fourths, and gave it to her. She was so weak from hunger she could barely lift it to her lips. After one bite, she was revived and ready to take on the world again. One bite. Can we say Drama Queen? She did go back later and nibble on it some more. At some later point, I was able to sit down and enjoy my delicious, cold biscuit from Bojangles.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

The Moving Van

Well, if the week hasn't been crappy enough, outside my office window this morning there arose such a clatter, that I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter. Lo and behold, in the mud and the muck, to my dismay sat a big moving truck. If you've read my blog very much, you know that my daddy can do anything. He can beat up your daddy. He can invent little play toys out of wooden spools, rubber bands, toothpicks and a little chunk of soap. He can build a car from scratch in his little workshop. (I speak the truth!) He can fix your lawn mower or your garf card (Leyland-speak for golf cart). He can clean out the gutters, grow the best garden, resurrect a broken down car. He can light your pilot light, fix a water leak, repair shingles on the roof. He can talk to someone on the other side of the world on a radio he built himself. He can fix whatever ails anything that ails. In other words, My Daddy is The Best Daddy In The World. Ever. Period. And it does not matter that a goodly portion of the aforementioned skills are now referred to in the past tense... i.e.... my daddy COULD do such and such.. it matters not one bit. Oh, he could still do them, it's just that he is wise enough to know that brilliant as his mind is, his body is aging, and many of those things are simply too risky for him to do. We'd all much prefer he live out the rest of his life at a slower pace and stay with us longer. We can find someone else to do the chores that he has done for so long. Of course, not to the degree of perfection that we have come to appreciate from my dad... but...

So what does this have to do with a moving truck? Is my daddy moving? Nope. He's stayin' right there on the corner of Broad and Mulberry, just a good shout from me, hopefully for a long, long time yet to come. I bought my current home, lovingly referred to as "The Pink House", (it is a funky salmon color) or "The 409" (because that's my address. yawn. how original.) in 2005. I purchased it from some dear friends. I had visited here before, never suspecting that one day this very address would appear on my utility bills. Along with my purchase, I inherited the most wonderful neighbors. If memory serves me, Alex even sat in on one of the conversations I had with the Johnsons when we were negotiating the sale. He was pretty much a fixture around here, and from what I understand, could be found out in the yard or sitting around their table most any afternoon. Like me, his wife Kim works long hours, and wasn't able to talk over the proverbial fence as much, but Alex made himself at home here, and the Johnsons likewise at their home. I was delighted to find out from Kim that "there's nothing she can break that Alex can't fix." Even though it was a tough pill for me to swallow, I too, had to accept the fact that My Daddy, Superman that he is, must ramp it down a bit, and not do all the things that he used to do. Father Time = kryptonite. So. I was thrilled to have inherited The Neighbors, and Alex became my go-to person for all those pesky Guy Things that need doing. Before the kids moved in, he even mowed my lawn for me and cleaned out the gutters. (Of course, with a strappin' young man residing here now, that chore has been relegated to Dustin...) Any kind of electrical problem, hammering project, digging, drilling, assembling things, or replacing stuff, Alex was always there to take care of it. During my carport remodel last year he was very helpful, and took the bathroom lighting project to a higher level because I "needed double lighting to put on my makeup". He informed me that I bought the wrong light fixture because it was gold, and my lavatory fixtures were silver. (I never even noticed.)He repaired a leak on the roof of my house without my even asking. He has worked underneath my house fixing stuff, "fished" a cable wire down the wall because he didn't like the way the cable installer did it. He has reconnected cooling/heating vents under my house when, for whatever reason, they would come unhooked. I could go on.
And it's not only me that he has spoiled. DJ & David, Johnny & Sharon, Jim & Terry, Jack & Lucy, Kim's mom, Rudy & Debbie, Steve & Teresa, Artie & Tammy... could all make lists longer even than my own. He belongs to everyone on our street. He's "our" Alex. He does work for anyone who asks. And unless it's just a huge job and you force it down his shirt pocket, he will not accept money. I normally bring him a couple of cases of PBR in a meager attempt at appreciation. He just smiles and says "thanks".
Rumor had it a month or so back, that they were possibly moving. Kim was up for a promotion that would relocate her to middle Florida. Though we didn't wish her any ill-will about the promotion, I can tell you, lots of folks on Sunset have been praying for an alternative situation... one that would allow her to be promoted, yet stay here. Unfortunately for our family of neighbors, (but congratulations, Kim!) the promotion went through, and she has already gone. Today the movers arrived to get most of their things.
Alex will be staying behind to get the house ready for rental. There is no work for him in Florida, and he has said that as long as he continues to get work here, he will stay. He works with contractors in all phases of construction, remodeling, whatever. Like my daddy, he can do it all!
So now our prayer is that we can keep him. We're hoping for lots of work to come his way. The guys who live on the other side of him are like me... they depend on him for pretty much everything.
This morning I wanted to go tell the movers they were at the wrong house. I'm still not over it.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Adenovirus-1, Corey- 0

The bug was bigger than my Little Man. He had to be admitted to the hospital today for severe dehydration. We thought he was doing better. Both kids slept through the night with no GI explosions from either end, and had some fluids this morning. Corey looked kind of strange, though, all white-as-a-sheet with reddish/purplish splotches on his skin, and his little lips were darker than normal. Skin perfusion was a bit slow. Whitney decided to take them in for a checkup, and one look was all it took for them to send him to the hospital pronto. He had also lost 2 lb since Thursday. Poor little guy. He's in the hospital now with an IV, so hopefully he'll perk up soon. Dr. E. said he wants a "couple of days" of fluids, so we'll see what happens.

Leyland is doing better, and today got some drops for her eye. Her daddy is home this afternoon and will be here tomorrow to take care of her while I work. She was so confused when we drove Whitney and Corey to ARMC. She knows "her" hospital, and kept saying "Where we goin', Greemaw", when we didn't turn down Alps Road. A thousand questions later (in a 3 to 4-block drive) she saw ARMC and said "Is that Corey's hospital?" "I see Corey's hospital!!" "Can we go in Corey's Hospital?" Then after Whitney and Corey got out of the car, "Can we go to Leyland's hospital?" ::cough, cough:: "Greemaw, I'm coughing, we need to go to my hospital!" That poor kid has been admitted to the hospital and had more ER visits than most kids have in a lifetime. Hopefully, we've escaped admission for her on this go-round.

Please keep us in your prayers. (And keep your hands washed!!!!) This is a wicked bug indeed.