A Little Dirt Never Hurt Anybody

When Whitney was a little girl, I was ever so determined not to let her get dirty. I just couldn't stand the dirty face and hands, the spilled food on the clothes or that red Georgia dirt on her shoes. Half my time, it seems, was spent chasing her with a moist wipe or a washrag. When I would pick her up from daycare in the summertime, she would look like a little Indian, with red dirt all over her skin and her clothes. There were times in the bathtub when I'd pour water on her head and rivulets of mud would stream down her face. I couldn't wait every evening to get her bathed and dressed in her nice clean jammies. I remember one time being at my grandparents' house, and the kids outside playing in the yard under the watchful eye of my grandfather. Here I go with a wet rag to wipe the dirt off her face, when Daddy Bill barks at me "Caffy, that youngun's gonna get rickets if you don't let her get a little dirt on her!!" It tickled me so much that I didn't bother to tell him that rickets is a vitamin D deficiency, and that the "d" doesn't stand for dirt. I got the message loud and clear, and tried to lighten up a little bit with my obsession. Thankfully, Whitney never contracted "rickets", and I learned that A Little Dirt Never Hurt Anybody. Which is a really good thing, because nowadays I'm treated quite often to the upturned dirty little faces of my two precious grandchildren. Especially if there's a camera nearby. The cuter the pose, the dirtier the face, it seems. They are very adept escape artists after meals or snacks, and Corey especially hates to get his nose wiped. I have a box full of pictures that, with some Photoshop face-washin', could land these kids on the cover of magazines. I have Photoshop, but haven't learned how to use it. But you know what? A Little Dirt Never Hurt Anybody. And here are a few photos to prove it:

 

Sleepless in Seattle

Well, not really Seattle. I've never been to Seattle. But I do love watching Grey's Anatomy! A more accurate title would have been Sleepless at The 409, but curb appeal aside, it just doesn't sound quite as interesting. What's up with me lately? I'm quite sleepy, yet when I lay my head down to rest, I can't seem to find the off switch for my brain. It would be fabulous if the thoughts conjured were of some use for mankind, such as the cure for dreaded disease, the best solution for healthcare reform, or even better, how to streamline our household chores into bite-sized chunks, or a formula to ward off toddler tantrums. No such luck. The things that go through my mind run the gamut from how best to arrange my patterned paper and colored cardstock, to "if I remove those screws from that bar on the wall, I wonder if I could find another one that would allow the arm for the shelf to be more versatile" to "now what was Jessie's mom's name?" to "I already lost one stud-finder, I can't believe I have purchased another one and now it's gone too". Or maybe it's trying to mentally sort through the random items in my laundry room, and deciding what to keep and what to toss. It gets so bad sometimes that I fear the sheep will start screaming at me to start counting again. Some nights I try to use the hours lying awake in the dark to format story lines for my book. A lot of good that would do, since I'd likely forget them by morning anyway. I've even taken to bed with me high school U.S. History textbooks. You'd think that would be incredibly boring. Not for Ms. Wierdo Nerd here. I'm finding it almost as fascinating as a good Patterson read. I have no fondness for warm milk and cookies. Matter of fact, don't come at me with any kind of milk, warm or cold. Well maybe some of that hot chocolate made from milk, cocoa and sugar like my mom used to make when we were kids and it snowed.

Are we seeng a pattern here in this post? Random thoughts bouncing all over the page? Yep, that's how it is with my brain when I am ready for sleep. If I could just somehow channel that energy to mid-afternoon, when lack of REM causes my eyelids to droop and it is only the sudden jerk of my body as I am pulled from the edges of sleep just before falling out of my chair, that brings me back to reality. ...Sigh... it's the Dunahoo curse. My mom, and all my aunts have it. Pretty stinkin' unfair, though, since all of them are retired. They can stay up to 3 a.m. playing silly computer games, then loll about in the bed till nearly noon. Oh well. I guess they deserve it. If I remember correctly, they all suffered through it before retirement as well. I suppose if they were able to live through it, I shall too. And who knows, perhaps some sleepless night I shall indeed have a thought and devise a plan to change the course of the future. Until then, I'll just remain, Sleepless at The 409.

Mommy's Little Helper

This past weekend, I enjoyed a rare Saturday outdoors, working on a project that I had been planning for quite some time. It was great being out in the fresh air and sunshine and I loved every minute of it!! It was not without its consequences, though. Manual labor doesn't often find itself on my to-do list, and I suffered quite a bit with stiffness and sore muscles. The project is about 90% complete, but there remains some tweaking and a few more trips to the lawn and garden department at Wal Mart before I'm ready to post pictures. I'm just irritated at myself for not taking "before" pictures. It's not such a huge thing, really, and I doubt HGTV would be interested in my handiwork, but if there had been a "before" picture, I'm sure you would have a greater appreciation for the "after". I'm hoping to complete it this weekend. I work late on Sundays and Mondays, so I had planned to spend the late afternoon on Tuesday working on it. The trees in my yard never get completely bare (as noted in my snow pictures), rather they drop their leaves all through the winter, so it's a challenge to keep them at bay. Needless to say, some major leaf blowing was in order. This presented a problem, since I do not own a leaf blower. And my neighbor Alex has moved away, and that rascal took all his tools with him. So not only is he not here to help me out any more, (translated = do whatever needs doing around here), now I have to go find someone else who might have whatever tool it is that I need to borrow. The nerve of some people! Fortunately, David has a leaf blower, and graciously allowed me to borrow it. After about an hour and a half, I had a pile of leaves the size of a small volcano. I knew that rain was forecast for Tuesday night, so I had planned on bagging the leaves and spreading more pine-nugget mulch on Tuesday afternoon when I finished work. Well, you know what they say about the best-laid plans. Whitney's monthly PC meeting was changed from Monday night to Tuesday night, and Dustin is tied up with the band on Tuesdays. She rather forlornly said that she would just miss her meeting. During my apology to her that I really MUST get the leaves raked and bagged before the rains came, I decided that a barter proposition was in order. I would babysit so she could attend the meeting, if she would bag the volcano of leaves. Talk about a win-win!! She'd do the nasty work for me, and I'd suffer through an evening of babysitting (dancing, tickling, mani-pedi, bubble bath and tons of grandbaby snuggles!) Leyland was super excited when she got home from school to learn that she would be spending the afternoon outside helping her mommy while Corey napped. She was so cute with her rake. Here are a few photos I snapped while she worked:

After a ride on DJ and David's golf cart we turned on the music inside and danced. Leyland wanted to "wedding dance" with me. She kept saying "Now do this" and she would bend way over to the right, or way over to the left. I finally figured out she wanted me to "dip" her. Then she had to "dip" me. We waved our arms in a fairy dance, we did the hokey pokey, and had the best hand-clapping, foot-stomping time ever!! Once Corey was all tucked into bed, Leyland gave me a big hug, whispered in my ear and asked if she could have a bubble bath. We don't do that often, simply because it's a pain to rinse off all the bubbles, and too many bubble baths tend to irritate her skin, but what the heck. This was Greemaw's night, so by all means, bring on the bubbles! After bath came the pedicure/manicure session. First I did hers, then she did mine. Oh boy. Those red-carpet movie star divas ain't got nuthin' on Leyland and Greemaw! Now don't laugh at my ugly toes, and my still-healing BigFoot, but here's the result of my mani-pedi compliments of Princess Leyland:

She did a really fine job, I think! The look of concentration on her face as she tried to perfectly paint my stubby nails was just precious. She's Mommy's Little Helper, and Greemaw's little angel!!

Kiss Me I'm Irish!

Yay me! I finally found the time, and a cute blog layout that I fancied. Changes have been made somewhere within the bowels of Blogger that make uploading a new template UBER simple. How exciting! I won't dread it so much next time. So I took a chance on another theme-related layout, seein' as how I'm Irish and all. (Dunahoo... how much more Irish can you get?) I learned an interesting fact the other day about my Irish ancestry. My great, great grandfather, Lawrence Edward Dunahoo, stowed away on a ship from Ireland to America. I forget the year. It had something to do with a potato famine in Ireland. I must talk with my cousin Becky again and get the details in writing... lest I forget again. Anyhow, I've taken a chance on another theme-related layout, hoping that I will take the time to change it once St. Paddy's Day has come and gone. Incidentally, we are hoping for a new addition to the family at least by then. Lucy Jayne is due to arrive on the St. Patrick's Day! Maybe Ryan will give out green cigars. Hope you enjoy the layout for a few days. And nudge me if I forget to change it afterwards. Have a great day and enjoy the sunshine!!!

Letting It Slide Another Day

I've been fretting about getting my blogger background changed. It's time for a more spring-like layout. Bunnies, and flowers, and trees in bloom. However, looking out my window this morning, I see Old Man Winter is resisting retreat about as valiantly as Corey resists a good face-washing. So I'm not going to stress (at least today... and probably not tomorrow) about having a snowman on my blog. Another snow day to enjoy. Wonder what it is about softly falling snow that has such a calming effect on me? I love sitting here in my jammies at my desk, working so hard (or writing a blog post), watching the snow fall right outside my window. With the ground covered in white, I feel a little better about leaving Mr. Snowman on my blog for another day. Besides, despite the large amount of time already devoted to finding a new background, I just haven't found "it" yet. So I'll keep searching when time allows.

However, I suppose I probably should make an attempt at removing the lighted garland with our Christmas stockings off the ledge in the den. At least the garland is green, and I suppose I could put some shamrocks on the stockings.... But I'll probably just let it slide another day. Or two.

It's All About Me

Well, it's my blog, so I guess it can be all about me if I want it to, right? :-D I've been called a lot of things in my life, but today was a first for this: narcissist.

Studies show that, whether we admit it or not, everyone loves to hear their name spoken. Most of us can't resist looking in the mirror as we go past, whether to admire God's handiwork or critique it. Isn't it funny, though, how many of us don't like looking at photographs of ourselves? Or hear our own voice on a recorder? Oh, I don't mind looking at photographs of myself when I was younger. And thinner. It's these past 20-25 years' worth of photos that I don't like. The same image we see in the mirror looks much older, and often heavier, when looking at a still shot or video. "Do I really look that old/heavy/grey-haired/etc??" Perhaps our daily view of ourself is a bit distorted, to enable us regular folk to avoid the self-loathing that we often find ourselves engaged in when looking at a photograph. Whatever. I just choose to see a much younger, thinner, more attractive woman in the mirror than what some silly photographer captures in print.

Whitney thinks it is so funny (and narcissistic) that I go back and read my old blog posts. Narcissistic? Maybe. However, I prefer to think of it as enjoying a walk down Memory Lane. A week or so after I've written a post, I've pretty much forgotten about whatever it was I wrote. So I like to go back and read it, to remind myself what I did last week that was so blogworthy. Much of it has to do with my grandchildren anyway, so it's not so much about me. Besides, I like the challenge of finding typos and incorrect grammar in my old posts, and congratulating myself on my editing skills.... even if nobody else will ever go back and see it, and perhaps will always wonder why I didn't catch it the first time around. So I don't think it is narcissistic at all for me to read my old posts. I enjoy being reminded of the wonderful blessings in my life that I may have already forgotten about. If you're a new reader, by all means, you need to go back to the beginning and read them all your ownself. You'll learn far more about me than you'd ever want to know, but you'll also meet the incredible members of my family, and learn how much I dearly love them. And you'll be totally jealous that I have the best friends who ever lived. :-) You may or may not agree with my political and/or religious views, but that's okay too. Everyone is welcome.

I say all that to try to convince myself that I am indeed not a narcissist. Because I have discovered something that I want to do. I want to print my blog. There's a cool website where you just type in your blog address, and it will fix you right up with a bound book-version of your blog, complete with your photos. I want to do it. Whitney just laughs. But how cool would THAT be!! To have your very own book, about your very own (whatever you blog about) life, friends, family, struggles, victories, beliefs, joys, sorrows... I just think it's cool. And I might just do it.

Who knows. Maybe there won't be any such thing as computers or the internet, or blogs when my grandchildren grow up. They may not have the opportunity to read about CathyB in this format. While all the other kids are reading boring history books, they can be reading a book about how their Greemaw is solely responsible for global warming (chili incident), or her innovative use of Wal Mart bags, see how she looked in a bikini when she was 17 years old, or learn the reason why she will never again attempt to put on pantyhose in a bathroom stall. At a funeral. Who wouldn't just love that???

I prefer the label "historian" rather than "narcissist" any day. CathyB in print. Coming soon to a bookshelf in my room.

Footprints

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.

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.

BIGFOOT LIVES!!

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?

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.

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.

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.

Snow Day!

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!

Biscuits

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.

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.

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.

It Ain't Over Til It's Over

And we're so ready for it to be over. The adenovirus has hit our family with a vengance this weekend, and we've all but put a quarantine sign in the front yard. Corey had an ear infection and bronchitis last week, and was put on antibiotics. By Thursday he was having diarrhea, which we attributed to the antibiotics. That afternnoon, after a very *explosive* day, we took him to Dr. Edwards, who said it was adenovirus... or the same virus that causes chunkyvitis. (Whitney's word for conjunctivitis, or pink eye, when she was a little girl.) Unfortunately, Whit and Corey had already been over to Jess & Corbin's for a play date that morning, so we were worried that Corbin would end up being sick too. And bless his heart, he has been sick from both ends all weekend. Leyland contracted the upper GI form of the virus, and was so terribly sick. Then yours truly, Greemaw, had the same form as Leyland. I was covering for a co-worker on vacation Saturday morning, but was so sick I could only work for a few minutes, then make tracks between the bathroom and my bed. Thankfully, the doctors didn't dictate much priority work. I gave up the ghost when another co-worker signed on to work. Stayed in the bed all day long until 7 p.m. when I moved to the sofa... where I stayed until bedtime again. Mine was short-lived, and I feel much better today. Whitney, on the other hand, was sick all day today... so bad that she turned pale as a ghost, and lost all the color in her lips. Leyland woke up this morning burning up with fever, with full-blown chunkyvitis in her right eye. Corey has cried and screamed all day long, up until about an hour ago, and has been inconsolable. Poor little munchkins. Such a bad weekend.

We're so ready for this to be over. Tomorrow starts a new month. Let's hope we can leave all the virus germs back in January.

Busy Month for a Laylee-Bug

Tomorrow will mark the completion of Leyland's third week of 3K at Hope Christian Academy. She absolutely loves it! The week before starting school was quite eventful for the little Laylee-Bug. She gave up her pappy, and she pooped in the potty. If you don't have children, or if it has been a very long time since you had toddlers, you might not know, or might have forgotten, what a milestone this is. We have pretty much kept the pacifier company in business for the last three years, and at any given time there might be 12-15 of them lying around, and then the next day not one to be found. Giving up the pappy was a huge thing. Once she relinquished them, it was cold turkey all the way. It helped, of course, that at the same time Corey gave up the pappy during the day, only taking it at night and naptime. Giving up the pappy and completing the potty training process in one week is pretty incredible!! And that amidst the excitement of starting school the following week!! She got the hang of #1 a couple of months ago, but had a terrible time correlating #2 with the potty... preferring rather to take care of business in the corner of the living room, or other unlikely places which shall remain undisclosed at this time. Nevertheless, the light bulb clicked, and not only does she poop in the potty, but she has decided she's too big for the potty chair and must use the grown up potty. Fine with us... one less thing to stumble over when we're rushing to the bathroom because "Mommy, I gotta go NOW!!!" Since then, there have been very few accidents, and we are so proud of her! But wouldn't you just know it.. one of the aforementioned accidents happened on her first day of school! Wow. Way to make a good impression, Laylee-Bug! However, it became evident that afternoon that she had a mild tummyache, and combined with the excitement of the day, she just didn't make it in time. Now, lest you think this entire post is devoted to the bowel habits of The Little Princen, allow me to reassure you. I'll move on to other subjects... albeit of the Princen variety.

She loves school, loves her teacher and her classmates. Her teacher said in the beginning that she was fairly shy, and didn't much want to participate in any activities such as singing, clapping (sitting quietly in her chair, cleaning up after playtime...) On Monday of this week, "Miss Everik" (Miss Everett) sent home a note that pretty much said Leyland was wreaking havoc on her formerly well-behaved classroom, and that the other children were all mimicing her little devil-like behavior. Well, no, it didn't really say that... but to a mom and grandma who want so much for her to do well, it was a bit of a disappointment.. and a reality check. Yes, Leyland is a sweet, precious angel. Just ask anybody who spends time with her in Sunday School or Children's Church, or play dates with friends. They just go on about how sweet and wonderful she is. Well, 3K is a lot different from anything she has ever been exposed to, and it has been a little challenging for her . Which is exactly what she needs! Whitney wanted to get her into a situation where she would develop social skills with other children, and learn how to thrive in a structured environment. From what I can gather, the school is fairly regimented, and "structured environment" is definitely the order of the day. At any rate, after much talking, cajoling, encouraging, a tiny bit of forewarning, and promises of a treat when she got home, the next day "Miss Everik" sent home a note that her behavior was MUCH improved, and she was beginning to cooperate. she only had to stand in the corner with her nose against the wall one time (along with three other children, who, NO DOUBT were to blame for Leyland's having to put her nose against the wall.. just kidding... haha). We were ecstatic to see improvement. Yay Leyland!! And to our delight, the note today said she had a perfect day, that she sang along, recited what she was supposed to recite, and cooperated the entire time. Yay!!

Normally, she doesn't want to "talk about" what she learned at school, and won't recite or sing for us. Maybe she's feeling more comfortable with the whole thing, because today she has recited (along with Whitney and I) the Pledge of Allegiance, Pledge to The Bible, and Pledge to the Christian Flag (well, mostly she just faked it on that one.) She has recited the months of the year" "Chanuary, Febulary, March, April, May, Chin-Chuly, August, September, Optober, Novlember, Optober, Novlember, Optober, Novlember........" She sang "I will make you fishermen" (fishers of men), and "I've got the choy, choy, choy, choy down in my heart.. WHERE? Down in my heart....."

The little Laylee-Bug has had a busy month indeed, what with all that potty training, pappy-relinquishing, new-routine, peldge-learning, song-learning, months-of-the-year-learning going on.

And of course, Greemaw thinks she a genius. :-)

Here's a few shots of Leyland on her first day of school.

Hope Christian Academy

Backpack is almost as big as she is.

Yep, she'll fit right in.

Got the booger-pickin' thing

goin' on already.

State Of The Union Address

Personally, I have no problem staying awake during these speeches. I rather enjoy watching them. There are some, however, who would rather pass a kidney stone than suffer through them. It is easy to get distracted, what with all the standing ovations, and the random heckling (or truth-telling, if ya ask me). For some, it becomes a project: Count how many SOs there are during the speech. Or to change it up a bit, count how many times the left side stands, how many times the right side stands, and the rare occasion when both sides stand. We need to watch, folks. We need to bear witness to the words spoken by our President. Agree with it if you must, or disagree. But you should watch it yourself, and not get your information from the morning radio show, or in the break room at work, or some out-of-context YouTube video. Go on ahead and suffer through it. Now, for those of you who fall into the "rather-pass-a-kidney-stone-than-watch" group, here's a little challenge for you. Print the BINGO card below, pay attention, and see how many blocks you can fill.

The Rear-View Mirror

The rear-view mirror is an essential tool when driving. It enables us to keep an eye on vehicles or objects behind us, as well as give us a mini-view of where we've been When planning a fun trip, part of the package is the excitement and anticipation in planning and waiting for the big day to arrive. Unfortunately, the fun trip usually whizzes by much faster than the days leading up to it. Once we're back home again, and after the icky post-vacation chores are complete, it's time to check out the rear-view mirror, and take a look at what's behind us. Hopefully, the view will include lots of fun memories, such as is the case of our scrapbook retreat week before last. I must say, though, the atmosphere of this year's trip was quite different from previous years. There are six of us gals who are scrappers, and in years past, we've had different tag-along friends who would join us. I don't think we've ever had one make a second trip with us though, because we stay so focused on our craft that a non-scrapper gets bored rather quickly. This year there were no takers, though, and it was just us scrap-nuts. Now you must understand, that in order to be away from home for several days, and create hundreds of magnificent pages of memories, it is necessary to take numerous tote bags, rolling bags, shoulder bags, boxes, plastic crates, folding tables, crafting lights, and hundreds of pounds of card stock and pretty printed paper. The aforementioned items must be loaded into our vehicles, driven up long, curvy mountain roads, then unloaded from our vehicles and carted into the house. Then this precious cargo must be hauled down a flight of stairs into our work area. When the trip is over, the process repeats itself in reverse. Just wanted to be sure you understand the physical labor that is involved in carrying the tools of our craft. And it is totally worth it!! However, this particular trip was not as productive, layout wise if you will, as our trips in the past. For some reason or another, we had a bad case of the lazies, and all we wanted to do was nap. Then we'd snack a bit, then we'd rest a bit. At first I felt a little guilty about not staying at my table 20 hours of the day, however, I was soon able to chill out a bit and just enjoy the down time. Yes, it was a fabulous trip, and though I only completed half the amount of work I normally do, I truly enjoyed being indulgent with the lazies.

Counting Down

The long-awaited week has arrived! It's time for our annual girls-only scrapbook marathon/retreat in Highlands!!! The crop-til-you-drop, eat til you pop, nap or read to your heart's content weekend away from home!! This is our third trip to the most wonderfully huge home, high on the side of a mountain. It's the perfect scrapbook getaway, with the large basement for us to spread out our stuff, and scrap the night away. Wonder if we'll get snow this year? We'll be leaving Wednesday morning, and I will be returning Sunday morning, in order to work my shift on Sunday evening. I'm nowhere near ready... I still have to venture into the attic to retrieve my scrapbook bags, pack my paper and my "cootriments", all my tools, photos, adhesives, printer, laptop, etc. Oh yeah, it's like moving day. Then there are those pesky little details that must be attended to, like packing my clothes (sweats and jammies!), making the salsa and chili, packing all the other food items I'm taking.... so much yet to do... so little time!!! Work has been a little slow, so I decided to take Tuesday off as well. I have a mile-long list of things to do, and I'm so happy I was able to take off. The anticipation is almost as much fun as the actual trip. Almost.

Merry Maids

That commercial makes me want to scream. I have never known a woman to be that happy while mopping or vacuuming, have you? Merry Maids indeed!!! I'll betcha they wouldn't be so happy had they been at my house today. Last night, Whitney and I scheduled a date for 10:00 a.m. this morning to try and reclaim some order in the kitchen. But you know sometimes, in order to do one task, something else must be done first, and before you can do that, another chore needs to be taken care of.. and on.. and on.. Whitney has recently signed on as a consultant with Pampered Chef, and has lots of new kitchen gadgets and goodies that need a place to live, a place that allows for quick and easy access when she needs to pack for shows, but yet allows us to be able to enjoy using them as well. The cabinet she wanted to use was home to some rarely-used dishes, several small kitchen appliances, and leftover party plates, napkins from who-knows-when. The plan was to move the appliances to the cabinets in the laundry room. However, my poor laundry room has become the catch-all (*as well as quick hideaway for when someone is coming over... just stash it in there and close the door*), and those cabinets were bulging over. Literally. Open one of those doors, and no telling what might fall out. It's a very nice, spacious cabinet, with either six or seven doors, and a wonderful, long countertop for folding laundry. Well, it would be wonderful for folding laundry if I could keep it neat and clean long enough. (see ** above.) In order to move the appliances into the laundry room, the cabinets first had to be emptied and purged of items that either didn't belong in there in the first place, were old/broken/unusable, or that we no longer needed or wanted. I seem to be acquiring a rather disturbing quality in my older age. I'm turning into a packrat. I love bags and boxes, storage containers, baskets... all manner of items with which to organize and keep things tidy... only my space becomes untidy and unorganized because I have so much of this stuff. Well, enough is enough. Today I cleaned and purged the pantry shelves, the shoe bins, and the laundry room cabinets! While I worked on the pantry that holds our canned goods, Whitney cleaned out the spot where we store our boxed items like cereal, PopTarts, rice, batter mixes, yummy quickie dinners, etc. By the time this chore was complete we had filled almost an entire lawn and leaf bag. Next, I parked myself in the laundry room with a little stepstool to sit on, and opened up each cabinet door and just let it all fall out. There were a couple of times that I was concerned about a quick escape in case of an emergency... I had completely barricaded myself between my clothes dryer, the cabinets and the doorway. I found all sorts of things that had been stashed away, and discovered that, not only am I not out of light bulbs, I probably won't need to buy any for at least five years. Later in the afternoon, we decided to make a run to the dumpster. There were a lot of items that we didn't really want to keep, too good to throw away, and with little motivation to have a yard sale, we decided to donate them to a little shop here in town that sells previously-owned items. Whitney took care of that chore and cleared out a little space. By this time, both kids were cranky, even though Corey had a nice nap, and were body slamming each other in the den, fighting over some cute little pretend kitchen appliances she brought back from the little store. That's just what we need. Trying to get rid of stuff... but here she comes bringing more stuff home. It is pretty cool stuff though... little pink appliances with batteries that "really work". They're from the Pottery Barn, so I imagine they would cost a pretty penny if new. Anyhow, the kids loved them, and besides they were *free*, (traded for the junk we donated) so that's fine. They loved them so much, in fact, that the fighting continued until the point that there were bloodcurdling shrieks coming from the den. Whitney was sitting in the floor in the kitchen, I on my stepstool in the laundry room, and we just started screaming too. It was quite the moment. Then, of course, Whitney and I were laughing... but the kids found little humor in it, and continued with their screeching. When we had filled enough garbage bags that it was time to go to the dumpster, Whit suggested we load up the kids and go have pizza at CiCi's. I graciously declined the suggestion, not finding much pleasure in the thought of dining with two grumpy children. My neice calls this type of behavior "natural birth control" for anyone who might witness it. Ha! So we had the bright idea of seeing if GiGi and Pop might like a visit with the munchkins so we could deliver the trash and grab a quiet bite to eat. (Lest you think us cruel, the kids are usually quite angelic over there, so we weren't subjecting GiGi & Pop to any form of torture!) Perhaps I forgot to mention that we are currently in a deep, deep freeze here in the south. So this meant extra bundling to be sure the munchkins stayed warm for the approximately 1/3 mile trip to GiGi & Pop's house. Not time enough for the car to get warm, you see. They look so cute all bundled up with their little puffy coats, scarves and hats. So sweet. Whit and I took care of the trash, ran a couple of errands, and had a quick bite at CiCi's. (Cheap and quick!!!) I won't say it was quiet... it most definitely was not... but it was nice to have all the racket being made by other folks instead of coming from our table. :-) I nearly fell asleep driving home, I was so tired. After picking up the kids and returning to The 409, we walked into our unfinished mess. You know, sometimes in order to clean it up, you gotta make a bigger mess and then work your way back. That's what we walked in on. The bigger mess that we had left behind. How sad and defeated we felt. We had worked our butts off all day... and it looked worse (in the kitchen) than before we started. Well, maybe not WORSE... but still pretty bad. I finished up in the laundry room, swept the floor, tidied everything up and was delighted to walk out and turn off the light. It's the first time in many years that you can see the floor, and the countertop, and even a little bit of empty space left over in the cabinet!! All at the same time!! Now, that's work that nobody will see or notice, but I can tell you that I'm pretty happy about it. But I'm not gonna dance with my mop or anything like those stupid Merry Maids do. I have absolutely not one ounce of energy left. I did sweep up the kitchen floor. I'm pretty stressed because my work week starts tomorrow, but I'm hoping by bedtime tomorrow night we'll have it all spic n span, with a place for everything and everything in its place. For a day or two anyhow, and then the chaos will start creeping back in to once again take over. Now I will muster up enough energy to go get myself a nice hot bath, and hopefully get myself to sleep before much longer. I will have to watch some tv or listen to some music, though, because now I have that horrible Merry Maids commercial stuck in my head. I just want to slug that lady and tell her to wipe that stinkin smile off her face.

Blinded By The Light

So, I'm sitting in my office, working diligently at my desk, when I notice a very bright light in my peripheral vision. Today is the day that we are expecting a snowstorm, but at the moment I noticed the light, the sun was still shining brightly outside my window. And to my blog-reading friends who do not live in Georgia, first, let me define "snowstorm".

sno'-sto-werm: noun. any and all manner of frozen precipitation which may fall from the sky. Not limited to size of snowflake, or sleet pellet. Not limited to the number of said flakes or sleet pellets. If it is visual to the naked eye, no matter how small, no matter how few, it constitutes a snowstorm.

sno'-sto-werm fallout:

1. The emptying of milk and bread shelves in every grocery store, Wal-Mart and convenience store within 100 miles of predicted snowstorm.

2. The closing of schools and businesses within the same 100 mile perimeter.

3. The snarling of traffic that makes 5:00 rush hour on I-85 in Atlanta on any given day look like a ride on the Audobon.

4. The constant interruption of television programs by the local weather station to give the latest stats on "Storm Watch 2010", "Blizzard Watch 1993", "Winter Storm Tracker 1999" etc. Each storm gets it's own byline for days.

So, my northern friends... you silly yankees... please refrain from making fun of us as we hurry out to buy our milk and bread today. Okay? We can't help it. It's part of our DNA. Part of our Southern Charm, if you will.

So, back to the light-blinding thing. The bright light of the sun has given way to the grey pre-storm clouds, and it's starting to look a little dreary outside. And it's prettt-tty darn cold outside. Cold enough that you don't want to be sticking your tongue to any flagpole today, no matter how many double-dog dares you get!!

Oh yeah, the light-blinding thing. Before the sun gave way to the grey pre-storm clouds, it was shining in between the slats of the blinds in my room. From the corner of my eye, a blinding light appeared, and as I checked out from whence it came, I was reminded that I still have post-Christmas chores yet undone. My friend Craig, with whom I have reconnected on Facebook, is a pastor and author of a great blog called "The Pastor's Pages". One of his after-Christmas posts addressed the issue of undecorating after Christmas... and how it is the habit of some to have all their decorations neatly put away before bedtime on 12-25, and how some folks take a more leisurely approach to the process. I'm taking great liberty with my paraphrasing here, but he spoke of how anxious some were/are to approach the manger before, and then it seems some are anxious to hurry away from manger once the celebration is over, and put it all behind us for another year. (Read his awesome post here) I my own personal self tend to take the more leisurely approach in my undecorating chores. So leisurely, in fact, that one year I was the only one in the neightborhood with a Valentine's garland on my front porch. Hey. Red bows, red lights? Sounds like a Valentine's garland to me! I usually try to undress the tree and put away the trappings of the season by New Year's Day. But usually I'm not very successful, and it is more likely to be mid-January before everything is back to its normal state of chaos. Fortunately, it doesn't stress me. I love my skinny little Christmas tree, and it bothers me not one bit that it still sits beside my desk today, completely adorned with all the beautiful ornaments that bring me such lovely memories.

So what was the mysterious flash of light that blinded me? Not only is my lovely tree still standing proudly, but the small tree that I got for the children sits in my office as well, on the other side of the room. And because children love bling and things that sparkle, I had put some tinsel garland on the tree. Tinsel garland that is very reflective of sunlight. It was the sun peeping through the slats in my blinds, reflecting off the tinsel garland bling that was shooting beams of magnified light into my line of vision.

Just a gentle reminder, I suppose, that the time has come to put away the lovely items that I used to decorate my home in celebration of the season. Yes, I know it is time. And perhaps this weekend I shall undress the trees, and pack away the few things I set out this year, and get back to normal. Perhaps. Or I suppose I could just wear my sunglasses.