100 degrees...AND COUNTING

I never thought I'd be happy to see the temperature in the mid to upper 90's, but I certainly am. After a week, more or less, we're finally cooling off...sort of. Yesterday was so nice when we broke class for lunch that I took my brown bag outside in the shade and read a book while I ate.

Mater Gardening class is going well. Everybody there WANTS to learn. The people who have already been certified as Master Gardner's are very helpful. Although, I can't remember the last time I had to do homework.

As usual, I spent all day today catching up on e-mails. I can work the entire day without ever looking at a blueprint. Jimbob is always surprised when I tell him I've spent a million dollars before lunch. I just wish I could put it in my bank account.

Oh well, it's not mine so I spend, spend, spend.

Whatever

It's Saturday and I've had a busy day. First thing this morning was breakfast at the Westin Hotel with the regular monthly gang.

Then I went to the Food Whore's house to set up her blog. She has a new computer and is just learning to use it. I guess she had a MAC before and it was quite a bit different.

A trip to Home Depot to get a flap for the toilet and $50+ dollars later I was back in my car headed home. Needless to say I got a little more than a flap for the toilet. I needed a pot and saucer for my new "Moon Pie Hibiscus", potting soil and furnace filters. At least I got out of there for under $100.

Finally, I have the new dishwasher up and running. The only thing I have a problem with is getting the kick plate back in place. I need an extra pair of hands to lold it in place and screw it in. I'll get it...eventaully.

FRIDAY FRIPPERY

It's Friday Frippery. I've been in a quandary trying to decide what the word for the day should be. I threw dildo, cacophony, bimbo and pithy into a hat and drew out pithy. That was too tame so I threw it out and tried again. And the winner is: bimbo.

I'm sure this conjures all sorts of lurid visions to mind, however here is the Miriam Webster Dictionary definition. BIMBO: 1. slang, usually disparaging: MAN: WOMAN: used especially of an attractive but empty-headed person. 2. slang TRAMP bimbos. "Evidence of how her hubby had been cheating with various bimbos."

Notice the inference is that bimbo is automatically a woman. I read somewhere (if I could only remember where) the word originally referred to a silly, empty-headed man. Just as Bambi was originally a MALE deer in Walt Disney's movie. But I dare you to name a male child Bambi these days.

OOPS, I almost forgot the WARNING: This is my forum to be my inane, irrelevant, irreverent, irregular, irresponsible, smart ass self. The opinions expressed in this blog are still not and probably never will be the opinions of management. The newness of that lovely phrase hasn't worn off yet.

So...What shall I discuss while I sit here pulling at my carnivorous underwear? Perhaps that's as good a place to start as any.

1. Men have it really easy. When they need new underwear, they go to the store (or send their significant other) pick up the first package with the correct size...and they're done. Women are not so fortunate. Panties aren't so bad once you decide what style you like, but bras are a living nightmare. Just because the tag says 34C, that's no guarantee that it will fit. The same bra by a different manufacturer may be a 36B. Apparently there is no uniform standard of bra sizes. Even when a bra is deemed comfortable while peering into the mirror, there is margin for error. 30 seconds in front of the mirror is no true test for a long day of 8, 9, 10, or 12 hours at the office.

In addition it is imperative to find just the right bra that is appealing to the man in your life as well as COMFORTABLE. All that decided, the next big decision is, "What color?" They now come in a vivid array of black, white, bright orange, Fuchsia, turquoise, flowered or even paisley. No wonder a woman is tired after going bra shopping. Then the problem of carnivorous underwear rears its ugly head. I get really cranky when my underwear starts pinching!

2. Be careful what you say to your children Not only can it come back to haunt you at the most inopportune times, but according to psychologist you might mark your kid for life. (I smell a lawsuit brewing.) I grew up with a phobia about my feet. I was convinced they were the WORLD'S LARGEST FEET. Just because Mom wore a 4 1/2 doesn't mean an 8 is a gunboat. In addition I was led to believe that anything over 110 pounds (I'm 5'7") screamed obese. Wait there's more. If you are obese you're automatically stupid. I take no claim for any of these pearls of wisdom.

3. When my children were finally old enough to move out, friends kept asking if I was suffering from empty nest syndrome. I refrained from saying "Hell no!, but only just barely. As much as I love my children, I'm not IN love with them. I knew from the start that they would grow up and get on with their lives. Sure I miss them, but I don't want to live with them again.

That will have to suffice for now. I'm not in the mood to be creative.

TTFN

Have You Ever? Part 1

Walked on the beach with someone you love.
Laughed until your sides ached.
Searched for shapes in the clouds.
Or watched a billowing mass of thunderheads piling one on top of another.
Hit your finger with a hammer.
Picked wildflowers with your daughter.
Cried where your children can’t hear you.
Gone rock hopping down the middle of a stream.
Held a sick child in your arms for a full day.
Witnessed your child’s first solo bike ride.
Driven with the top down going absolutely nowhere.
Swung so high that you thought you might go over the top.
Gotten falling down drunk.
Sat by your child’s hospital bed after a serious injury.
Had the sillies for a whole day.
Danced naked in front of the mirror.
Watched the sun come up in the morning.
Spent six weeks in the hospital.
Rested your head on someone’s shoulder and talked nonsense.
Asked for a hug; given a hug.
Bought something that you had no use for.
Seen a solar eclipse.
Wished you hadn’t eaten that last piece of pie.
Played in the sprinkler.
Rescued a stray animal.
Run barefoot through a sticker patch.
Given blood knowing you might save a life.

Cat or Kitten?

Jimbob was so sweet last night. He knows how much I want another cat so he had arranged for a piano tuner friend to bring over (4) kittens that are just two months old. They are absolutely adorable, but I don't like kittens.

Give me a full grown, mature cat and I'm completely happy. Kittens get into EVERYTHING, scratch the furniture (and me), climb curtains, hide under furniture and all that stuff cute little kittens do. Adult cats on the other hand are calmer, more dignified and generally don't get a wild hair up the butt and go chasing phantoms.

Obviously not all cats are created equal, but at least with an adult, you get a better idea of what you are getting yourself into from the start. I've adopted several cats from the SPCA and they've been wonderful.

Besides, everybody loves kittens and they are more likely to find a home than a mature cat. Don't get me wrong, what Jimbob did was from the heart. I just happen to have an aversion to infant and/or juvenile felines.

Monday on Tuesday

It's day's like this when I know I need to retire. It only takes one extra day off (even if I was in class) to convince me I've outlasted my usefulness in this office. Oh, sure, I still do my job but my heart isn't in it. It's not fun any more.

Who said work should be fun? Certainly not our supervisors. But think about it. If moral is low, productivity goes to hell. The boss doesn't care as long as he get's his six figure salary, a huge incentive paycheck and he can blame the peons below him when something goes wrong.

Oh darn, I forgot. We now get to call everyone, including the CEO, Mike. (That's an inside joke. All the top execs in our corporate office are named Mike.) Friday has been designated as jean day...and let me see, there are other changes in the air if I can only remember them. That's right, we are now officially allowed to personalize our cells. I say officially because we've been doing it for years. In addition, lights and air will be left on until 8:00PM in case you have no life and want to stay here and work that late.

Let's discuss work cubicles for a moment. I am fortunate enough to have one to myself even if I feel like I'm going to be puked out into the hall at any moment. I can't even adjust my underwear with a small modicum of privacy. Some people have what is refferd to as "pods". That's four pour souls jammed together with half-height walls between them. Prisoners have more privacy.


Moving on now to the saga of my defunct dishwasher. The new unit was delivered late Saturday morning. I'd taken the old one out the night before, so I was all ready to install my shiny new Porche of a dishwasher. The first thing I discovered was that the water intake was under the machine instead of on the side. Not wanting to make more than one trip to Home Depot, I checked for other situations that might bite me in the butt. Second problem; the copper pipe from under the sink was too short.

That appeared to be all I would need to purchase to complete the project. The guy at Home Depot was very helpfull. He even had a kit that contained that little "L" shaped adapter do hickey for attaching the water line and a new style woven hose to deliver water all in one package.

Back home, I decided it'd be easier to attach the hose before sliding the unit into place since it had to be layed on its back to get to the coupling. Then I leveled it, slipped the other end of the hose through the opening under the sink and cautiously moved it into place. Oh success was so sweet! At least that's what I thought.

It seems that the *&^#%$ plumbers who installed the original unit used a 3/8" flange nipple instead of a 3/8" compression fitting. Guess what! You can't use a female compression fitting with a male nipple. So now, my beautiful new dishwasher is just setting there looking beautiful. I even got the electrical wiring accomplished without a hitch (or a zap) but what good is that if you can't hook up to the water.

I also have bruises on the back of both arms from trying to wedge myself under the sink. I look like someone beat me up. Are all plumbers Munchkins?

Damn, damn and double damn. It's a conspiracy!

FRIDAY FRIPPERY

Friday Frippery has arrived. Don't groan too loud.

WARNING: This is my forum to be my inane, irrelevant, irreverent, irregular, irresponsible, smart ass self. The opinions expressed in this column are still not, never have been and probably never will be those of management. Yeah, I still like saying that no matter how inane it may sound (snicker, snicker).

The word of the day is: UMBARAGE 1. Shade; shadow; hence, something that affords a shade, as a screen of trees or foliage. 2. A vague or indistinct indication or suggestion; a hint. b. Reason for doubt; suspicion.3. Suspicion of injury or wrong; offense; resentment. As in: George felt umbrage at the implied umbrage made by Dick. You got that?

My spell check is still sick, so I apologize for my blind fingers.

1. Have you ever heard of a composer named A Nony Mous? Probably not unless you're a lover of clasical music. There was a WHOLE bunch of stuff by A Nony Mous done in the Renaissance days. Very prolific guy.

2. Proceeding with the inane. Just don't take umbrage at my words. Why do men name their lower body part (that's a ufinism)? I've heard it called johnson, dick, schwartz, schwantz, rod, cock...my ex called his PD. You don't hear women assigning an arbitrary name to their sexual organs. Who do these guys think they are, anyway?

3. The other day Karyn was talking about spinner hubcaps and I just happened to see some last night. Do people really pay for these silly toys? What purpose do they serve? They're about as practical as me donning butt floss (thongs) and a couple of pasties and trying to get the tassels to rotate in opposite directions. Any direction for that matter.

4. How on Earth can gas stations justify a $00.30 increase per gallon in less than one week? Yes, I know crude has gone up to $67.00 a barrell (at least that's the last price I heard), but gas made from that stuff isn't even somebody's wet dream yet. As far as I'm concerned there is something drastically wrong with this picture.

5. It's hell when your internal thermostat has only two settings, "Sweat" and "Shiver". One of the reasons I left Illinois was because of the coooold winters. Now I come to Texas and freeze all summer because the air conditioners in public places are cranked down to 55 degrees. I should have just moved to Alaska for all the good it did me. Jimbob and I don't have thermostat wars, although I do keep my sweater on most of the time. I HATE BEING COLD!

6. Talk about hate, it takes far too much energy to hate. Why waste your time in such trivial persuit? Surprise the daylights out of someone, say, "I love you," and watch their reaction. Be prepared to run, they might call the cops for sexual harrassment.

7. Last but not least, I'm a people watcher. I just love the guy who gets in his car and thinks nobody can see him. Therefore, he is free to do anything that feels good. What a treat to look over to the car stopped next to you at a red light and the driver has his finger buried up his nose to the second knuckle. And you thought I was going to say something dirty. What's he looking for, GOLD? Perhaps it's really Homer Simpson. Makes ya wanna roll down the window and ask for a date. NOT!!!!

TTFN

SHORT, SHORT

Today will be a short post. I worked my derriere off yesterday to get caught up and now I'm brain dead. Then I had to go over to our church before choir practice to help Betty clean out one of the closets that was full of craft stuff.

At lease that's what I was told. That closet had twenty years of garbage kept on the off chance that someone might need it. (Who the hell is this someone?) Yes there really were a few craft supplies, very few. Betty and I split the things we wanted, trashed a whole bunch more and sent the remainder to a local charity. The church is expanding and is knocking out the wall where the closet is and we were elected to get down and dirty.

Now isn't that exciting? I warned you I was brain dead. Choir practice was torture as far as I'm concerned. Jimbob got the bright idea that everyone should clean out their folders of music we're not actively working on. That resulted in about 500 pieces of paper for me to organize and file.

Thank God, we also elected new officers and I've been relieved from my post as librian. I didn't celebrate too loudly. I'm no longer Marion the Librarian. Hallelujah!

TRIVIA

Why is it when you take one day off from work, it takes you three days to catch up? Monday was my first day of Master Gardners class and I had such a good time. Everybody's so friendly and the instructor is happy to be there.

Since Monday was our first day, the former graduates of the class brought in lunch for us. It turned out there were more Master Gardners there than students. So in all, we had about 60 people. I hope one of these days I'll be able to say I'm a certified Master Gardner.

Now for another subject, guess who's going to be installing a new dishwasher this weekend? Our old one has been going bad for the last six months. I suppose I'm lucky it lasted 13 years. It just seems like everything is breaking down all at once. In one month I've had to buy a new freezer, garbage disposal and now a dishwasher.

John at Romantic Ramblings was right. It's a conspiracy. I don't dare think about the refrigerator that sounds like a grabage hauler squasing trash when the ice maker comes on. The little flap that keeps the cold in when you aren't getting ice through the door only closes sporadically (meaning almost never) so we have to make sure to pull that little pressure thingy back in place. The insulation on the door has been disintegrating for the past 2-3 years. Yes, it's a conspiracy.

Okay, so now it's time for me to wade into this bottomless pit called my desk. And while I'm at it, the spell check on my blog site suddenly doesn't work. I can spell but my fingers are blind.

FRIDAY FRIPPERY

Here I am again with Friday Frippery. The word for the day is deluge. Getting out my trusty, crusty old dictionary, the definition is: 1. To overrun with water. 2. To inundate in overwhelming numbers. 3. Anything that overwhelms as if by a great flood. If you haven’t guessed by now, I like to play with words. As in: The sudden deluge washed Joe's house into the Pacific Ocean.

WARNING: This is my forum to be my inane, irrelevant, irreverent, irregular, irresponsible, smart ass self. The opinions expressed in this column are still not necessarily those of management. Yeah, I still like saying that no matter how inane it may be. Although, I promise not to hit you with a deluge.

1. Oh goody, goody! We learned recently that our company has a new policy. No last names. Everyone is equal (oh sure). When I started here 30 plus years ago the rule was that non-management people called management by their last names. What it really boiled down to was the women called the men mister. Back then no one had heard of THE GLASS CEILING. It was just plain, old chauvinism. When you look at it in that light, I suppose we’ve made progress.

2. Ah such fond memories. Back in the good old days (GAG), I worked directly with a man who thought women should be barefoot and pregnant. One morning he announced to me that men were naturally smarter, meaning superior, than women because the fontanel on a female baby’s head grows over much sooner than in a male child. Thus, a man is naturally smarter than a woman because his brain has more room to grow. Don’t scowl at me I’m not the one who said it. What a caveman!

3. Hey, I saw a 1970 Ford Ranchero on my way to work Monday. I know some of you have no idea what I'm talking about, so here's a picture. Not the same color, but you get the idea. It was a car with the backseat and trunk cut out to make a pick-up bed. Pretty hot at the time. Some of the newer SUV's are along the same principal. They're not a car and not a pick-up, so what are they? UGLY!

4. I've changed my mind. (That's a woman's perogative.) The new word for the day is debauchery. Back to the Fred Flintstone dictionary: 1. Extreme indulgence in sensual pleasures; intemperance; dissipation. 2. Seduction from morality, allegiance , or duty. Now isn't that more exciting than plain old deluge?

5. Did I ever mention that I'm a dyed in the wool Pepsi freak? I don't drink coffee, so my morning caffeine is Pepsi. Don't try to palm a Coke, RC, Dr. Pepper or Mr. Pibb (do they still make Mr. Pibb?) on me. I CAN TELL THE DIFFERENCE! Never try to take away my Pepsi, or I shall be forced to sink into the depths of depraved debauchery.

6. Is there a 6 today. I can't remember. Watch out for that snake!

Prayers

Prayers are needed for Ali, JayCee's girlfriend. I mentioned before that she suffers with RSD and when it acts up, as it is now, she is in tremendous pain. There is no cure for this disease and all the doctors can do is treat the symptons.

If you are like me, when someone is hurting, my first instinct is to reach out and touch in an effort to comfort. Maybe it's a desire to take away the pain. But with RSD even the slightest touch causes more pain. It's frustrating for Ali and those who love her.

When we talked Monday evening, she said she was almost afraid to go see the new pain management doctor this Friday. She's had every possible reaction from doctors in the past that range from it's all psychological to let's test for everything under the sun. One doctor proposed a spinal implant and when Ali said no, he hustled her out of the office like a terrorist.

So, I'm asking for prayers for this young woman. If she can't be cured, at least pray for relief.

Wednesday

I'm too tired to be original today. So, I offer a couple of very short poems that I wrote some time ago.

Childhood

The child within is dead.
Hung upon a cross.
Battered and raped.
Raped and bloodied.
The mouth slack.
The eyes sightless.
The child within is dead.


Mom


The mom is broken.
Who will care for her?
No one.
Who will pick up the pieces?
No one.
The mom is broken.
Who will care for her?

KAABOOM!

And my little heart went pitter pat. As I sat at the red light, lightening seared the sky, the wind kicked up to about 60 MPH and I'm thinking TORNADO . Suddenly, my Jeep Liberty shook violently and the scatterd splatters of raindrops turned into an awesome (read, scary)deluge. Horizontzl rain pelted us like gravel shot from a cannon.

As we watched, the "Road Closed" signs and big orange construction barrels on the side street skittered across the intersection, barely missing passing cars. Visibility further reduced to no farther than the hood of the car.

When the light turned green, traffic was forced to negotiate the newly erected obstacle course. Some pulled to the side to wait out the deluge. I thought I was doing really great to maintain a steady 35 MPH. Then a big pickup with a wanna-be horse trailer roared past me. I was momentarily blinded by the rooster-tail of his wake. I guess he was too macho to cower like the rest of mortals.

Surprisingly, I made it home without incident. I was oh so glad I was no longer driving my Miata. I wonder if our motorcycle riding secretary made it home without getting blown over?


Okay, I have egg on my face. Jimbob called me yesterday afternoon. I asked if he had noticed our missing plant. He said he f ound it blown under some bushes. I apologize! My only defense is it was still dark at 6:00 AM.

AAAARRRRGGGGG!!!!

I'm pissed. Make that Pissed with a capital P. Actually it should be PISSED with capital everything. I went to let the Persian tyrant out this morning and when I opened the front door, lo and behold, I discovered that some xchdufh person had stolen one of my potted plants from the porch. I thought maybe they were just screwing around and moved it, but after a thorough search I can only conclude that it was stolen.

What they couldn't see in the dark is that it has mealy bugs. You know those white cottony, little blobs that suck the life out of plants. I hope it infects every house plant they own.

That's pretty damn low to walk up to somebody's porch and help themself to whatever they want.

Probably some of you are saything that it was just kids fooling around. So what? It wasn't theirs to take. How'd they like it if I walked up to their house and swiped a plant or lawn ornament? And Jimbob thinks I'm over-reacting when I get after him to lock his car and the doors to the house.

Okay, they didn't get into the house and steal Jimbob's art collection, or steal a car, or do damage, but I'm still PISSED!

Applause! Applause!

I think a little applause is in order. I bit the bullet today and installed my very own garbage disposal. Also known as an In-Sink-Erator. It only took me three times as long as someone who actually knows what they are doing. First though, I had to take apart the old one and disassemble some of the pipes under the sink. The old one had a 1/4" hole in the canister, so when I'd run the dishwasher, it leaked like a river. What a mess.

What I haven't said is that the friend who promised to come by and put it in, never quite found the time. So it was me, myself and I. That is after I unclogged the toilet...again. I don't know who did the plumbing in this house, but it really sucks!

There were a few tense moments when I thought I might have to call a friend for help. The only problem was, I know only one person who might help and he hadn't shown up in the first place.

My first obstacle was getting this stupid clip ring on with one hand while holding three other parts on with the other. Good old duct tape to the rescue. Once I got that on, it was time to tighten all the screws and hang the disposal. Unfortunately, I didn't have the strength to hold the disposal at arms length with my left hand and then grab the "wrenchette" with my right and twist the collar so the flanges engaged.

If nothing else, I was very ingenious. First I placed a small footstool beneath the disposal, but it wasn't quite tall enough. So I placed the hammer on top of the stool for the disposal to rest upon. "Almost there. Almost there," as the fighter pilot in Star Wars said. I still had a gap of approximately 3/8" to close. A screwdriver went under one end of the hammer and two pairs of pliers under the other. This brought me within a hair's breadth of my target. Somehow, I managed to lever the hammer up that last smidgen, grab the "wrenchette" and twist. That puppy snugged right up there where it belonged.

To die and be reincarnated as a plumber is still my idea of hell!

Friday Frippery

My friend, Karyn, has Freaky Friday, so I’ve decided to call my Friday blogs, Friday Frippery. What is frippery, you ask? Well…my dictionary (which is older than dirt) defines frippery as: 1. finery in dress especially when tawdry. 2. empty display; ostentation. 3. trifles. Now that you have been dutifully enlightened, here goes.

1. I learned yesterday that my illustrious boss is claiming credit for an idea that I advanced at a meeting the other day. How’s that for frippery?

Want more? (I doubt it.) Nevertheless, you are free to use the remote if you find my frippery irrelevant. Actually, I’m striving for tawdry today, meaning gaudy and cheap; vulgarly ornamental. I like tawdry. This is going to be my forum where I can be my inane, irregular, irrevant, irrelvant, irresponsiple, smart ass self.

WARNING: The opions expressed in this column are not ncessarily those of management. (He,he! I've always wanted to say that.)

2. I was feeling pretty grody (as in grow-dee) by the end of the day on Thursday. If you’re not familiar with grody, it’s a cross between gross and yucky. I couldn’t take a shower for 24 hours after my epidural on Wednesday. So even though I took a PTA (pussy, tits and armpits) bath as my mother used to say back in the days before she became so sanctimonious. Now, nothing so crass as armpits sullies her saintly lips. No, I'm not making fun of my mother. I've just come to terms with who she is.

3. Speaking of which, Mom is the only human being in the history of mankind who has had two immaculate conceptions. Sex? She never had sex.

4. My father, who was quick to tell everyone he had 2 (count them, that’s two) degrees in education, entertained some very strange ideas about how to pronounce certain words. Take bomb for instance, according to WT, it was pronounced “bumb” because it had a short “o”, unlike grody. At one time, I lived in the Simi Valley in CA. The main/only drag in town was Tapo ST/BLVD/AVE, I can’t remember which. Nevertheless (I like nevertheless, too), according to WT, it was pronounced “Tapia” because his good friend Mr. R who was also a teacher pronounced it that way. And if another teacher called it “Tapia”, well…you get the idea.

5. Chili Didget. What ever happened to the woman who put a finger in her bowl of Wendy's chili? I want to know if it was fried, fricasseed, broiled, boiled, stewed, sauteed or barbequed. But, more importantly, WHO'S finger was it and WHERE did she get it? Perhaps she's another Loraina Bobbett and cut off her husband's pe---, oops that's finger while he was sleeping. Instead of throwing it in the middle of a busy intersection from the window of a speeding car, this woman decided to put it in her chili. EWE, grody!

So…have I been tawdry enough for Friday Frippery? Tune in next Friday and I'll see what other unrelated, rediculos bits of gaudy and cheap nonsense I can come up with. If not educational, at least I can be offensive.

TTFN

Day After

I've actually had a pretty good day after my epidural. At least my back and legs aren't screaming like normal. I keep praying this will work. After visiting physical therapist, surgeons and chiropractors for the last 4 years, I'd given up and thought I'd have to live with the pain for the rest of my life. This new guy specializes in pain management. A horse of another color.

My son's girlfriend (22 years old) suffers from a nerve disorder called Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy (RSD) that causes her a great deal of swelling and pain. Since it cannot be cured, she has decided to try my doctor (one of many along the way). I sure hope he can help her. I know she's had problems for many years and some doctors don't believe RSD is real.

Now, on the lighter side of life, I've set up a blog for Jimbob named "The Bear in the Closet", the trick is to get him to use it. He kinda thinks computers are only for playing games. In reality, he's scared to death he's going to mess something up. In spite of my best efforts, I can't get him to check his own bank balance or check his e-mail. Although he says that's not true, he checks it every six months or so.

To be, or not to be?

Well...I think that's the question. I'm going this afternoon to have an epidural. Maybe (I hope) it will help relieve some of my back and leg pain. It's really difficult to be upbeat when you hurt all the time.

I'm really not a wuss when it comes to pain. Anyone who gives birth to a 9lb.1oz baby knows what pain is. I've also been a wreck where I took out the side window with my head. But those things heal. When the pain is constant, it wears you down. I can't even sleep at night because no position is comfortable. Too many nights I get up and sleep in the recliner. It's not a whole lot better than sleeping in bed. Just different.

Maybe this will be like putting a bandaid on appendicitis and hoping it will go away, but I'm willing to try. Prayers are appreciated and I'll let you know tomorrow how it went.

Anyone got a cuddly teddy bear to hang on to?

Procrastinating

I'm procrastinating (ooh, such a big word) this morning. It's not just that I don't want to work, my brain isn't up to the task. If I sit still too long, I might fall asleep. It must be the OZONE (don't believe everything you hear) in the air making me feel dopey. In fact I feel like I never went to sleep last night.

Our Bible study group celebrated the completion of CSLewis' book, "The Screwtape Letters". Since we are going to read another of his books (Mere Christianity), we decided to watch a movie about CSLewis' life. And of course you can't sit down and watch a movie without munchies. Our idea of finger food escalated into a full meal.

But that's still no excuse for not wanting to work. The truth is when I finish up what's on my desk, I won't have anything to do. It's the same every year, you work your tail end off just to keep from drowning, then all of a sudden not only are you caught up, but... there's nothing to do. Construction always starts winding down about now.

It's bad business to have a store torn up for construction during back to school time. Then there's Thanksgiving and Christmas. Actually, it'll be one huge sale after another for quite some time. And if you go up North, there isn't a whole lot of ground breaking for new construction happening over the winter.

So, now is a good time to tie up all those loose ends that have been hanging over my head for so long. Let's see...I can clean out my files for the next flood of paperwork. Train the new girl. File my nails. Go for a walk. Aggravate certain co-workers who suffer from swollen heads. Schmooze.

Well, it appears that I'll have a very busy day after all.

SOAP BOX

Tilt, Reset, Undo, Delete, Redo. I'm amazed when I watch kids playing video games. How many times can they push reset or undo before their character dies? And why must that character die? Why can't he/she simply lose the game. What ever happened to sportsmanship?

There are times when I think kids believe that life is like a video game. If you don't like the way things are going, push reset and start all over. Worse case scenario, blow somebody away just to see how it feels.

Heaven knows, these kids drive like they're hustling a video game. My daughter, Miss B, told me once that a friend of hers had totaled his car the night before. Then she went on to say, "That's not bad, it's only the second wreck he's had since he got his license a year ago."

Two wrecks in one year? That's not bad? I've been driving 42 years and have never been involved in a wreck as a driver.

When my kids wailed, "But Mom, you just don't understand!" they were right. I Don't understand the excuse of, "It's not my fault". Did someone come along and put a gun to their head and say, "I'll blow your head off if you don't break your mother's chair"? I always said I had three kids, Jaycee, MissB and Not Me.

Okay, so I'm an old fogy. And I'm sure our parents thought the same things about us when we were growing up. I remember when I was about 7 years old, my mother was horrified because the son of her best friend was having a "BOP" (like in BEBOP) party. You would have thought the kid had announced he was going out to get drunk and hire a prostitute.

Yeah, yeah. I know. Your probably wondering who put a burr under my saddle. Damned if I know. Sometimes, ya just gotta let it all hang out.