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Welcome to the BOMB.

The Blog Of the "Mother" of Bandit.
Bandit is my Hairless Chinese Crested--he's the "normal" one. I, on the other hand, am unrepentantly "pet-crazy." You know the type--the spinster who lives in the haunted house three blocks over with 72 cats...okay, so I don't have 72 cats, and my house isn't haunted--but my dogs wardrobe is better than mine! Need I say more? :~)
I've never been consistant at journaling, so the timing of my blogs will be sporadic at best. I just hope they are as entertaining to you as they are to me; however, be forewarned: Most of my blogs will be about The BaldOne. In spite of his Don King "do," I think he's just as cute as any of the Brothers B!
Now, if I can just remember not to get him wet--or feed him after midnight...

About Me

My photo
My bags are packed and I'm always ready to seek out an adventure with Bandit and Moggy in tow. Bandit is my thirteen year old Chinese Crested, who I frequently call The Bald One or The BaldOne Boy (like he was one of the Baldwin Brothers). Moggy’s full name is Pip-Moggy. He’s my two year old gansta-resuce kitty. I couldn’t decide between Pip (which are the spots on die and domino tiles) and Moggy (or Moggie when I mistakenly thought he was a she), so I combined the two. Moggy refers to the British term for "cat of unknown parentage .” So in essence, I have an almost bald dog, and I’ve named my cat “Spot.”

Fun Stuff (I'm doing now or have done)

  • Artistic Attempts weekly (alternating between Painting With A Twist, That Art Place, and Peniot's Palette).
  • Bunko with the Belton Bunko Babes monthly.
  • Participating in the A to Z Blogging Challenge.
  • Spades and Liverpool Rummy with the Spadetts weekly.
  • The Mighty Texas Dog Walk, Austin (fund raiser for Service Dogs, Inc--they train shelter dogs to be Service Dogs, then give them free of charge to people with disabilities.)

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Ding-Dang Nuisance

We were howling at the moon Friday night.

That could be  the opening line of the telling of one of my exceedingly vivid dreams. Any other day it might be. But this time we actually were howling. But it was with laughter.

You see, the Presley's learned they are potentially richer than they could have ever imagined.  However, they are not rich because they are 8th Cousins to THE Presley. They are not rich because they are Children of the Most High. They are not rich because they are a tight-knit family who loves each other completely--warts and all. Even though all of those things are true, none of those reasons are the source of their riches.

As thy realized the source of their wealth they shook their heads in disbelief, and howled with laughter that rendered them gasping and speachless: their soon-to-be-rich-beyond-their-wildest-dreams-empire will be based on a nuisance plant.

It all started 52 years ago when Curtis Breaux married into the unorthodox Presley clan. Before his untimely death, Curtis was thought to be a sane, level-headed, clear-thinking Cajun.

They now think the Cajun may have been slightly off his rocker.

For nigh on thirty years now, the Presley Men, all experienced hunters, have walked past the topiary in Linda and Curtis' front yard. They've gazed upon its beautiful Pompoms.   The Presley Patriarch has often marveled at Curtis' ability to grow such beautiful plants.

Dale and his two sons, Michah and Ryan, thought this beautiful shrub looked familiar; however, they couldn't recall the name of the species.  It was the old Tip-of-the-Tongue phenomenon.  Finally, on Friday night, they asked Linda about the shrub they had admired lo these many decades. And her answer left us us all howling until 1:45 am.

Years ago her level-headed, sane, husband spent  $60 on the very same plant species that is the bane of the Presley hunting land.

Every year this plant builds a wall. A wall so dense President-elect Trump should look into scattering it along our boarders.  If he does this, his Wall will build itself. The plant is indestructible. And believe me when I tell you the guys graphically described their yearly efforts at trying to erradicate the plant--or at least enough to make an opening that their deer-targets can squeeze through onto their land. They have chopped it with a machete.  They have bulldozed it to the ground. They have burned it and scattered the ashes to the four corners of the earth.  Yet, like a pheonix, every year it resurrects itself, rising once again from its ashes to form an even thicker wall than the previous year. 

All night long the men shook their heads in disbelief as they talked about Curtis spending quite a chunk of change to buy one of the hated plants and plant it for all the world to see in a place of landscape honor.

Curious, Micah Googled the present-day cost of this topiary plant and found they can bring  $2,000.00 to the bank. The boys jaws dropped.  Stuned and speechless, they realized they have been sitting on a cash cow all these years and never realized it. Not only that, they had worked hard at killing it.  Very hard.

Linda, defending her husband, pointed out her beautiful plant had 20 or so symmetrical pom-poms, while  the boys acres of plants are unshaped and in their natural scraggly form.  Thinking that reshaping acres of their wall-forming plant might be more labor intense than they would be willing to endure, Michah researched other uses for their new-found gold mine.

He learned this ding-dang plant is the only North American plant that containes caffine, and when dried and brewed it produces a highly sought-after, antioxidant filled tea. 

Howling in disbelief, they realize they now have three lucrative fortune building uses for their nuisence plant:  Ding-Dang Drink, Terrifically Overpriced Topiary, and Bodacious Border Builder.

Who would've thunk their future fortune would come from this hated plant?  Surely not the Presley Men. It took a wise Cajun to show them the way.

Now they just have to harvest their Youpon Grove.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Don't Tell Me I Can't

Don't ask me how I did it, 'cause I don't know.  But I did it! 

The first boy at the AT&T store said I couldn't log onto Blogger with the icon because I didn't have a Google account or a Gmail address. I knew I did. I just didn't know what it was or what my password was. So he made me get another Gmail account.  The Blogger icon still didn't work.

The second boy at AT&T  said the Blogger icon didn't work because my Blog is linked to my yahoo email. It's a Gmail based app so at one time it was linked to the Gmail account.  I think I made the yahoo email the primary email when I started blogging in earnest this past year or so. He also said he couldn't add my yahoo email to the account manager because it only acknowledged the two Gmail accounts for some reason. And he was right.  When I clicked on add account it did not give me a keyboard to type in anything.

Until tonight.

I haven't a clue how I did it, but I managed to add the yahoo account  to the account manager. Now  all three accounts are on it.

And when I clicked on the Blogger icon, my blog popped up. It's not the full site, just a list of my blog posts, so I may continue to log in the long way after all. 

But the important thing is:  I DID IT!!!

Even in the face of naysayers. Even though my tech-savvy rating is negative gazillion to the umpteenth power, I DID IT!!!

I love doing what I'm told I can not do. Just please don't ask me how I did it, 'cause I haven't got a clue.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Moggy, The Super Moon, and My Imagination

Moggy hopped in the SUV while I charged my phone. Something white flashed on my dash (I knew it wasn't Moggy because he had claimed Bandits cushion as his own). The flash, was most likely my preoccupied minds acknowledgement of another cars headlights glancing off my windshield; however, my murder-mystry, suspense-thriller mind thought it was  reminiscent of a flapping cape hem and I got a tad bit spooked.  Tapping the door lock, I tossed the SUV into reverse so I could ensure no crouching white-cape-wearing figures lurked between me and the safety of my door.

Moggy was unphased by the thunderous thump-thumpt...thump-thumpt of my wildly racing heart.  I eased out of the driveway for a short acclimation drive--he's getting better. He actually did well this trip. Despite leaving claw marks in both my thighs and dropping down into the floorboard near my left foot.

We stopped to drop off an empty DDP bottle in a lid-less trash can.  Then I decided I really needed to get gas while I was cognizant of the quickly dropping gas gague.

Opening the SUV door at the gas station, exiting, and reentering the SUV didn't phase Moggy. He even played with my hand through the window glass by his (er...Bandits) bed. He didn't attempt the dashboard walk until we returned to our driveway.

Before I opened the door for him, I scooped him up and hugged him. Then I placed him on the ground. I wanted him to associate the exit from the SUV with me releasing him, rather than him escaping. The last time we went for a unrestrained ride, he avoided coming back in the SUV for a couple of days. We'll see how long he avoids it this time.

I needn't have worried about his fragile psyche--I found him lounging on the welcome mat. I laughed. Then told him we should have gone to the dam to take photos of the Super Moon. But this time of the morning I actually have a decent view from my yard.

So, I played with the 'droid and it's camera effects. The Cape-wearing   boogeyman did not appear.

But I did almost fall on my fanny.

A couple of times.

And only once was because a certain white cat wended his way through my legs while I gaped at the moon.

Monday, November 14, 2016

Forgetful, That's What I'll Always Be

Nat King Cole is singin' in my head...

This morning, I as I passed Shipley's I considered stopping for a kolatche since there wasn't a line. I never have time in the mornings.

In the parking lot at work, I scored a decent parking place. And didn't get distracted by anything, so I actually made it to my first meeting a tad bit early--Monday mornings I'm never ready to start the week, and am historically later than usual. Not because I'm not there--I just lose track of time. I've never been a clock-watcher.

We talked about the Cowboys win over Pittsburg. And UMHB ranking #1 in D3.

And it was announced that the meeting would start at 7:35 that morning.

And then my Supervisor looked at me and said, "I thought you were taking the  morning off?"

Yes!  I am! I have a mid-morning much needed right-knee injection. I wasn't going to come in for an hour then leave, only to return after lunch.

The really sad thing?

It's on my phone as an appointment and and alert.

What's sadder?  This morning I remembered I need to find my appointment schedule so I can request time off on Friday for my iron infusion.

But the saddest thing?

As I walked into a building a coworker and I talked about loving the cooler weather, but my knees (his back) giving us grief over the cool.  He even mentioned his back injections and as our path parted I thought about my own injections  (I no longer need them in my back, but my knees are a different matter).

And STILL I did not recall my injection appointment. Even  as I hobbled onto the elevator.

So much for sleeping in and having a leisurely breakfast as I try to wake up for the new work week.

I guess it could be worse--at least Nat is serenading me.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

It's Big Girl Panty Time

Once again, I couldn't sleep,  and it was way too late to pop a pill to put me to sleep, so I took a drive. All by myself. Truely.  Not a car on mainstreat--and nothin' but semi's on the interstate.  

Am I the only one not glued to the TV or some other news spreading device, counting the remaining possibilities for either candidate to win? Or has everyone else gone to bed and are sleeping through the election results and the resulting media sensationalization. I may never know. But I do know this: Change is Hard. And it's really hard for me...

As you may recall I have buried my old  iPhone and gone 'droid (I can not tell you how hard it made me work to drop the an and NOT capitalize the 'droid).

Change is hard. Unless something unforeseen happens in the wee smalls,  we will awaken to a Republican President, House, and Senate.  I can't recall the last time that occurred and I don't care to Google it at this time. "What?! ML's NOT going to Google it?" You might be asking yourselves. Or not. 

Getting back to change being hard--not only will the country be in for some hard changes, but more importantly *I* am in for some hard changes. You see, I hated being held hostage by my iPhone because I don't have a way to download my photos to a non-computer external drive--unless I want to print all 6K+ photos at the Walgreens photo kiosk. Do you want to be the customer behind me?  I don't even want to be the customer behind me in that scenario.  So I promised myself when the iPhone bit the dust, rather than upgrade I would divorce it. 

Apple emancipation  day finally arrived thid past Saturday. As with any breakup, it came with a cost. 

I miss my screen savers of Bandit, and an old photo of Daddy as a kid (my Sister Robin is his spitting image in this photo). But I love the freedom of knowing all my future photos will download directly to my already installed card and my phone can never hold me in bondage again. 

And now that I have storage, I have reinstalled a couple of games I played.  And I finally have the storage to download the Kindle app.  So, even though I have read them, and have autographed copies of the first three books in the Chilton Crosse series written by  my friend, Traci Borum, I downloaded  them. All three of tgem. See, I'm learning and growing and changing. At least I'm attempting new stuff. 
I have photos going to my chippy thingy, and room for apps, life in M'Lou's tech-world is good, right?  Not so fast. 

The larger phone is cramping my wrist, iy doesn't fit into anything I own (clothing pockets, wallet, or purse), and the screen is driving me bonkers. So, I'm gonna have to adjust. 

Just like our country. 

No matter if your candidate won or lost. We ALL have to adjust our big girl and big boy panties and get over this election. 

And if anyone has time after panty-adjusting, I could sure use some 'droid tech-tutoring. I especially want to sync it to my SUV so I can continue to answer my phone hands free--and annoy my friends by talking with them from what sounds like the interior of a tin can on roller skates. 

(I'm losing steam so I'm going to bed sans editing. I see its a Republican sweep--House, Senate, and President. There will be wailing and gnashing of teeth in some quarters. Not in mine. But we will ALL experience change.)

Monday, November 7, 2016

No Matter What the Exit Polls Say, I Will Vote.

No matter what the "experts" and exit polls say, I will exercise my right and responsibility as a United States Citizen to vote.  I hope you exercise your right and responsibility and vote as well.

Remember, despite what you think or believe--God is in control.  He is. Whether you believe it or not. Whether you believe in Him or not. Our belief, or unbelief, in no way negates Who He is. He can, will, and does, use whomever and whatever He chooses, and He does not need our permission. But more importantly, He can change hearts and minds.

He used the corrupt country of Babylon to discipline Isreal for turning away from Him.  He used the unwilling, stuttering Moses to become His mouthpeice and then lead His favored People out of captivity.  He used a hot-headed fisherman named Peter to become one of the Pillars of Faith. He used a small boy armed with just a sling-shot to slay an armored giant. He used Esther to save her people. He took Saul, a persecuter of believers, and changed his heart, and renamed him Paul. Speaking of changing hearts, he took the heart of an adulter, who plotted the death of an innocent, and changed him into a man, who remained very flawed, but a man who was also known as "a man after God's own heart."

I'm going to bed now, safe in the knowledge that God is in control.

Tomorrow I will exercise my responsibility, and great privilege, to vote for the flawed candidate I feel is up to the challenge of becoming the most powerful person in the world. I hope that person shares some of my beliefs on matters important to me; however, no matter the outcome, I will remember:  God is in control and He does not require my permission to accomplish His will, in the way He sees fit.

Saturday, November 5, 2016

I'm Thinkin' it's Gonna Be Another Expensive Day...

Currently I'm at the dealership getting a brake light repaired. Since I've been working so much overtime it's been weeks since I have had time off when they are open, so I've been driving on pins and needles feeling like I have a huge target on my backside. Since time change is nearly upon us, and I'm driving in the dark just about everywhere I go, I really am more visible than normal. The good thing about the overtime is that it gives me the resources for unforeseen exlpenses.
Unfortunately, I really had the overtime money ear-marked for something else, but it is what it is. So my mood (partly because of the car expense is not the best. But its also not the best because I'm just not in the grestest of moods. Since I'm less than perky happy, it caused me to recall another gripe i have against the dealership--the new oil change stickers fade within weeks of being placed on the windshield. I know when it's due--but I like to be able to look for a reminder. So here I am settled in at tge dealership--I've made myself at home as instructed--I've eatten one of their "free" doughnuts, have hooked up to their "free" wifi, am half-heartedly listening to their "free" cable ( a Christmas show on Hallmark), and I've gone to the fridge for my "free" DDP. Ack!!! No DDP! 
Luckily I spy another fridge--which is also devoid of Diet Dr Pepper. This does not bode well.  
My next stop will be the iPhone Hospital (aka AT&T ). I really hate my iPhone right now. Last night it froze up. Then I "dropped" it. Face down. In the large driveway gravel. Now it's really frozen. The only thing I can do with it is make a voice activated call via the hands-free system in my SUV. At best I will have a phone repair bill. At the worst, I will be adopting a new phone. 
I have decided if I adopt, it will not be another iPhone. I love most things about my iPhone--except the fact that I have to download my photos to a computer (none of mine are working). Other smart phones can download directly to a thumbdrive. Well, Apple--you have me hostage to using only your technology only as long as I continue to have an iPhone--but I'm thinking today might be my apple-emancipation day. 
I also need need a pamper day--roots are showing and all claws are ragged. I usually do my hair myself--including highlights so that will cut the cost; however, I can't see well enough to do a good job on my toes--that's a job for Super Nail Girl. Besides, after a stressful day of non-fun spending, I will enjoy an hour or so in the massage chair.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

He Loves Me. He Loves Me Not.

Just yesterday I was conflicted:  Moggy, the Domestic Short Hair kitty Bandit and I rescued two years ago, has never gifted me with a small animal. (Yea!  But does that mean he doesn't love me?) 

When he kept punching out the AC side panels of our window unit, so he could escape I was crushed. I had spent all kinds of money on Vet bills, cat toys, litter boxes, quality cat food, and all the other trappings of a spoiled kitty. And all he wanted to do was escape from me. I was crushed. 

Then he came back and I was elated. 

Until he ran off while we were at a hotel in Florida. I spent hours calling his name. Worried the large free-roaming dogs might find him before I did. And then he came back. Once again I was elated. 

Finally, I realized he likes his freedom. I do as well, so I could relate. So I stopped fixing the side panel. It's now his official Cat Door. (I do keep a really tight reign on him when we travel though--now he stays in the cat carrier, in the SUV, until I have the room set up for the boys: water and respective feeding stations--Moggys up high so Bandit can't get into it, litter box and waste disposal bags and equipment in the corner by the trash basket, toys for Bandit, collapsible tunnel for Moggy, etc.) 

After Moggy had the freedom to come and go as he wished, I noticed he started coming home sooner. Now it's nothing for him to race me down the driveway and walk in with me. He's even responded to his name. He's even starting coming dcome when called. Both actions are very uncat-like. 

He's always been loving--but on his terms. When he's feeling well, he uproots Bandit from my lap. But when he's feeling poorly (or when I'm trying to type something on my iPhone),  he crawls up on my chest. It's been his safe place since we rescued him. 

All that to say:  I think Moggy does love me. So I was kind of hurt that he hadn't brought me any gifts.  But not really, because my gift-less state meant he wasn't killing another living creature. 

Until I came home to find a squirrel tail on my living room floor tonight. This is the second one I've found. The last one was small (like a baby) and I found it outside. Probably about a year ago. 

Once could be a fluke. But twice is a pattern. And confirmation that he loves me. 

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Long Live the Queen of Rationalization!

The Queen of Rationalization has struck again.  She is the Evil Twin Sister of the Queen of Procrastination. I am well aquatinted with both.  I will not point fingers and lay blame; however, I will say this:  Due to poor planning a situation arose. It was not of crisis proportions; however, it did present a small dilemma:  Do the Right Thing—or, go for the Quick-n-Easy Fix?

I’m ashamed to say the Quick-n-Easy Fix was the path taken. Here’s a list of the “reasons” used:

  1. I’m too tired to do the work involved in doing the right thing.
  2. No one needs know about it.
  3. It’s not like I make a habit of it.
  4. I’m not hurting anyone else, and in fact, by doing this I am stimulating the economy, so I’m actually helping others. 
  5. I haven’t treated myself since…last week, so it is due me. 
  6. It was a cheap fix.
  7. At least I didn’t rent it like someone else I know did—now that would be wasteful! So, really, I'm a better person than they are.  And I'm being a good steward of resources. Why, I'm practically a saint! I should receive acclaim and a reward for my goodness. Maybe even the Nobel Peace Prize. 
And the list of rationalizations continued to grow and top one another in outlandish claims. Sadly, the dilemma remains. It has not been resolved. In fact, it looks as if I may be washing clothes late tonight while marathon-reading my book club book. All so I can avoid appearing dumb at my book club dinner tomorrow evening   (Am I really still cramming and pulling all-nighters before a test?  For a volunteer, FUN Book Club?!).  

So it would appear. 

Okay, so avoiding the appearance of being dumb is the lesser of the motivations. The real motivation is avoiding going to work nekked as a jay-bird. 

I guess I'll skip the reading.  And the laundry.  I'll purchase an outfit.  Again. 

And yes, there really is an online clothing rental site—your fee includes the clothing rental, shipping and handling (both ways—unless you decide to purchase and keep the outfit),  and the cleaning fee of all returned clothing! 

No, I have not tried the service.  

And I'm not going to finish my book by dinner tomorrow. 

Saturday, October 22, 2016

I'm an Uncultured Heathen.

I'm an uncultured heathen.

A friend won tickets to the Central Texas Orchestral Society Van Cliburn Recital featuring 2013 gold medalist Vadym Kholodenko.

I didn't make it past Chopin.

In my defense, I had too much sun and tension at the homecoming game, and it was dark and cool, and the chairs were very comfy, and the first few pieces: Berceuse,  op. 57 (was not to my liking at all), and Nocturne in G Minor, op 37, no. 1 was lullabyish. And I complied.

I perked up for Nocturne in G Major, op 37, no 2.  Unfortunately, it was not a second wind rally which usually sees me through into the wee small hours of the night.

By the time he performed Bolero, op 19 (frankly, the only thing that sounded remotely familiar), and Tarantella, op 43, the comfy seats had done their number on both of us.

I'm afraid we gave up on trying to stay awake for Liszt and Scriabin--we left at intermission.

And I got caught skipping out on culture by a co-worker.

Of course, now that I've been outside in the cool air, I'm wide awake. So I'm gassing up the car and buying DDPs and something for lunch for tomorrow (I have to work and the Canteen is closed so I have to bring my lunch).

It's a double whammy on the heathenism--skipping church tomorrow and skipping culture tonight.

At least I didn't snore. Or drool.

I don't think.

Friday, October 21, 2016

Social Media Sucked Me In. Again.

The last time I looked at the clock it was 10:30.  I had just picked up cat food at HEB after losing at Bunco. I remembered an email I wanted to read that I didn't have time for before the game. So I opened the email up. What could it hurt? It's just an email. 

Four (4) HOURS later I have seen all of the posted quartet videos and three of my favorite chorus videos (The Woodlands Show Chorus, Houston Horizon, and The Richtones) all competing in Las Vegas this week at the Sweet Adoline International contest. The music at this level is phenomenal! 

SAI is an organization that empowers women through musical education and performance of a Capella music in true four part harmony (not three parts with the "fourth" an overlap of another part) in the Barbershop style. They are the most amazing women on the face of the earth. Even at competition,while some can be petty and overly competitive, for the most part they are uplifting and encouraging. I can not say enough good things about my previous involvement with this organization. (Many if our churches could take some lessons in acceptance and encouragement from these ladies.) 

So, tomorrow I need to stay really busy since I'm going to be working on just a few hours sleep. That's assuming I don't see another email I need to read--like the one about adoptable pets from APAC...

Thursday is a dangerous social media day for me. 

(Unedited because I'm too pooped to fix problems. Goodnight.) 

Thursday, October 20, 2016

The Joys of Pet Parenthood.

Living with Bandit (my 11-year old Chinese Crested--hairless dog) and Moggy (our 2-year old DSH rescue kitty) is always an adventure. Each new day brings some little present. Tonight was no exception:

I found the duvet in the middle of the floor and I heard hurried scrambling behind the bookcase. Inhaling in preparation of a verbal chastisement (a "tell" a friend told be about years ago) I found the real shock--I was unable to speak! 

Reposed on my duvet was not Bandit as expected--it was Moggy!  A quick glance in the direction of the bookcase revealed Bandit scrambling out wearing nothing but a sheepish expression!  

How the HECK did he fit back there?! 

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Working Over Time in the Dream Factory

It was one of those nights...

In one of my dreams a cop knocked on my car window.  I was so sleepy I could barely open my eyes. When I managed it, I hallucinated people and things that weren't actually in the shadows.  I was two blocks from home, and had pulled over for a cat-nap after swerving out of control in an attempt to avoid a mongoose darting out of the dark bushes lining the fence running along-side the deserted road. The police officer wanted to take me in for vagrancy and violating the curfew. I explained I was just trying to be safe and waiting until I was rested enough to make the remainder of my drive home. He was unimpressed. Before he could respond I had awakened. (I watched a recoding of last weeks episode of Designated Survivor. I must have been thinking about their Michigan Police State Standoff.)

Luckily I fell right back to sleep.  Unfortunately my next dream had me car-dueling with a couple of teenaged hot-rodders (the driver had a cam walker boot on due to some pre-dream injury).  I forced the teens to watch a video on car safety (I think this dream was in response to the distracted driving video I posted just before going to bed). I tearfully told the boys I wanted them to be safe so they would be around and bugging the crap out of me for another 75 years--but they wouldn't last the year the way they were driving right now. Again, I awoke before I had dream-resolution (but in my heart I'm sure they listened to my wise words and began driving like responsible adults.  Yeah, I live in PollyAnna-ville.)

The third dream must have been a doozy because I woke up in a cold sweat, yelling for Bandit, Moggy, and Tweety Bird (maybe because I shared a post for a friend seeking forever homes for a bird and a kitten--I believe one or both are still available if anyone is interested). After I assured myself everyone was okay I allowed myself to drift back to slumber-land even thought it was after 4am. I skipped the gym. 

This morning, when I finally got up for good, I had a headache. 

I think my brain has been working over-time in the Dream Factory and is in desperate need of a vacation!  

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Bandit: My Fabulous Famous FurBoy

Thursday night I posted one of the photos of Bandit in his tuxedo, along with a breezy intro (with a shout out to Moggy), on a new dog page on FB called Lovely Dogs.  The likes have been steadily rolling in--so much so, I was getting kind of prideful and I thought, Bandit's becoming an internet sensation!  I've always joked about him being famous and giving paw-di-graphs--now, it could actually be coming true!  Yeah, yeah, yeah--I know it's  just FaceBook.

When The BaldOne Boy hit over three-hundred likes I got all puffed up thinking, He's gone viral!  

I know. I know.  Going viral is actually based on the number of shares not likes. Just give me this moment.

I had even started thinking the agents and publishers could seek me out, rather than the other way around. And maybe I could get a sponsor for my blog [you know, the blog that only has one (1!) official Follower--a total stranger I picked up the year I participated in an April Blog Challenge].  Maybe the sponsorship would enable me to retire early--but not until they hired a full contingency of Patient Care Coordinators because I don't want my coworkers to suffer while I become a rich and famous writer.  I became giddy thinking of the unrealistic possibilities. 

Such is my fantasy life now that I'm back to working 6 and 7 day weeks as we continue to attempt to fill two of our six positions. 

These thoughts flitted through my brain at warp speed between the nano-seconds that it took for me to realize Bandit has not gone viral--he has just received likes--he has not been shared

After I calmed down and began thinking rationally, I started to return-like the people who had liked Bandit (I had already begun replying to the ones who commented or left emojis).  I realized all the dogs have 200-300 likes. Pet Parents are very likable and supportive of one another. 

Then I ran across several dogs with 500+ likes...and one that was close to 1K. They left Bandit sitting in their dust. The sobering realization hit me: three-hundred likes is almost run-of-the-puppy-mill. 

My bubble officially busted. 

Like being thrown into a cold shower, I remembered what I already knew:  No Agents are going to call. No Publisher is going to seek out my stories. No Sponsor is going to enable me to quit my day job. I'm just going to have to continue writing for my one official Follower for free. 

But It's not quite as pathetic and depressing as it sounds--I wrote and submitted another short article last month. (Albeit, I have received no news to date which, from this particular Publisher, means it's not been accepted either.)  

But even that little downer is still not pathetic--people other than my official Follower read my blog anonymously:  A few Friends and Family.  And total strangers that randomly see my tweets with the blog link. And of course the people I pay to publicly like my posts:  you know who you are--the  check's in the mail.

Even though I'm not quitting my Day Job any time soon, and Bandits likes are not over-the-top impressive, I'm gonna keep on blogging about everyday stuff--and the antics of my Fabulous FurKids. 

I'll have to build a following, and do the hard non-glamorous work of writing, editing, researching and submitting appropriate fits for Agents and Story Submissions. 

Just like everyone else. 

Well, except everyone else isn't employed for the express reason of spoiling  a fabulous feline and captivating canine--after all, Bandit continues to live up to his thievery name as he steals the hearts of all with whom he comes into contact.

It's early Saturday morning and still no shares, but Bandit's up to 390 likes

Thursday, October 6, 2016

Still Stopping Traffic at Fifty-Six

I didn't think it was possible, but this ole gal's still got it. I may be packing a few extra pounds and sprouting enough silver to mint my own coins, but at 56 (I won't turn 57 until the end of next month), I still have the ability to stop traffic. 


A sweet little chihuahua ambled out into the street tonight. Directly into the path of my SUV.  I slowed. He looked straight at me, and continued walking toward me. As I rolled to a complete stop, so did he--directly in front of me, where he worried something stuck to the pavement. 

Afraid I would scare him blindly into traffic, I contemplated exiting my SUV and scooping the little darling up, as I counted the four cars stopping  behind me. 

Before I could decide, he calmly turned and returned to his slightly larger friend, who had wisely stayed on the sidewalk.  

Amazingly, although it was end of the day rush hour, not a single car honked impatiently. 

I'm claiming this incident as proof of my ability to still stop traffic. 

Monday, September 26, 2016

We Are But Red Shirts in the Star Trek Opening Credits of Life.

I hate this time of year. Oh don't get me wrong, I really love this time of year--the beginnings of long awaited cooler weather;  the glorious sunrises that I see through sleep-hazed eyes on my morning commute to work;  the stunning sunsets in the cool of the evening--especially beautiful at the lake; the  red, orange, yellow, and maroon of turning leaves--if I can find a tree or three in a clump that aren't evergreen;  the fuzzy sweaters and tons of scarves worn ever so artfully by everyone except me;   the intoxicating smell of cocoa and over-priced, yuppie fru-fru coffee;  and even...dare I say it...pumpkin spice--in everything from drinks and deserts to car air fresheners and fish bait. Or so it would seem.

No, what I hate about this time of year is it's bragging time again. I like game-time trash talk and brags--those are fun and everyone knows it's just part of getting into the head of your opponent and psyching them out.  I'm talking about real life bragging. Work brags, aka Anual Proficiencies.

Once a year I have to pull out all the stops and remind my Supervisor how wonderfully indispensable I am. Even though I've been taught to be humble from the time I received my first complement.  Ladies don't brag.  Pretty is as Pretty does.  Actions speak louder than words.  And my Spades group favorite when someone decides not to play for a while:  You are expendable.  No that's not quite right, You are replaceable. Expendable belongs to the Star Trek franchise.

No matter what our Mama's write in the yearly Christmas Letter, truth be told, we are but Red Shirts in the Star Trek opening credits of life.

However, until I bite it, I'll do the annual brag. Like Kirk I'll take the conn and direct my course by recounting my many accomplishments. In Spock-like objectivity I'll throw out numbers and stats to remind my Supervisor how productive I am.   I will strive to remove the Bones-like subjectivemess from my appraisal (she has already acknowledged the times I have stirred up the status quo with an impassioned tearful plea to do the right thing for my Veterans).  I will communicate with the precision of  Uhura.   Like Chekov, the character I crushed on most, I will navigate the waters of self-promotion to present myself as accomplished rather than a brash braggart.  In the helmsman fashion  of Sulu I will stay the course, and  keep the Scottie "She's gonna blow, Cap'n!" desperation off the paper as, for the first time in 19 years, RNs are eligible for bonuses!

After all the spectacular self-evaluations I've written during the past two decades, I just hope I've not used up all the best descriptors to explain why I'm awesome enough to deserve a bonus, after all, I've made it past the Red Shirt Opening Credits.

Now Beam me up Scottie, I need to locate my thesarasus...

Wednesday, September 21, 2016


The voice in my head started off the morning singing an internal mashup of songs that delighted in torturing me by dancing just beyond my memory.

One of the songs seemed like it was something by Huey Lewis and the News.  As the day has gotten quiet and I now have time to reflect on it, I'm leaning toward "Too Hip to be Square" or "Power of Love" for one of the songs--or maybe "The Heart of Rock and Roll."  The thing is--none of the songs seems quite right.

Who knows, maybe it's an unconscious mashup of the music of one, the lyrics of another, and the beat of the third.  For that matter, it may not even be HL&TN--but just the flavor of '80s Rock--which, BTW, is probably my least favorite decade of Rock.

Whatever it is, I used to think mashups were creative and amazing. I listened in awe to the brilliance of Master Mixers whose auditory vision was far deeper and more daring than my own. However, this unreachable internal mashup is  downright annoying--like the snippet of a phrase of a forgotten TV Theme Song that won't let go of your brain.

Whatever song it is, for some reason known only to my mind, it IS mashed with the single most unlikely song I could imagine--my Alma Maters "Cru Spirit Dance."

Great. My mashup--the one I can't get out if my head--is a mix of one or more songs whose words I can't remember and a wordless song.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Comfort Food or My SUV: One Will Be The Death of Me

To say I was skeptical  when  the Service Advisor told me the black puffs of exhaust and rough idle were due to the mechanic forgetting to reset the electronic settings after the battery and AC fan were replaced last week would be an understatement. The engine light has come on.

I really don't like being right all the time.

On the upside: I barely had time to get a DDP out of the fridge and sign on to the free WiFi before they brought the paperwork for a loaner to me. I didn't have to stand in line. And this loaner is vastly upgraded over the last one.

I'm pretty sure all this "free stuff" is going to be costly.  I really need my overtime to count toward something else. Not car repairs.

So I'm off to Las Casas for my favorite comfort food. For the third time in two weeks.

White Wings aren't approved on any diet--except maybe Adkins.  They are  JalapeƱo peppers stuffed with jack cheese, wrapped in a chicken breast, which is formed into a ball with strips of bacon secured around it, then charbroiled.  They are a heart attack waiting to happen, and I don't care.

I don't even care about the little piggies. (I have abstained from all meat and fish for the past year after viewing a video depicting the mistreatment of the poor little piggies.)

At the anniversary of my meatless year, I decided if I added meat back in to the diet it would be free range chicken or fresh caught fish--but I really wasn't planning on adding it back since I hadn't missed it.

Until now.

Now I want my White Wings.  And my new SUV to work.

#sorrypiggies #whitewings #comfortfood #beingrightallthetimesucks.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

I'm Certified. Again.

I’m finally certified!
That’s certified, as in re-certified  in CPR, not  certifiable. Big difference. 
I started the process back in February. But the instructional video kept hanging up. It  does this to me every year. Every year I complain about it. You would think they would fix it; however, you'd be wrong. In fact, we have another required video that does the same thing. And every year, when I write the evaluation, I complain about it as well. This past year, not only did I give it a poor evaluation, I also emailed some person that scheduled me for the training (it wasn’t my normal scheduler,  and I complained about the quality of the video. They agreed it needed to be fixed.  I'm waiting for that training to be reassigned this year. 
Anyway, now I have the same problem with the CPR video and  I thought I was going to have to complain about it hanging up . But I finally watched the video last night (after waiting a full five minutes for it to load),  and today I called the local instructors to find out when I could do the hands on skills test. In the past, it was in a class setting. She said I could come anytime, since it's done on the manikins individually. She went on to say if the instructors  weren’t there, just get the Nursing Supervisor to open the door.  Sweet. Education on my schedule. 
Might as well get er done. I thought, and set off to the education lab to meet a couple of Dummies. 
Even though I used all of my weight, and a stiff arm that would be outlawed in professional football, 

I still had to do 5 cycles of adult compressions to get 3 passing!  All because the computer said I couldn’t get the compressions deep enough.  That Dummy’s dadgum chest was almost touching the table!  I finally fisted the chest and bounced to get it to go to the computers appropriate depth.  Before I did though, I saw a sign on the wall that says, If you are unsuccessful after several attempts, return to your workstation and call Clinical Education.  Ha!  I have never felt so inadequate; however, there was no way I would admit defeat by a Dummy. Tears streaming down my face, I aborted the skills test and I told the manikins, You had better not arrest in my presence—‘cause if you do, You. Gonna. Die!   
Then, I took a brief rest to catch my breath and resumed chest compressions.  
Still the computerized manikin said my compressions weren't deep enough. My wrists were killing me, so I started altering my hands and, and even pounding with my fists. I found by punching the dummy's chest I gained the computers required depth and I sorta bounced off him, so I had the good release the computer wanted as well.  None of these moves, hand placement, or techniques are American Heart Association approved.  I cackled with glee when the computer finally told me I beat the Dummy’s chest deep enough to pass.  My face was beet red and I gasped for breath, but never was a victory sweeter.
The baby was next up. Piece of cake. 
Underestimating your adversary is a Big Mistake. 
Before I even completed the first cycle, the baby had me reaching for the white flag of surrender. 

Again, I was told I was “not compressing deep enough”—this time I was actually hitting the table through the baby's chest.   I knew I was on target, so  I wiped the tears from my eyes, squared my shoulders, and marched to the Clinical Education offices to fetch the instructor.   One look on my face and the instructor knew I was not having a good experience.  When we arrived back at the side of the pint-sized demon dummy, she (the instructor, not the dummy), told me, in order to pass she had to “use her knuckles and bounce.”  SMH!   I already knew from the adult that I needed to bounce.  We restarted the test and in her presence I passed. First time. Perfect score. No Do Over required. And that's as it should be. 
BTW, the instructor said two things that encouraged and then enraged me. First, I performed the skills in very good time. (less than 15 minutes had elapsed, although it felt like a lifetime.).  That also makes me very nervous. How long do my coworkers take?!  When I telephoned earlier I has asked how much time I should allot. She laughed and said, "That all depends on how long you practice and how many attempts it takes you to pass. Most people can pass within 30 minutes, but there have been some that take much longer."  Second, she agreed with me on the depth of compressions, but said the “people” say it’s set for the depth you would have to compress for a 120-pound adult. 
"There is no way!  I was pounding. I’ve done compressions in a real code, on a real person, and compressed that man (and broke his ribs),  much easier than these dummies!" I said.  On a side note, it's now almost twelve hours later and my wrists still hurt.  
I know:  Wha-Wha-Wha. 

So the upshot  is this:  I am certified to save your life for another year (AHA certifies every two years, but VA requires annual recerts). So, if you fall out in front  of me, or I happen ion your inert self, I can still save your life—but,  you have to weigh less than an infant. And even then I’ll likely break every bone in your body…and my wrists, which have resumed their throbbing. In fact, my wrists may never be the same again. Dratted Dummy. 
I wonder if Dummy Induced Wrist Fatigue is covered by Workers Comp...

Monday, September 12, 2016

Plagued With Password Problems

You know how some people have Good Hair Days and Bad Hair Days?  For me they are all the same--Ponytail Days.  My Tech Days; however, are a horse of a different color. Some of my Tech Days are better than others. Unfortunately, the  better Tech Days seem to be far and few between.  Take today for instance...

After coming off a weekend where I found my old laptop has nothing but a black screen, and my new laptop locked up tighter than Fort Knox--and it insisted my password was incorrect (even though I have a hint reminding me what password I used), I found my work computer would not accept my PIV password, and therefore, would not let me do my job.  I knew I would have to change my program password today.  It's a different password--this one expires every 90 days--the PIV password is supposed to be good for my VA lifetime, like my eSignature code.   Evidentially the computer from hades does not recognize the difference between my "good for life" PIV password and my "expires every 90-days" program password.  The electronic abomination aka my work computer reminded me daily, for the past 14 days, that my program password would soon expire.  It even had the gall to ask me if I'd "like to change it now?"  I refused on principle--if it's good for 90 days, don't ask me to give up two weeks.  The computer requests to change my password early reminds me of magazine and membership renewal notices that start coming 6-months before they are due.  I once paid one early and lost 5-months because the next renewal also came early. 

Anyway, I knew this was D-day.  The time had finally arrived to do the Password Shuffle.  I came to work armed with a new, easy to remember password. Only the computer wouldn't let me get to the page where I could change the password.  Arghhh! 

On a day when I'm only working 3 hours any way (regularly scheduled doctors appointment followed by a regularly scheduled iron infusion.). And we are still down two PCCs--but the Float worked overtime so there was only one missing slot today. No problem. I can do eight hours worth of work for my Ward and part of the ICU in less than 3 hours. But it quickly became a problem when couldn't access my work computer.  

I called my ADPAC and she hiked across the parking lot and assessed the situation as I told her I had already turned the computer off and rebooted (their first-line response to every problem).  We ended up calling the National Computer Hotline. I started out as #39 in line.  

As I waited for my turn,  I decided to check my TSP balance on my iPhone. 

Guess what? I'm now locked out of that account as well. 

I finally got into my work computer. We found that the multiple-drive migration that was supposed to occur Saturday night, did in fact occur. We were both amazed. She left. I got logged in to the computer only to find I was now blocked from the program. In the past the new password was linked. Now it's not. I now get to log in with the new password, then use the old password to get into the program. Joy. I ended up not having anyone new in my part of the ICU and only 7 new admits to my Telemetry Ward, so I was able to throw together reasonable facsimiles of care plans for everyone before I left this morning.

It was hurried and not my best work. But at least I don't work at Baylor Scott & White--when I saw my Hematologist, and the girls in theTreatment  Room--they had horror stories of  their own system-wide computer crash this morning.  Suddenly life with the VA computers is not so bad.

I think the only electronic left I can possibly get myself locked out of is my iPad. 

But then I remember my SUV has electronic doors.  

I'm hoping my lock-out problems confine themselves to electronics, because if I go old school--I could lose my key to my Post Office Box (darn!  No junk mail or bills); my Safety Deposit Box (for the second time--it takes a drill to break in and replace that lock--and quite a pricy service call); but the worst would be to lock myself out of my home--while Bandit ransacked my garbage can. Again.

All-in-all my Ponytail day was manageable--although I still haven't checked my TSP status.  But I'd like to not have another Tech Day like today--or else I'll need a Do-Over Tech Day.  

PS--appropriately the song playing right now is "Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This."   

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Ack!!! I Waited Until the End of the Season to Purchase Odd-Sized Garden Trimmer String!

I know better that to wait until the end of the season to buy more string for my garden trimmer. It uses an odd size. Sometimes I wait too late and there is nothing left to buy. I have no excuse. I knew the garden trimmer was very low on string--I've been carting the empty container around to remind me to purchase more, and most importantly: what size to get--for months

Last year it took me several trips to the store because I bought a small trimmer that uses an odd size string. Luckily, I finally found a single roll of  "universal" string in approximately the right size that worked. I sweated it though. I thought I might have to buy another trimmer, or pay someone to mow my tiny side yard. But then I found the string that worked. And this year, when the roll got low and I loaded the last little bit on my trimmer I kept the container in my SUV as a reminder of what I needed so as to avoid all the trial and error I went through last season. 

Then D-Day arrived. Or rather, T-Day. AKA Trim-day. I decided the day to do some long overdue yard work had arrived.  Sure enough, the string popped after about 6-12" (yes inches) of trimming. So off to WalMart I went--my empty container in hand.  I was hopeful that WallyWorld would still have string.  Surely not every isle is Back To School. Or Christmas.

Not to worry. Wally World, the place you can purchase just about anything, had plenty of string. Ought Oh. There actually is a worry. All the string I found was on sale for $5 each. Unfortunately I only found a different size than what I needed. I resigned myself to making a trip to Sears after work the next day. I would have to suck it up and fight the traffic (the store is in a high traffic location prior to work and after work. Turning into the parking lot is a breeze. However, it becomes dicey when you attempt to leave the parking lot, especially at 7:00 cam and 4:30 pm. The rest of the day it's okay.).  The good news:  Sears would most likely have the correct size string since this was where I bought the trimmer. The bad news:  it wouldn't be as cheap as WallyWorld. Even if Sears was having an end of the season sale. 

Then I looked up (actually I looked up, around the corner, and finally on a catty-corner end cap that housed a bunch of odds and ends).   There is where I spied not one, but three spools of the odd-size trimmer string I needed. Better still, they were on clearance--not at $5 each--nope, my odd-size string  was only $2 each.  That's a first for me--usually my odd size stuff (e. g. tires, alternator, clothes, shoes--you name it)--my odd-sized stuff is always more expensive.  This $2 stuff was a welcome change. The only problem:  They were too tall. Or I am  too short. Nah--they were too tall. So I found a barely taller-than-me Sales Associate.   He confirmed the price and handed me a thread spool he deftly plucked from above our heads. 

Big spender that I am, I said, "I'll take all three off your hands."  I prayed I actually had enough cash in my wallet to cover the six bucks and tax.  Since the wallet I use doesn't have a change pocket, I was praying for $7.  That's pretty sad. But even if I had no cash,  I decided I would ring up a $6 credit card charge--no matter how embarrassing that would be. I could think of nothing else I need to drive up the sales price, and I'm on a spending diet, so I might have to bite the bullet if I didn't have the cash. 

At the register my new BFF rang me up and we found out the spools were not marked correctly.  Of course not! If there is a wrong or missing price, I will be the one to bring it to the register. It's like a law or something. Oh well, at least there would be no embarrassingly small credit card charge. I thought to myself. 

I reached inside my wallet. The Clerk intoned a shocking price. The spools were $1 each! 

I love a deal. Now I have no excuse for not tidying up the yard--except I have activities planned every night for the foreseeable future.  That means I may be trimming the yard by moonlight. But I have enough string to finish out this season, and next season--and maybe even the season after as well. It was a very well spent three bucks. 

Now, if only I could find a sale on cheap, fashionable, and comfortable shoes....

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Wake-Up Call

Five of two am. My eyes fly open as is my nightly routine. As always,  I recall the Joe Friday sound-a-like from my youth and his mono-intonation, "Nothing good ever happens between the hours of two and four am."

"Au contraire..." I subconsciously shift  my newly-inked-on-a-whim wrist, proving his point nightly.

The subtle movement is never lost on him. He languorously lifts all-seeing eyes to mine and drawls  the one syllable admonishment in three syllables. "Right."

And so I awake.

Every morning. Two o'clock sharp. And every morning I hope for a quick return to the Land of Slumber.

Except this morning.

This morning I awoke early--when I felt the cool steel of a 9 millimeter tap my temple and I prayed I would survive last nights online dating choice.

Not all bad decisions happen between two and four am Joe. 

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Counting the Seconds

Well, there are three and a half hours left 'til the midnight deadline. Two-hundred and ten minutes. Twelve-thousand and six-hundred seconds until rejection. But it's okay. I've already been working on another submission and there are a couple more topics I'm considering.

I just have to remind myself that each time I submit a story, each time I write a blog post, even each time I post on FaceBook, I'm practicing, learning, and improving. At least I should be. Some lessons are harder than others.

The hardest lesson for me is to walk away for a while before coming back to it and editing. And then to wait even longer before I hit send. I'm usually too excited. As a result, once it's posted I usually find a typo, or five. When I read it fresh my mind sees what I think it says rather than what it actually says. I also do better edits on the written page. So I think this year I will purchase a printer.

Okay, it's now three and almost a quarter hours. One-hundred and ninety-three minutes. Eleven thousand five hundred and eighty seconds until D-day.

I wonder if there are any last minute reprieves. Maybe a midnight stay of execution...

Monday, August 29, 2016

Her Royal Majesty, Goobrella, Queen of Gooberdom

Hear ye! Hear ye, one and all! By the power vested in me, by myself, I hereby pronounce this proclamation: From henceforth, and forevermore, be it known that the woman you know as me, will be called Her Royal Majesty, Goobrella, Queen of Gooberdom and all its inhabitants: the Goober-babes, the Goober-heads, and their alien offspring, aka the Gooberlets. (Behind closed doors her closest friends may address her informally as GooberLou.)
News flash: I am such a goober—it's shocking, I know—however, it's true. I've just been able to keep this revelation from most of you. In case you are one of the many I have deceived, and you need proof of my gooberness...
At the request of a multitude of adoring fans I have been asked to change careers to Published Author.
Okay, that just might be a slight exaggeration...Truth be told, it was an inferred comment, made in passing by the non-English speaking guy who does my nails, and three Facebook Friends—who are not my Mother—or related to me in any other way.
As I recall, the exact statement was, "Oh, you funny. You write more."
So taking career goal advice from my four trusted advisors, I have written more.  And last February I submitted a piece to the scrutiny of professionals--a nerve wracking ordeal to say the least. To share is to make yourself vulnerable, and making yourself vulnerable is not for the faint of heart. When you Dare to Share, you run the risk of rejection. Of course, the possibility of rejection is true of every aspect of sharing, not just writing.  Anyway, I took a deep breath and held it while I reread the submission guidelines. Then, blue in the face—and ready to pass out, I reached a trembling hand toward The Button. Closing my eyes tighter than a misers fist, and a split second before I gasped for fresh air, I tapped send.  Then I gasped and wondered what I had just done.
Amongst the submission guidelines they drop a little tidbit of information about the process and tell hopeful authors that they do not provide rejection letters. They go on to state, "If you have not heard from us within (insert their formula for the given timeline), you may consider the lack of communication as your rejection." Dusting off my knowledge of algebraic equations, I calculated the deadline for my submitted work, and placed it on my iPhone calendar with the following paraphrase from A Knights Tale: Unless you have heard otherwise, your submission "has been measured, weighed, and found lacking." And then, because I am a Pollyanna at heart, I changed the Rejection Day notation from mid-August to the end of August, and I tried to forget the date.
For the most part I have been successful at not obsessing—stop laughing,  I am capable of not obsessing!  The proof?  For the past couple of months I have only checked my inbox for a response three or four times a day.

Okay, okay, 3-4 times hourly.
But I'm not obsessing.  Really. I’m not. Some days I just feel more insecure about basically baring my soul to a total stranger.
Today, as I checked, and did not find the long-hopped for email, I remembered the Rejection Day Deadline (as predetermined by the aforementioned algebraic formula) was sometime this month; but, I could not remember exactly when. [Actually,  I can—and do (it’s tomorrow), I just want to remain in rejection denial as long as possible.]  In order to confirm my knowledge that it is actually tomorrow, I could simply click on tomorrows date. Or, I could really torture myself, and click on every day (I started this post mid-month, so there were more days with which torture could be exacted).  But rather than checking the day I thought it was on my calendar, or clicking on every day, I decided to perform a topic search on my sent emails. 
My shaky hands betrayed me and touched more typo keys than normal. When I finally had the correct letters, in the correct sequence, typed in the search box, and hit search, five emails popped up.
Unfortunately not a single email contained the original submission.
Acccck!!!!  Panic ensued.
I checked to see if I had moved the email to a different folder for safekeeping.  Several folders later, close to tears of frustration. I still had not come across the original submission email. One of the emails noted I had submitted it in February; however, it was not the original.  What I found were five emails I sent and received—between two of my accounts so I would have an email trail. 
A sinking feeling started in the pit of my stomach and my legs became as heavy as the Easter Island Statues....What if I never submitted story?! What if I only thought I had?!
Only a goober would spend the past five months obsessing over a response/non-response to an email that was never sent. Hence my above mentioned proclamation.
But then I remembered something:
I submitted the story while visiting their submission portion of their website—I didn’t submit the story from my any of email accounts; therefore, there would not be an email trail!   Which is why, in addition to editing the story in draft form, I had sent it back and forth between the different email accounts. I knew I'd need an email trail to confirm I submitted the story.
Now, I fear I will fall into the trap I attempted to avoid after all—I seem to be ramping up the obsessive checking and rechecking for an email response.  And I try not to think about the previous months lack of a response being indicative of a passive rejection. Realistically, I know it's probably already been cut. However, I am a Pollyanna and Cockeyed Optimist all rolled into one.  Maybe, they don't notify anyone until the deadline is over. But what if they do notify people before the deadline…and I didn't make the cut...
It has been a longer-than-usual month of August here in the Gooberdom.
And the month is not quite over yet.  Not until midnight.  On Wednesday.  There is still plenty of obsession time in the Gooberdom—at least 53 goober-hours and 46 nutcase-minutes.  And counting. Let me check once more time

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Showdown at The Sonic. (I'm doing my "Flynn" impersonation.)

All I wanted was a DDP and a ice cream cone before Happy Hour ended. 

Me:  I'd like a vanilla ice cream cone and a Route 44 Diet Dr Pepper, please. That's all. Thank you. 

Respectful. Clear and concise. They shouldn't have a problem. 

Boy:  That was a cone and a large coke? 

Me:  No. That would be a Route 44 Diet Dr Pepper and an ice cream cone. 

Boy:  A cone and what else?  

Me:  (This is Texas--Home of What-a-Burger and Dr Pepper.)  a Route 44 Diet Dr Pepper. 

Boy:  Diet Dr Pepper. Anything else?  

Me:  (checking the screen and seeing only the drink on the order). Yes.  I don't see the ice cream cone. 

Boy:  Oh. You want both? 

Me:  (gritting my teeth). Yes. Please. 

Intermission (I listen to the orders being placed from the cars around me and marvel at the accuracy with which the boy understands the garbled orders.) 

Girl:  (attempting to hand me a melted ice cream cone first) You got the cone and the Diet Dr Pepper? 

Me:  Yes. But I'll take the drink first so I can put it in the holder. 

Girl:  (Tilted Dog-head look). Wha--? 

Me:  I need the drink first so I can place it in the holder and have my hands free to juggle the dripping cone and the money. I can't hold the dripping cone, and the drink, and the money all at the sane time. Not enough hands. 

Girl:  (Continues to attempt to give me the dripping cone)

Me:  No. I'll take the drink first. 

She eyed me. I eyed her. The ice cream dribbled down the side of the cone. Finally, she reholstered the cone and gave me the drink, so I could place it in the holder, so I would have both hands free to pay and accept my drippy cone--which I had to attack at once because she gave it to me sans napkins and the drip was perilously close to the paper holder that keeps her germs off my food and my ice-cream off her fingers. 

I feel just like my GrandMother:  Shaking my head and wondering why the youth of today won't listen to the Voice of Reason. 

Although I call it a win for me, it was really a draw--just ask my Brain Frozen ice-cream head.  :-) 

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

I Dream of Willy Wearing a White Stetson

At 4am Mommy awoke from a dream in which Willie wore a white Stetson.  No. It was  not a cold sweat. And, no, it was not Duck Dynasty Willie. Nor was it Free Willie the whale. It was Chilly Willy, the shivering cartoon penguin of Mommies childhood. And she was relating. 

Mommy attempted to look  at the weather icon on her iPhone thinking it  must be in the sixties at a minimum (or should that be maximum?) but she had some eyesight difficulties. No, her eyes were not still sleepy. And no, her eyes are not too old for the minuscule iPhone screen--at least not with her readers and the appropriate arm length. Mommies eyesight was blurred--not by tears--but by the condensation caused by the meeting of the outside temp and Mommies personal internal inferno. 

In nature, when two totally different temperature fronts collide they can form a hurricane.  Luckily that did not occur; however, Bandit used his puppy dog-eyes, and the Hurricane Formation Theory, in his feeble attempt to explain away The Great Shoe Liberation from the Shoe Basket.   Unfortunately, he pushed the limit when he tried to link the spontaneous  Shoe-Blankie Hoe-Down that occurred when the  chair blankie mysteriously joined the shoes in the middle of the floor.  Like Lucy, Bandit's  got some 'splainin' to do!

However, the blankie did come in handy, although it was just beyond Mommies reach (note to self:  teach The BaldOne Boy the limitations of Mommies Reach).   

Finally, Mommy saw the temp. Imagine her surprise at learning she too needed a blankie at only 73F!  Mommy has become soft (not referring to her personal insulation!) and  a tad bit spoiled by the Texas 100s. Mommy, turning into Willy's long-lost icicle twin, finally succumbed and walked the remaining foot to the Hoe-Down, re-corralled the errant shoes, and detained the lightweight blankie.

The NekedBoy that sleeps with Mommy is quite happy now. Mommy is toasty as well.  And Chilly Willy and his White Stetson have been banished.