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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

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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.)

Saturday, May 28, 2016

I’m Not Too Old

Mama asked what I was up to these days.  I learned a long time ago to never volunteer information. I truthfully told her my 6-day work weeks were keeping me out of most trouble.  I didn’t mention I’ve only been doing them for a few months. Yes, I played the martyr.  I should be ashamed—but I’m not.  I just wanted a little sympathy. 

It backfired.

Mama proceeded to tell me, “You’re too  old to be working that much.”

That’s a first. Not that Mama told me I was too old for some activity—she’s told me that before—usually when it was something worthy of a young kid or unworthy of whatever my current age was.  It usually went something like this, “You’re too old to play with that doll.” Or “Only babies have pacifiers.” No, what was a first, was my Mama, the original work-horse, telling me I was “working too much.”  I learned my work ethic from her.

Fast forward to this week. I left work early (okay, it was to go to a hospital appointment for my iron transfusion—but that still counts as leaving  work early), and I drove to one of the back entrances to the hospital. I’ve gone this way a hundred times. This time, when I made the left-hand turn, I didn’t make it  to the far side of the median. Yep. I turned into the outgoing traffic lanes. And there was an oncoming car.  Luckily, she was way down the street, slowed for this yahoo making a turn into  traffic, and I U-ied before she arrived at the light. It could have been so much worse.

Since my infusion was in the afternoon and  takes a couple of hours to process, I plan for Friday afternoons and by the time I’m done, it’s time to go home. One Friday a month I know I will go home on time. Because I know I’ll be off home  on time, I make hair appointments for that afternoon. So, there I was in Tawni’s chair and she asked me about work. I told her I was still doing 6-day work weeks (she gave me the prerequisite sympathy—she received a good tip too),  and  I went on to tell her we have hired someone, she is training in Waco for a few weeks, then she’ll train in Temple for a few weeks, so my 6-day work weeks should be history in a month or so.  She said, “Hallelujah.” But what my ears heard was, “How old are ya?” So I promptly told her, “Fifty-six.”  Not all the steam rising from my head was from the warm water.  I silently fumed, I can still party ‘til the wee hours (after my nap), and I can roll in at 6am after driving all night, off-load the FurKids, and work a full day at the hospital (while chugging an entire 6-pack of DDP).  I’m not too old to work a little overtime!

 Awkward 3-second pause.

I thought that was a strange reaction. And I decided I really must color my sparkles.  Soon. I mix my own, because I’m not paying over $100 on my hair.  This was my second hair cut in only 2 months—and it felt like a splurge.  In the past, if I went to the salon more than once a year, the stylists would just about faint. Maybe one day, I’ll splurge on professional color, but for now I still color out of the box.

And then it hit me, she wasn’t asking me how old I am. She was responding to help on the way in the form of the new employee!  She had said, “Hallelujah.”  Well, I got the giggles. I could barely sputter out why I had divulged my age, and we had a good laugh.

When I turned 55 I started receiving monthly, if not weekly, coupons for hearing aids….

I am not old enough for that!

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