It's All About The Birthdays

This post is a repeat and slightly expanded version of a FB post I just wrote. When I got to the third phone call, I giggled and said to no one in particular, "It's all about the Birthdays." Then I giggled because the Three members of Lou'sZoo  heard me talking aloud and were scrambling to take up their Word Capturing Kissy Positions (TheGirls on either side of me, and ThatCat on my lap--tap-tappin' my forearm. His claws were unsheathed--remindung me once again we ALL need a spa day--Moggy missed his on his Gotcha day last month, and KatE shared my Birthday next week--and Kinzie is getting sharp as well. So we ALL need a trim.

Anyway, here's the FB post:

It's All About the Birthdays

I finally got around to checking my phone messages. Today I only missed three. 

First William Winterfeld called (actually his wife) to say I'm missed. We also exchanged Birthday wishes (hers was last month, mine is this month). She didn't mention the text saying I might be seeing her in a week or so....it may be a surprise.  😉

Second, was the frantic call from my Sister. She lives rurally and has really sucky reception. One minute the sweet spot is on her front steps (but only when its raining 😂), and the next we are cut off abruptly and the sweet spot has moved to the field, or middle of the road, or some other as of yet unfound undesirable hot spot. 😉 

Anyway, she called when she didn't understand one of my texts, because of her wonky phone service. Almost as soon as we got that cleared up, her wonky phone dropped the call again. She finally was able to reach me by phone so she could at least hear me laughing and not being upset--unfortunately that calm understanding came after another misunderstanding, and she really became worried. 

Everything is finally ironed out, we are on the same wave link, and she found a sweet spot that allowed us to finish our call on OUR terms, not her phone service provider terms. 😉

When she confessed she had a hard time remembering which day was my birthday, I told her Daddy's secret: mine is 2x hers, and hers is half of mine.  

Side note:  Daddy left the US Navy as soon as he could because they had him working numbers in dry dock. Later he joined the US Air Force, was moved everyv2 years--but rather than "seeing the world"  he saw the panhandlers of Texas and Florida, Texas and Florida, Texas and Florida (yo-yo style). He reuped so many times he finally passed the 20 year mark. And he worked in Finance (working with the dreaded numbers again.) As much as he hated numbers, they ended up  ruling his work-life, and making interesting observations about everything else as well. 

Back to the Birthdays:

Once we lept over the "math" hurdle and she understood Daddy's Birthday trick, we had a pleasant conversation. 

Finally. I received a call from a sweet lady thinking she was leaving a Birthday wish for Shirley. 

Shirley is actually very popular,  and obviously has misremembered her phone number, because last week I was privy to the invite she received to a 52 game by an unnamed  gentleman. 😉😍

Perhaps he and Shirley were able to meet after all. Maybe they are out dining and dancing tonight as the unnamed woman suggested. I hope so. 😍

And Happy Birthday from the sentimental me to Shirley! 🎂🎈🎁

Of course, the cynical me wonders if Shirley, her friend, and the unnamed man are elders reliving their Youth by playing phone pranks on random folks (me!).  

While the game-playing competitive side of me is wondering if they need a 4th for 42. 😉

Okay, so maybe it's not "all" about the Birthdays--because the games are important too!

ML

Second Long Sleep and New Age Math

I really don't like Spring Forward.  I'm more of a mourning riser than a morning riser. But give me Fall Back. Every. Time. 

In fact, I propose we only do Fall Back. Both Time Change week ends each year. 

We could call the spring-time fall back ReFall Back. Or Fall Back II. Or the Fall Back ReDo.

Or we could take a chapter from the Hobbits and call it a Second Fall Back. Or the Second Long Sleep.  

It doesn't matter.  Whatever we call it I will be compliant and quite cozy in my extra hour. 

And younger. 

Think about it--we gain two extra hours each year, so at the end of a 12 year cycle we actuall have gained a full day that we have to do something with--so I propose we subtract that day from our age. 

I'm calling it my New Age Math. 

A Spicy Dream

I arrive at the remote home of my former Lularoe dealer, Emily.   I say former because she no longer deals that particular crack. Her current side hustle is beauty products. 

I remain a little fuzzy. Do I actually have an appointment? Or, am I dropping in unannounced? Kind of a "Hey Girl, I was 'in the neighborhood' and thought I'd drop in," type visit. 

Walking from the circular drive to the front porch I am acutely aware of two things:

First,  her car, a 1970s AMC Gremlin in need of a paint job--and perhaps an AC repair since her windows are cranked all the way down--is parked away from her side-facing garage, at the far end of her long driveway (I have time to ponder the Gremlin because the Texas heat has zapped my energy, and my progress on the shorter walkway feels longer than her driveway).  I've watched enough of her on-the-go make-up tutorials from the interior of her ride to make me think it's an SUV or even a minivan.  Both are a far cry from a 50 year old Gremlin. 

Second, as I arrive at her front porch, an overwhelming desire to disrobe overcomes me. I tug irrationally at the v-neck collar of my t-shirt. Irrationally, because it's a pretty deep v-neck yet it feels like it's constricting my neck, and because I realize I have done it again--I have dressed myself backwards--well, at least it's only my top.  This time. 

Before I can tug the top around, the front door opens wide to reveal Emily's husband, as portayed by my Tree Guy, Mike. He is clad in dripping wet painters pants, and is wielding a pipe wrench.

Upon seeing me he gruffly says, "Party's in the den," and rushes off to his plumbing crisis. 

Party? So I guess that mystery is solved.  I don't have an appointment.  

And not only have I arrived uninvited, I'm crashing a party. Again. 

Only the constricting neckline keeps me from bolting as I tell myself, I'll just say, "hey," excuse myself to the bathroom to deal with the top, then leave. 

Entering the den I spy one of my former Social Workers. Former, because as of today she has a new job. I'm proud and happy for her, but sad for those of us left behind.

Amber is sitting on the couch surrounded by her three offspring.   I realize the Gremlin must be hers--even though I'm pretty sure she also drives an SUV--this is Texas after all--where SUVs and Pick-up Trucks are king of the road. 

Amber looks up from the book she's reading and motions toward the table, where Emily is likewise reading, while also surrounded by her own threesome of kidlets. 

All six of the minor characters in both camps are reading varrious printed books, magazines, and eReaders. My word-loving heart swells with pride and happiness. 

Since this appears to be a Wild Reading Party, I feel less bad about crashing. 

After we exchange pleasantries, I ask if I might use her bathroom.  She readily agrees and waves me in the general vacinity of the garage side of her home.

The first bathroom I encounter is ankle-deep in water. The sound of a cascading waterfall is deafening and I continue my search for a quieter, and drier, bathroom.  And being highly suggestable, I am now close to needing a bathroom that is fully functional.  

The next room is huge--almost the size of her garage. It is the most luxurious sauna I've ever seen. Very nice upgrade. She always says her side hustles pay for a lot of "extras " for the Family. I just never realized how lucrative they are.  However, as beautiful as the sauna is, there's nary a bathroom in sight. Although I consider twisting my top around on the spot, the humidity dampens my enthusiasm. Sadly, I leave to continue my potty quest. 

The third, and final door I open is indeed another bathroom--and it appears to be fully functioning--with the fluffiest towels imaginable hanging on the towel racks.  They beckon to me, and I can not resist.  As I blot away my sauna glow the towel actually tickles my skin.  I giggled. 

Of course, the tinkling of my laughter is what awakened me--that and the purposeful feather-light tickle of my cats tail skimming ever-so-lightly across my chin. 

Best. Alarm. Ever. 

Waking up I realize I am "of an age" where I can no longer tolerate one of two things prior to bedtime: narcotic-laced meds or spicey food. 

One, or both, led to a vividly bizarre dream last night.   

Creamy Pepper Sauce and the Dentist

Last week, while grocery shopping at HEB a day or two before the holiday, I  bought one of the numerous Meal Deals they offered. The freebie was a  Whataburger sauce. The choices were either a Creamy Pepper or a Hatch Ranch. I would have prefered the Fancy Ketchup.  Alas, Fancy was not an option, and since the photo showed a benign looking black pepper corn--and it was free--Creamy Pepper Sauce came home with me. 

Fast forward to this week. 

I'm at the dentist and my Dental Hygienist stopped what she was doing so we could engage in a Frank conversation about "the effects of aging on our mouths." Specifically, receding gumlines and shifting teeth. 

She then proceeded to work her magic, and much like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, she cleared all kinds of debris from the newly acquired hiddie-holes along my gumline. 

Busted!!

She knew, before I confessed, I have been skimping on my tooth brushing time. For the past week or so my toothbrush timing battery has been on its last leg, and I've quit brushing when it stopped--knowing full well that it was nowhere near two minutes. And, as if that were not bad enough, I have also been out of my favorite floss-picks. Believe it or not, my mouth is actually very small and I have difficulty using regular floss.  I have since purchaed a new timer toothbrush and floss picks.  Clearly, I need to pay  closer attention to the lodging places of small seeds and pepper corn particles.  

Chagrined, I looked away from Judy toward the weathered barn door--which until this visit I thought was purely decorative--just in time to see it closing ever so slowly. 

Had we been in an old-timey horror flick, the sight of the door closing  would have cued the suspenseful music and exaggerated creeeeak SFX. At that point, I would have urged my movie-self to get the heck out of Dodge.  

This was not  horror flick. However, I got spooked nonetheless.  

Nothing phases Judy.  Why should it--she is pulling everything from boulders and car transmissions from my  mouth--and keeping a straight face and her composure as she does it.  

While I freaked out, and did my Don Knotts Scaredy-Pants Dance, Judy laughed and said, "That's just David--he's doing some handyman work around the practice today." 

At the conclusion of  my cleaning, Judy handed me one of her goodie bags (manual toothbrush, and  travel-sized floss and toothpaste, all in a handy-dandy handled bag I hang on a knob and use for collecting jibits of paper in my SUV). 

Dang it if that door didn't move again. 

And it spooked me, again! 

Luckily, I did not repeat my DKSP dance. That would have spooked Judy--and the unknown patient passing my doorway at that moment in  time.  

I was able to calm myself down.  Then, in my most intimidating "Mommy Voice," I commanded, "David! Come here right now!" 

David obliged. 

He was wearing a colorful serape, a cartoonishly large sombrero, and beneath his salt-n-pepper handlebar mustache was the most dazzling smile I've ever seen--not quite as blinding as Ross had during the Friends story called, The One With Ross' Teeth (season 6, episode 8)--I could have come up with a better title than that.  So David's smile wasn't glow-in-the-dark caliber--but close.  

His brilliant smile was  also apropos since David is my Dentist. 

We all started laughing: David, Judy, the passerby patient, and me. 

I'm still laughing.  Even as I type this post. 

In fact, I laughed so hard I snort-laughed--which is almost as awkward as my DKSPD. 

 

I'm also laughing because I'm realizing I can no longer  eat Creamy Pepper Sauce on my sliders--because that was the oddest afternoon nap I've had in a very long time!

The Best Laid Plans

So, today did not go as planned....

I awoke early and set about cleaning. Not exactly my most favorite way to spend the third day of a three-day holiday. But it was the needful thing to do. 

Did you realize today is Emancipation Day?  It's also colloquially known as Juneteenth. 

Being Texans, my family has celebrated Juneteenth my whole life--even when we lived outside The Great State. However, not everyone knows about, or celebrates Emancipation Day.  

Case in point: back in the '60s, I was floored when my Florida classmates didn't know about the significance of June 19th. 

And more recently, last week in fact, right here in Texas, an an African American coworker confessed he did not realize it was now a Federal Holiday (in his defense, it's been a State Holiday for years). 

I had been contemplating a three-day get away, but nothing close enough jumped out at me. So I thought I would just hop in the old SUV and take a leisurely day trip. Alas, the state-wide heat advisory kind of "dampened" my enthusiasm, so in the "cool" of the morning I set about doing some long overdue cleaning. 

No sooner had I mopped the floors, The Girls tracked in leaves and dusty paw prints from the back yard. The weeds are green but they don't really form a lush carpet between the foot/paw and the dirt beneath the green. 

So I re-mopped the floor. 

When I reached in the fridge for a "cold one" reward, I found only one DDP. Ack!!! Major Disaster!!! 

So off to WallyWorld I went. 

I recently paid off all my credit cards and am back to zero balances. A huge feat considering last year was a surgery-rich year (my knee, and both eyes, as well as KatE's ear--and her redo ear).   Because I was finally back to zero balances, and I was loathe to making any CC purchases, decided I would only replenish my DDP stash and cleaning supplies. 

And I would limit my purchases to my cash onhand. 

It would be a quick, inexpensive trip. 

Humph... 

Two new outfits, cleaning supplies, a few groceries, spring water for The Girls,   DDP for me, and a few odds and ends later I returned home. 

With a CC receipt. 

Only to find in my absence The Girls used their oversized water dish as a splash pool. Their dusty paws were now leaving puddles and muddy paw prints on my clean floor. 

So I cleaned the floor yet again. Then I set about unloading the Wally-haul. All went well.

Until I placed the last DDP in my handy-dandy DDP dispenser--and I lost my grip. 

Normally when I drop my DDP I simply pick it up, rinse it off, then set it aside to "settle" before I open it. But today was not a normal day.

It exploded.

Sticky DDP spewed all over my relatively new outfit (I bought it a month or so ago but had only worn the cropped pant one other time). 

Tge DDP was not content to make me sticky...oh no, it also made--you guessed it--my floor sticky. 

So, lest you think I have now mopped my entire home 4 times this morning, I will clarify: the leaves and dusty pawprnts were in the back hallway, the splash bowl puddles and muddy pawprints were in the open  space, and the sticky DDP shower occured in the kitchen--therefore, I really have only mopped the "entire" home twice. 

However, at this point I'm a frazzled mess, who is not thinking logically or clearly. In fact I have burst into tears, stripped off the DDP staining clothing, and pretreated them. 

After mopping the kitchen--

again, I went to bed. 

Not exactly how I thought I would spend my Emancipation Day. But on the bright side, I have cold DDPs in the fridge.

And clean floors. 

Travolta Tendrils

I ran my errands after work, made it home,  and realized I forgot a few things I need for tomorrow. 

So, back to town I went.

An hour later I finally had everything and, as the sun was setting, I headed back home for real. 

Only problem:  I was driving on a stretch of the back road home where  I've met suicidal deer. That stretch of road make me nervous. Especially since  over nine months after cataract surgeries, my eyes are even more light sensitive than before the surgeries.  I now see tendrals off every light. And a lot of high-contrast, light-colored objects. The tendrils remind me of that dancing pose John Travolta made famous on the  "Saturday Night Fever" movie poster back in the '70s.  

Because of the light sensitivity and TravoltaTendrils, I slow down and  I'm super aware of my surroundings when night driving. 

I'm also as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.

Sure enough, just about the same spot in the road (I refer to it as the "Deer Xing"),  I saw a huge, majestic deer.  I say "he" because his antlers seemed to span the width of the road.

He looked as if he was contemplating the meaning of life, and his place in the world--or at least I got the feeling he wanted to be somewhere else.

Like accross the road.

Hoping to avoid an unplanned meeting, I slammed on my brakes.

Luckily I was not speeding. And no one was close enough for my brake-slamming quick stop to cause an accident. 

Amazingly, the deer stayed planted where he was.

In fact, nary a muscle, nor antler twitched. Multiple deer whistles on the grille of my SUV must have effectively warned him of my approach.

Of course, as I passed him, I realized the deer whistles had absolutely nothing to do with his immobility. 

He was not only not moving--he was not living.

And he did not have antlers.
In fact,  I would be surprised if he had ever identified as a he/him/his.  

And I am confident he never will.

Because he was not breathing.

And never had been.

He was,  in reality, a caged tree with the Travolta Tendrils shooting off the now headlight-lit cage reflectors.

My appointment with the retinal expert next month can not arrive soon enough. 

Louz Zoo

It's WWIII in Louz Zoo tonight.

Kenzie (Mama) and KatE (Daughter) were so vicious in their fight--that did not start out as play that carried them away.  It started out a legit FIGHT.  I had to check The Girls over for injuries. Thankfully no injuries were found. But Kenzie was pretty shaken. so I've been lovin' extra on my Mama-Girl.

Not finished agitating and stirring up trouble,  KatE picked on Moggy (The Cat) next.

The third time Moggy got rushed--and that's not rushed in Greek Frat wanting him kind of way--it's a running straight at and OVER him growling, and maybe even snapping kind of way, Moggy ducked behind the bedroom door. I'm not sure if my yelling for KatE to  "leave Moggy alone!" swayed her,  or threw her off her game--whatever the reason, when Moggy ducked behind the door, KatE sailed past it, and kept going down the hallway, and into the dining area.

But the greatest part  came a couple seconds later...

when Moggy peeked around the door......

  

he saw KatE was absent...

...and he pushed the door closed! Then sat there grooming himself. 

Score one for The Mogster!  

Maybe even a few extra points. 

I think we have ALL had about enough of Miss Priss and her Bully ways tonight.

It's  time for bed now and all three of the FirKids seem quite in a good "we're tired and ready to pass out into 'LaLa Landl good kinda way--not a bad up to mischief kind of way.  

I gotta get us all to sleep quick--while we have a short cease fire. 

G'nite all!

I'm at a Loss for Words.

So I received a notification that a blog post I wrote during the 2018 A-Z Blogging Challenge was flagged as not meeting community "standards" because it contained "sensitive" material. 

The offending post?

" 'G' is for Glassblowing."

March 2018.

What censorship 'bot determined a post, written over five years ago, outlining glassblowing--the artform of shaping glass objects via heat, motion, and air currents--is "sensitive" and not up to community "standards"?!?!?!

If the claim wasn't so egregious, and an obviously BLATENT act of CENSORSHIP, it would be laughable.  

The really sad thing is, the post wasn't even controversial. It was educational and factual. 

Ah. 

That's what made it too "sensitive" and against "standards."  It was actually factual and educational. 

It was not some liberal piece of filth pushing their snowflake agenda. 

I am not a spammer, finagling my way unbidden onto your social media page in order to sell you something. 

I'm not a phisher gleaning your personal information so I can sell it.  

I'm not a clone of your page, posting horrendous items that besmirch your reputation. 

If I were any of those--I would be found to be within their community "standards."

However, I--with a follower count of ONE--am scrutinized. I am found to have written a NONCONTROVERSIAL blog post--OVER FIVE YEARS AGO--which recounts my encounter with a rather fascinating art form.  THAT factual and educational blog post is found to be not up to community "standards" because it contains "sensitve" information. 

Educational facts are too "sensitive" and below community "standards."

Blogger Censorship. 

I am at a loss for words. 

So, The Cowboys Lost, Again.

Since the day they were dubbed "America's Team," the Cowboys have been the Susan Luci of professional football--the team we most love to hate.

But how many of the haters, and armchair QBs, bashing the 'boys, have actually ever qualified to play on a professional football team? 

While I'm waiting for a response, consider this:

The life of any public figure has got to be difficult--every mistake, mis-step, missed attempt, wrong placement, penalty, failed completion, inexperience, lack of finesse, harsh word, past-their-prime moment, zit, blemish, wrong doing, speeding ticket, bad date, error, or poor judgement of ANY kind is on display.

On National TV.

Replayed and dissected internationally.

For days.

Weeks.

Months.

Even years to come. 

It's hard, nay--impossible--to live up to any ideal of perfection.  The self-doubt must be grueling. No amount of money to play a game can compensate for the kind of mental anguish they place on themselves. Let alone the guilt the media and "adoring fans" heap on them. Whether they "deserve" the criticism or not. 

Like it or not, every single Dallas Cowboy has earned the right to critique their team mates; however, the rest of us--especially the armchair QBs and haters, have yet to earn anything even close to the right to voice our criticism.  

Have a little grace.

A little class.

Or just be quiet! 

Unless of course, you actually HAVE qualified to play on a professional football team. 

Still waiting...

#CowboyFanForLife