Thursday, July 31, 2014

I TELL YA, IT'S A CONSPIRACY !

Yeah.  It's mah birthday, and already I have detected a plot underfoot.

First, I get greeted by Joe with a  "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!", followed by cards from him and Beau.  

According to Hallmark, Beau thinks I'm a hero, and Joe thinks I'm a hot love muffin he wished he'd met 20 years sooner so we could "celebrate" in style.  

HIS style.  Which is... 

not this.

Then I get this from Clockwork Jewel and realize Joe's been talking to her.


I love getting books for my birthday.  
But the Kama Sutra?  
"You want me to throw a leg over your neck, while you brace yourself against the headboard, then on the count of three ........ ?"

Hey, it's MY birthday.  Not his.

Clockwork Jewel  makes beautiful jewelry and she made a special bracelet and earrings for me with frogs, leaves, and a perfect closure that is easy to fit on and off.  Plus earrings.




One box from my internet daughter 
NIKKI  was very heavy and I couldn't wait to see what it was.....
Yes.  That would be ROCKS.

And lots of goodies to get my card making juices flowing again.
 
Knowing I love wearing baseball caps, she threw in one in my favorite color, (that would be tan or gray) and it has the American Sign Language symbol for love on the front.



 Completely "Beau" approved.


 My sister, and my Whisper Mist tossed in two lovely bouquets.


As well as one from Joy.


Then Joe decided he'd better feed me and get me re-hydrated after this morning, so we dined at the Plantation Resort in Crystal River.

So I guess tonight will be a repeat of the same ol' thing wrapped up in a new bow.
I'm sixty-five and he's tryin' to kill me.

Monday, July 28, 2014

I ENJOYED IT SO MUCH THE FIRST TIME, I DID IT AGAIN


Some of you will remember my first sleep study at Seven Rivers Hodgepital.  I even took photos of myself all strapped up and looking like Wonder Woman gone Dominatrix.  

Hey, if you didn't see the photos then, too bad.  Everyone else did.

I was supposed to return immediately for the results, and one year later, the results are in.  

Yes.  It IS that bad here.

One year later, means my test had to be redone because the prior test at the Hodgepital had been done incorrectly.  

This time I was sent to the premier sleep study office and was amazed at the number of extra wires and tools of bondage that goes into a correctly done sleep study.

I was told I stopped breathing: 
30 times an hour, x 6 hours = 180 times a night.  

No wonder I'm always tired.  I wouldn't mind if I stopped breathing and stayed that way!  So what's the big deal?  Well, the doktors say I'll be more rested and energetic.  Doktors are usually full of it.

So, ASAP (which means July 2015) I'm to return to the doktor and get my prescription for my very own WWII Cpap mask:



Actually, it looks like this:


The male respiratory tech happily pointed out that it has pink straps.  He had no idea that I, personally, detest all things pink and go into a rage when looking at guns and the salesman shows me a pink rifle.

He's okay.  I hooked him up to a Cpap mask until he regained consciousness.


Saturday, July 26, 2014

MY YEARS AS A JACK-OF-ALL-TRADES ARTIST


In my life, I have been commissioned to do brochures, calendars, advertisements, portraits, blueprints, letterheads, and even billboards. 

All of this was before computers took over, so I had to do everything on site, and with no assistance from photoshop.   

Two of my more memorable jobs required some physical agility on my part.   

For a brochure on construction, I was laying on a concrete floor making quick sketches of a steel bench press and a welder, while sparks were flying overhead.  I didn't take a photo, because it was necessary that I have precise measurements in the brochure.

Another job had me balancing on top of a roof, sketching, then painting, a huge overhead sign.

A third job was for PILLSBURY, where I designed a newer and more jovial Dough Boy, holding Santa's sack full of Pillsbury products spilling out onto the floor.

Due to my start in graphic art design, I was once hired to find 10,000 pounds of missing steel, "merely" by reading hundreds of blueprints and calculating the weight of each I-beam and girder used in the construction of a LARGE school!!

I was able to discover the missing 10,000 pounds was discarded waste, not theft.  I was happy to never do that again and I still shiver over the sweat factor involved.

In spite of all that, my worst moment was when I allowed myself to be bullied and hounded to do three portraits that left a lasting taste in my mouth.  Being bullied and hounded into submission should have alerted me that friends don't use friends.

I was left feeling like a sap,  for I had been taken by a pro.  But it taught me a valuable lesson.  With a "bwaahaa" here and a "bwaahaa" there, I had been played by an internet chameleon in sheep's clothing.

I now only do portraits of my own free will, and only when I find a face I cannot resist drawing.

The following person's expression was irresistible to me (and quite a surprise for her when she finally got it in the mail).  

Now that she has it, I can now post it, but I'm not saying who it is.  

She asked me not to, and she's probably hiding under the bed from embarrassment. 









Saturday, July 19, 2014

DOOT, DOOT, DOO, LOOKIN' OUT MY FRONT DOOR


We're happy to have early morning visitors in our yard like red foxes, rabbits, coyotes, peacocks, an occasional deer, and egrets.

This particular area is the closest we could find to country living, and if you don't need good medical care, this is a good place to live.


Across the street is the elementary school.  We often wonder where they find all those kids, because seeing a free-range child is a rarity around here.  (That's another bonus.) 




 The arrow is pointing to a ruffled up, pissed off crow.  Some are as big as the egrets, but without the long legs.  In fact, they grow so large down here that Beau and I have been known to cross the street to avoid the very feisty ones.   They have 'tudes'.



They're rather tame, as I was within ten feet when I took this photo.

Maybe they're attracted by the new metal heron we bought to replace the one that was stolen last year.   This one will be a bit harder to pick up and run down the street with,  cuz I wired it to a concrete block that Joe buried in the garden.

Not impossible, but with one hand dragging the heron, and  a concrete block, and one hand to keep his baggy pants above the knees, it will at least make it more difficult.  And more comical.

I also want to thank Sandy and Michelle, for believing my birthday was today instead of the 31st.


 Michelle makes beautiful jewelry.  In fact, I've ordered several pieces from her and she's fantastic at her craft.  So I wonder what could be in that cute little, jewelry sized box.........

I promised Michelle not to open her gift until my birthday because she's a ..... uh ..... she has "tude" and I don't want to go against her orders request. Plus, I don't want to piss her off because she's in the process of making a necklace for me.



Sandy let me open her package to find a darling jammie outfit that I could wear to Walmart. whoohoo

A few of you know Sandy.  She used to host a blog called QUIRKYLOON, but has been having a tough fight with cancer and no longer posts.  But she's my internet sister and we're in daily contact and have been for nearly ten years.

See?  The internet can be used for good.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

BACK WHEN BASEMENTS WERE CELLARS

Just so you'll know, I'm unable to leave comments at your blogs.  I keep getting "conflicting error.  Try again." messages and my comments don't publish.


Right after dad finished building our house, a tornado happened nearby and my sister decided dying of fear was preferable to ending up like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.


After the storm passed, Dad grabbed his circular saw and cut a large square from the middle of the kitchen's hardwood floor.


Rich Indiana soil filled hundreds of buckets, then wheelbarrows made their way out of the house as dad dug space beneath the new home.  


The wheelbarrows then were filled with dry concrete mix and lowered into the hole - where dad must have lived for weeks.  


When he was finished, we had a half cellar with a concrete floor and side walls that rose 5 feet, allowing a spooky view of the crawl space....and a trapdoor in the middle of the kitchen floor.

That crawl space provided my most frequent nightmares of mom burying me alive in the dirt and telling me to wait for the devil to come get me.


Mom washed our clothes in that cellar using a Maytag wringer.  Being poor (or...thrifty) she never wasted water rinsing the clothes and our clothesline was always full of completely rigid dresses and shirts.


In winter, the smell of scorched soap rose from where the clothes were drying on the buckstove in the living room.  I can still hear the crunch our socks made as we pried the tops apart so we could shove our feet into them.


During tornadoes we were very popular as people would run through the fields to huddle by the Maytag in the cellar.


Dad always had axes and shovels beside the stairs in case the house would be blown on top of the trap door.  Dad thought of everything.


When I became older, I realized the cellar, and the dry cistern would be the perfect place to stockpile food and hide from the zombie apocalypse.  


But then we moved.  


This man in the following video put a lot of work in creating his basement, but I prefer to admire a man who did what he did because a child got scared of tornadoes.








Sunday, July 13, 2014

CHANGE IS GOOD.............or so they say



Has anyone else noticed the oddities happening in blogville?

There's a lot of chest pounding that reminds me of grade school fights with kids yelling  "I know you are, but what am I?"

Some have even followed my friends home to their blogs and created open range wars over differing opinions.

The internet started as a way of communicating with others, only to turn into a no holds barred bar fight.

What used to be sweet blogs are now labeled as "fluff blogs" because there's no animosity or axes being buried in someone's forehead.

If you're not what they are, then you're going to be treated like the only virgin at the penitentiary picnic.

Coming in at #1 are blogs concerning politics.

Number 2 on the hit parade is the bloodthirsty type of preppers.

I have no idea what's going to happen by nightfall, but there's a lot of blogs predicting the end of times at 12 noon on Thursday.

They might be right, but the sad thing is I get the feeling they WANT to be right.

With the attitude  "I will eat while the rest of the world starves", they long to have a reason to shoot someone.

The LDS have been preppers since their church first started, and manage to do so without making a big to do over it.

Religion now comes in third where volatile superiority is concerned.

Since I've never been political, religious, or radically incensed over the fact I don't have enough ammo to kill more than 300 people, I don't fit in any of the above categories.

So I'm going to be cleaning house pretty soon.  My banner will always remain, because I love the damn thing and I love the photos of my stud and lil' stud.

The bloggers who rarely show up have  been purged. 

I'm also enjoying ADDING new blogs!








Friday, July 4, 2014

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY TO A SWEATY WOMAN


SAM'S CLUB is an hour from our house no matter which direction you choose.  Joe chose the one in a very remote area instead of the one in a city with lots of mechanics.

Do you get the idea where this is heading?

Of course this was also the day I was prepared to go in Joe's F250 truck, packed with emergency water at all times, peanut butter crackers, dog food, and a GPS with a great "help" feature if you need..... well, HELP.

We took my car.

Pick the hottest day of the year, and have the fuel pump go out.  Which area would YOU choose?  Yeah.  That choice wasn't where Joe wanted to go.

In the middle of road construction and lots of orange cones confusing everyone, our car decided "$uck it".

"UP HOME" if the same thing had happened, all we would have had to do was wait for family or friends to drive by, and eventually they would have.  

Down here, in death valley: land of the soon-to-be eternally doomed, people aren't willing to get out of their air-conditioned Lincolns to aid a stranded motorist and we didn't expect it.

After an hour of profuse sweating and sharing my half can of HOT Dr. Pepper, a young woman pulled behind us, hopped out of her car with a new fangled cell phone and spoke into it asking for a tow truck.  One would be there lickity split:  IN AN HOUR.  

Without a thought, she put me in her car and was planning on taking me to her house and leaving Joe for the buzzards.  But I wasn't going to abandon him, even though it was his idea and all his fault.

Once we were home, he smiled and said  "See?  It all worked out, just like I knew it would."

Never, ever, say that to a woman who has spent three hours contemplating your death in heavy traffic.