Blog Archives

Sam’s Just A Good Guy, Ya Know?

I just love it when I don’t have to think of something clever to write about………..from my e-mail, I bring you…….


Pet Care Credit America, (PCCA)

5425 Wisconsin Avenue

Suite 600, PM 614

Chevy Chase, Maryland 20815




The Pet Care Credit (PCCA) was established in year 2000 as a non-profit organization to financially assist great pet owners and rescue organizations with veterinary medical costs in times of crisis. Our board members are a dedicated group of great pet owners and fanciers with extensive backgrounds in the breed. We are committed to providing funding resources for pets that are in dire need of medical attention and whose owner/rescuer finds they are unable to cover the basic costs of veterinary care.


We have received tremendous donations from our Rich Pets Owners nationwide; the organization also began rewarding the pets via the Cash Relay Program. Through these two programs are to proudly help our pet owners re-unite, more than $50,000 was received from our rich pet owners to reward 100 Pets Owners.


Pets Care Credit America is building a nationwide network of animal and pet advocates through the use of the PCCA, the Facebook page, and other private efforts both online and offline to continue building our community and reuniting pets with their owners across the country. We are pleased to inform you today 25th Sept, 2012, you have been selected among the lucky members to receive our cash reward for your pets. We have pledge the sum of $1000.00 as gratitude to your pet. We are happy with pet lovers and we will like to send our support to you in form of a cashier check, please advise us on the name and address where we can send this reward to you. Also, this reward must be used as expenses for your pet only.


Your support allows us to grow and build our network as well as increase awareness and our capacity to help. Please use the form below to receive a reward payable via Money Order/cashier check to lost dog founder and be sure to share our site with others.


•Name on Check:

• Address:



•Zip Code:


•Home Phone:

•Cell Phone:


•Gift Amount $1000


May we thank you publicly in our blog



Sam Duncan

President, PCCA


Awww…isn’t that thoughtful of ol’ Sam here?  Of course, this is just another scam in a looooooong line of scams, and you know what that means, right?


It’s time for “Fun With Scammers!”


Of course I checked out their Facebook page mentioned in the e-mail.  They don’t have one.


Shocking, I know.


Then, it was time to craft a reply:


Dear Sam,

I am so deeply touched and honored by your gratitude for my devotion to my pet rock.

Coincidentally, rock’s name is “Rock”.  I toyed with using the name “Boulder” or “Granite”, you know something to boost his ego, but since he didn’t seem to have a preference I selected “Rock”, because I secretly suspect he’s a big Rock Hudson fan.

Whenever a movie starring Rock Hudson comes on the television, Rock sits very still the whole time.  I’d say that’s a pretty good indication he’s a fan, wouldn’t you?

Rock is also the best listener I’ve ever met. I can talk to him for hours, and I know he will listen intently, never interrupt me, and always be a solid buddy I can truly lean on.

I have several pictures of Rock, but if I send you one I know I’ll want to send them all, and you’re probably a very busy man who doesn’t have time to look at pictures of pet rocks all day.

If you do want a picture, though, just let me know.

There is only one thing about Rock that is slightly disturbing, and really I think it’s the reason most people don’t go for the pet rock thing. He’s a cannibal.

He eats pebbles, there I said it.  He’s also been known to eat gravel, and when I can’t afford anything else he eats sand.  He loves to nibble on sand, and I often give it to him as a treat when money is plentiful and the gravel and pebbles flow like wine..really clunky wine, but you get the idea.

Your $1,000 will go towards purchasing the finest river rock pebbles money can buy.  Rock really loves the smooth ones that are sold for decorative purposes. 

One more thing Rock loves is taking trips.  He sits on the dashboard of my car and never moves.  He’s truly an excellent traveler, so I think I may use some of the money to treat him to a long-awaited vacation on the beaches of Florida.  There, he can graze on the sand and soak up the ocean…literally. 

I cannot tell you how much this gift means to me and when I told Rock I believe he vibrated with excitement!

Or maybe we hit a pothole – we were in the car at the time – either way, I could tell how very excited he was.

Below is all my contact information, please forward my money order as soon as possible.  Now that I’ve told Rock about this honor, I don’t want to disappoint him.


Natasha Bzychiewkski

2784569 Cellblock C

Leavenworth, KS 56890


No home phone

888-555-1212 – cell

p.s. I tried to ‘like’ your Facebook page, but was unable to locate.  I think Rock’s been playing on my computer while I’m at work – he’s clever like that – and may have done something to the Facebook-thingy.  Whatever, I’ll figure it out, but you may thank me on your blog publicly so long as you mention Rock, too.

p.p.s. Are you sure you don’t want a picture of Rock for your blog?

In Which We Are Bested By A Jeep

This one time, at band camp….

No, wait…wrong story.

This one time, when we decided to rent an SUV for a road trip…

Yeah, that’s how it starts.

Hubby and I were going to meet our son, daughter-in-law and grandson at a lakeside resort in Arkansas one year when they were living in Kansas, and we didn’t get to see much of them.

(boy, how that changed in a hurry as they moved back to Texas and in with us shortly after this trip and lived in our house for a year)

Not really wanting to put any more miles than was necessary on our aging Chevy Pickup, we decided to rent an SUV for the trip.

I went online and chose ‘full-size’ from the SUV menu at Reasonably Priced and Close Car Rental Company.

We went to pick up the vehicle only to discover that ‘full-size’ applies if you’re Mary Lou Retton and Willie Shoemaker. 

We are neither.

It was a Ford Esss-cop-ay they gave us, and hubby – who is 6’2” – couldn’t see out the windshield unless he slouched down in the seat.

Since he was doing the driving, and slouching really wasn’t conducive to a not-painful trip, we said no thanks we’ll go elsewhere to get a bigger SUV since you don’t seem to have one.

That’s when the Helpful Customer Service Agent said they did have a larger SUV, but it was considered a ‘premium’ vehicle and would cost more.

I said no thanks…we’ll get something bigger elsewhere for the same price as your ‘full-size’ vehicle.

I wasn’t trying to be a hardass.  I’d already called around and found a Chevy Trailblazer for the same price at Another Reasonably Priced and Close Car Rental Company.

I thought the HCSA was going to tackle us as we walked out the door. “Fine, I’ll let you have the premium SUV for the same price as the full-sized one, then.”

We looked at each other and agreed.

We were given a Jeep Grand Cherokee.  It was very roomy and identical to the one that son and daughter-in-law had purchased that same year.  Even down to the color.

We got a thirty-second tutorial on bells, switches, gauges, and where to locate the spare tire.

We are both experienced drivers and really didn’t pay much attention to the tutorial.

Later, I wished we had.  Boy, how I wished we had.

But, then I wouldn’t have had this amusing anecdote to tell you.

We drove the Jeep home, packed it and left the next morning.

It was raining lightly about three hours into our nine hour drive, so hubby turned on the wipers.  He also managed to turn on the rear-window wiper at the same time, though he said he didn’t know how and figured the two were connected.

When the rain stopped, hubby turned off the wipers.

The rear wiper kept going.

He pushed another button and the lights came on.

The rear wiper stopped, and the windshield wipers came on.

“I don’t think we are making progress” I said, stifling a giggle.

Random. Lever. Manipulate.

The radio came on and the wipers went off.

Except the rear wiper. It kept going, and now the window was dry so it was squeaking each time it swiped across.


I don’t think there’s a more exquisite torture. 

Forget waterboarding, forget sleep deprivation, just put the person inside a Jeep with the rear wiper stuck on during a dry spell.  They’ll tell you anything.

Random. Cussing. Followed by more random lever manipulating.

The radio came on, the rear wiper stopped and the dome light came on.

By now the sun was setting and we’d been at this for hours.  We were nearing our destination, and hubby’s patience was at an end.

“Leave it alone.” I said as he reached for the switch to turn off the dome light.

“I can’t, it bugs me.” He said, flipping the switch only to find the headlights going off and the dome light staying on.

Also, the rear wiper started again.

So, now we’re in the backwoods of Arkansas, on winding roads, in the dark, with no headlights.

Finally, we had to admit defeat and pull out the 575 page manual – not one of those pages explained how to turn off the rear-window wiper (the source of all this mayhem), I kid you not.

“Feck”, hubby exclaimed – well he didn’t say ‘feck’ but you get the idea.

Hubby punched the same button he’d used to plunge us into darkness, and the headlights came on.

The dome light stayed on, and I glared at him as he reached for the dashboard knobs again.

“Don’t.Touch.Anything.” I said through gritted teeth. “Let’s just get where we are going, and we can ask son how to turn this stuff off and on since he has the same vehicle.”

“Good idea.” Hubby said as we started off again.

In the silence, save for the ‘squeak, squeak’ of the rear wiper, a few minutes later I hear hubby giggling…then guffawing..and I joined in.

He reached for the dash again and pushed more buttons.

The wiper stopped and the dome light went off.  We got to the resort with no further chaos.

The rest of the trip our Jeep stayed in the parking lot and the wonky wiper/lights/radio system was forgotten until the day we left for home.

We got on the road that morning, joking about what random electrical malfunction we’d have next, but nothing happened 3…4…5…6..7 hours into the trip and we’d forgotten all about it. 

We were an hour from home when……


UPDATED – Even Before You Saw It! DR KEN WANTS YOU!!!!!!!!!!

From my Inbox today, a solution to the debt crisis in the United States:

—–Original Message—–
From: DR KEN OMA []
Sent: Monday, August 20, 2012 5:47 AM
To: undisclosed-recipients



Contact Person :Robert Carloni


Phone +15163236968


This message has been scanned for viruses and dangerous content by MailScanner, and is believed to be clean.

Note the original message was sent to ‘undisclosed-recipients’….I’m guessing millions of people in America are due $2.5M each, so carry the 2, add the .5, and yup…it’s trillions of dollars out there waiting to be claimed.

Now, if everyone would just follow my example, as evidenced in my reply……..

Yes, send money to:

 The White House

Attn: President Barack Obama

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue W

Washington, DC 20500

Our country is deeply in debt, and I’d like to think my donation of $2.5M will help. 

Thank you,

A Patriotic Citizen

Debt problem..solved.

UPDATEAfter the above merriment, I got this reply and my reply to the reply is posted below…the..reply…


Sent: Monday, August 20, 2012 8:56 AM

Subject: RE: XXXX











Wow…stuck in the airport?  That’s too bad.  I hear there’s a nice Starbucks in there now, though.


I once went to an airport Starbucks, but it was so far from my gate I almost missed my plane before getting my caramel-machiatto-triple-latte.   It would have made a bad day much worse.


Please make contact with the local office of the FBI (they’re in the phone book) – that stands for Federal Budget Infusion – as I have already arranged for a representative to meet with you.  



A. Concernedcitizen

I haven’t heard back from my diplomatic courier friend.  I can only assume he’s lost in the airport somewhere. 

Hope he was able to find the Starbucks at least.

Shutcher Mouth!

As I walked into the lobby at the medical building I heard half a phone conversation between Random Woman and Second Random Person on the other end.

It went like this – or at least the half I heard went like this:

Random Woman: Shutchermouth

I pushed the elevator button, RW was behind me.

Random Woman: Shutchermouth

The elevator doors open and the two of us get on.

Random Woman: Shutchermouth, nuh-uh

Up one floor.

Random Woman: Shutchermouth

The doors opened.

Random Woman: Shutchermouth

I begin walking down the hall with RW right behind me.

Random Woman: Shutchermouth

For fear I might have to strangle her, I ducked into the bathroom and waited for a few minutes.

I cautiously opened the bathroom door to look out into the hallway.

Random Woman: Shutchermouth

I Think The Government Is Trying To Kill Me

And not in any blatant hail-of-gunfire kinda way.  No, the bureaucracy that is the U.S. Gubmint is trying to kill me by making me have a rage-induced aneurism.

Let me attempt to explain…

My father is a veteran.  He’s also a 176 lb. infant these days, due to advancing Alzheimer’s.  Knowing the end is inevitable I decide to do the responsible daughter thing and get funeral pre-arrangements going. (That’s another with more funny and less rage.)

In my naiveté, I figure this will be a relatively *simple* process.

*proceeds to laugh hysterically for a moment*

Whew…oh yes, where was I?

Convo with me and funeral director:

Me: Hi, I’m here to do some funeral planning for my father.  He’s a veteran, so the interment and perpetual care are already taken care of…

FD: Do you have the DD-214?

Me: The wha…?

FD: The DD-214 form.  It’s your father’s discharge from the military.

Me: I have a discharge certificate.

FD:*shaking her head* That’s not the DD-214.  I’ll get you the web address to send an electronic request for the DD-214. It’s a fairly simple process.

The rest of the funeral pre-arrangement meeting went well….even though I laughed at precisely the wrong moments.  Every. Time.

I got back to my computer and proceeded to place the e-request for a copy of Dad’s DD-214.

This morning I got this e-mail from an Archive Technician (who knew they existed and are they like The Librarian?):

I have been assigned your request submitted for verification of military  service for the veteran:

Wyle E. Cattle 

Center Policy is that if the veteran is living, their signature is required to authorized release of information from military records.  If the veteran is not living, immediate next-of-kin must send written request for information.  Please identify your relationship to the veteran as you signed the web request indicating you were the veteran.

Additionally, the service number, provided in your request, is identifying a veteran with a different name than you submitted.  Was the veteran known by a different name during his military career?

I replied:

There was no place to indicate on the form who I am, but I requested the form on behalf of my father.  I am Awesome Sauciness (nee Cattlecall).

My father is Wyle E. Cattlecall.  I didn’t apply for the form under the name you list below.  I applied for it under his name, Wyle E. Cattlecall.

He is a resident at ******* in Redacted, TX. It’s a nursing home and he is in their secured wing as an elopement risk.  He has advanced Alzheimer’s and no language/writing skills.

I requested the DD-214 as part of funeral pre-planning arrangements I am making with You Stab ‘Em, We Slab ‘Em Funeral Home in Dallas, TX.

And I wait.

I have no faith I’ll get what I ask.  At least not until I trot one of these Archive Technicians over to the home and have him/her attempt to communicate with Dad.

Though if they are anything like the Librarian I would hope they have a Babelfish in their knapsack.  Then, maybe, I could talk to Dad too.

Then maybe I could explain to him why his next SS benefit check will be $200 short.

It’s because the SSA thinks Dad is not in a nursing home.

And that’s because the TX Dept of Health and Human Services told them that in October of 2011 Dad left the home he was in in Ft. Worth.

That part is true, but he wasn’t discharged he was transferred to a home where I wouldn’t get calls at 2:00 a.m. to tell me he had been beaten up again and had a head injury…again.

So the new home he went to filed all the necessary paperwork for the transfer, only somewhere along the bureaucratic nightmare of tangled webs the whole thing got lost.

I’ve now spoken to FOUR different people and gotten FOUR different answers about Dad’s benefits.

The only consistency is their insistence that I’m not someone to whom they may speak, but they must speak to Dad.

I finally told the last twit that I’d be glad to drive her over to the home and see, just see, how much of a conversation she could have with him.

I probably screamed that into the phone.

I have my own caseworker now.

And, probably, my own surveillance satellite.


Humanity is Doomed


Holy text failures, Batman….

Dear me….

Oh my….

I just cannot…

I don’t even….

Sigh……humanity is doomed, I tell you…doomed.

UPDATED – A Funny Thing Happened…

…on my way to work Tuesday morning.

Only it wasn’t funny then.

Come to think of it, it’s not terribly funny now but you people are soooo demanding I’ll try to make it funny.

Let me preface the following by giving you a little backstory.

When I was one my mother was rear-ended with me in the car.  This was pre-car seat days so I hit my head on the dash, causing my first whiplash injury.

Yes, I realize a blow to the head as an infant explains a lot of things about me, but I digress.

At 8, my mom, stepsister and I were rear-ended at a stoplight.  The other driver was traveling at an estimated 50 mph at impact.  I sustained a pinched nerve in my arm, a fractured lumbar, and my second whiplash injury.

As a teenager, I took it upon myself to care for an ailing stallion quarter horse.  As his health improved he rewarded my efforts with a rousing rendition of “Trigger: The Bucking Bronco” one morning.  I broke my nose, orbit bone, deeply bruised my lumbar (yes, same side), had road rash on my face and a severe concussion.  Oh, yes..and whiplash number three.

All was quiet until I turned 30.  One morning, on my way to take two of my kids to school, a driver ran a stop sign just as we were passing the intersection and t-boned the car.  The kids were a little bumped and bruised and I had whiplash number four.  I also sustained a lower back injury, and the next day was literally crawling around on hands and knees because the pain was so intense I couldn’t walk.

 – This was also the first time I experienced intense anger at the incredible stupidity of some most drivers, and as I raged at the at-fault driver he dropped his keys in the middle of the street and backed away to his car, hands raised in the air. Hell hath no fury like a woman whose children may be injured due to your stupidity, let me tell you –

A year and a half later, on the same street but at a different intersection, I was t-boned again.  This time I was alone, and this time the at-fault driver tried to run. 


I blocked his retreat with my car and waited for the police to come.  When they got there he was less than cooperative and only gave them enough information to get out of there.  As a result, there was a huge delay in getting my car fixed and in getting my fifth whiplash and second lower back strain treated.

*helluva backstory so far, right?’s not over…*

Nearly twenty years pass and then one day, on the freeway, a lovely little Saturn Vue developed an irresistible attraction to the rear bumper of my car.

At 60 mph in the pouring rain.

Four complete rotations and one quarter mile later, my car came to a stop on the shoulder of the freeway.  I have no idea how, but I didn’t hit anything/one else and no one hit me.

Second trip in an ambulance, strapped to a backboard, and whiplash number six on the books.

By this time my neck was holding together with prayer.  An MRI revealed – facet syndrome, arthritis, three ruptured discs (inside, “jelly” gone), and moderate stenosis.

Go look up those terms if you don’t know what they mean, I’ll wait.

:stoops to pet cat and nearly shrieks from pain:

Back?  Good, you are, I trust, quite versed in my numerous neck ailments now.

Yes, I had lost some mobility in both arms, but the surgeon said not to do anything about the damage – aside from controlling with pain medication – until I lost too much mobility to function. It’s a delicate operation and since my spinal stenosis means my chord is right *there* it will involve a neurosurgeon, too.


And, so, for the last two years I’d been maintaining status quo.

Until Tuesday morning.

I was completely stopped at a light on the south end of my little town, minding my own business.

BAM!!  No, was more like BAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, I’d been hit from behind.

It wasn’t a particular hard hit, he was probably not going over 20 mph, but it was enough to tighten the seat belt (and leave a small bruise), take my breath away and snap my neck in the familiar forward/back motion of classic whiplash.

Holymotherofgawdwhatthehell?! Was my first thought.

I looked up in my rearview mirror and pointed to a parking lot next to us.  No need to tie up other commuters, so we pulled in. 

This is our conversation:

Me: What happened?

Asshat: I looked down to do my breathalyzer, and when I looked up I hit you.

Me: Breathalyzer? Like inhaler or like drunk?

Asshat: Drunk.  But, I’m not drunk.

:waits while the first part of this exchange soaks in:

With me still? Good.

Me:  I’m calling the police, don’t you dare try to leave.

Asshat: I’m not. Why do we have to involve the police?  Can’t we just exchange information?

Me: (crying from pain as it began to settle over my neck and lower back)NO!

Asshat: Why?

Me: Because I am hurt, that’s why.

Asshat: How is that possible.  I barely hit you.

(at this point the dispatcher is on the line and I’m giving her details. Asshat is continuing to argue with me)

Asshat: (backing away from car) I’m going to get my *stuff*?

Me: Stuff?  Oh hell no, bring me your keys.  Right. Effin’.Now.

(apparently I looked pretty damned intimidating, because he came back with keys in hand)

Asshat: (now standing outside my window, talking to his wife on the phone) Yeah, go on without me…she says her neck is broken.  I dunno, I barely tapped her.

Me: Bullshit (and the dispatcher told me not to argue with him)

Me: (to dispatcher) Oh I’m not going to, I’ve got the mother-lover’s keys. (then rolled up my window and locked my door)

Asshat: (louder now, so I could hear him through my closed window)  Look, I stopped a safe distance behind you and just took my foot off the brake.  I hardly touched you.

Me: (nothing, I ignored him as I saw the cops and ambulance pull up)

Over the next few minutes the paramedics checked me out and not wanting to go to the ER I signed a release and they admonished me to get checked out. I told the gorgeous young man – and really, is it a pre-requisite that all paramedics be just dropdead gorgeous or what? – sadly, this is not my first rodeo and I will get checked out…I was going anyway as I was pretty sure I had bronchitis…and then I coughed and a fresh spasm of pain shot through my neck and back.


Then the police officer came over to me and here is our conversation.

Police: Do you have his keys?

Me: Yes.

Police:  He says you “snatched” them from him.

Me: (chuckling) Right. I’ve not even gotten out of the car yet.  He gave me his keys when I demanded them.

Police: Why did you think you should take them?

Me: In-car breathalyzer, protestations of calling y’all and telling me he was getting his *stuff*…two and two in my book.

Police: (grinning) Well, you shouldn’t have done that.

Me: Maybe not, but if he’d of run I’d of chased his ass.

Police: Bad idea.

Me: I didn’t say it was a *good* idea, but I know me.

Police: (chuckling) Yes, and apparently you can be quite intimidating.

Me: Damn straight.

I finally got out of my car and headed to the back to see the damage.

I gasped.

There was none.


I couldn’t see a thing.

The front of Asshat’s car was slightly wrinkled and his license plate looked pretty smashed.

I looked at Asshat and he at me.

Me: Wow.  To look at it, you’d never know you hit me.

Asshat: See.  That’s what I was saying before.

I finished getting all of the information from the policeman, thanked him and apologized again for scaring the little man, and went home.

I went to see my doctor later in the morning and she confirmed two things – I have bronchitis and whiplash number seven.  Lower back is torqued again, too. Orders to stay home a couple of days, load up on the pain meds and a new ‘script for muscle relaxers, later I was finally home…and hurting.


Back home I inspected my car and found a small dent in the bumper, some scratches and a bent tailpipe.  It’s almost like Asshat’s car went under mine slightly.  Makes sense as his front end was low to the ground and my back end is higher than most cars’ front ends.

I spent two hours on the phone with my insurance company and his, and am going later today to get the car inspected for damage.

I’m in soooo much pain, it’s like a haze in front of me and I’m slogging through one foot at a time.

Double feck.

See, told you it wasn’t a funny story.

And, now I feel like I owe you something…

A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, “Why the long face?”


I’ll be here all week, or at least until the surplus tank I ordered to use as my personal car gets here. 

Really, it’s the only practical solution.

UPDATE: So, on Wednesday I took my car to the at-fault driver’s insurance carrier’s *recommended* shop for an eval.   When I got into the car that morning I had fully two inches of water in the floorboard of the passenger’s side.  We’d had a monsoon blow through the night before.  Further inspection revealed that my passenger door is bowed outward, and the right side of my car where the trunk lid meets the side panel is pushed down.

If you know anything about cars and bodies, then you know that *may* mean frame damage…and that’s a death knell for a car this old.

Feck, feck and feck.

Anyway, my suspicions about just how/where the asshat hit me were confirmed by the estimator.  He went under the car on the right side, bent the tailpipe, muffler and bumper on that side.  And, as I also suspected the impact was well over 20 mph, more like 30 mph.

 Hopefully a thorough frame inspection will reveal no damage and the door and trunk lid can be repaired by re-hanging.

I seriously doubt, given my luck, that it’ll be that simple but I’m hoping I’m wrong here.

Feck, feck, feck.

Dumb and Dumbererest

On second thought, just…I don’t know…

I have about a gozillion stories I could tell you that center around my oldest daughter.

Every one of them is true, and every one of them is like it was written for a movie or sitcom.


The latest?

Daughter is a hairdresser, and all that that implies, and the latest craze is feathers.

Yes, feathers clipped into hair as an accent piece.

This is all the rage.


So, this rage has caused two things.

1. Price gouging by suppliers and;

2. A chance to make a buck selling feathers online opportunity seized by daughter.

I don’t know where she got all these feathers, but I think most of them came from fly-tying suppliers – who I might add are royally pissed at all the frivolous feather usage depleting their stock – and since she got them so cheap and can sell them for so much, well…she’s stoked about the idea when she calls me from the car yesterday.

“Mom? You have an eBay account, right?”

“Yes, I do. Why?”

“I want to sell feathers.  You know the kind you clip on your hair? I can sell them for like a 400% mark-up.”


“Yeah, it’s so amazing what people are paying for them on eBay.”

(At this point she launches into a mathematical treatise that is I am sure Nobel Prize-worthy, but which loses me in the second sentence – not because I am stupid, but because I am working and half-listening to her speed-of-light commentary at the same time)

“See what I mean?”

“Yeah.  So, what are your plans?”

“I’m not sure yet.  I haven’t got the whole page layout and photo details worked out, but you can help with that, right?”

“Yes, I know how to do that.”

(At this point I hear her son in the background, chattering away – he’s three, they chatter…a lot)

“Wait a minute, Mom, I need to take some aspirin.”

I hear the phone shuffle, I hear some muffled sounds and then…


This is followed by the sounds of gagging.

Yes gagging.

Mama-bear haz a alarm.

“WHAT is going on?”

“Mom…I don’t, oh my God (son’s name)…this is…oh Mom..”


“Son had to pee, really bad this morning and we were in the car so I gave him an empty Vitamin Water bottle to use.  And just now…to take the aspirin….”

“Oh my God! You didn’t!”

“I did…only I didn’t swallow it.  I spit back into the bottle, but the taste….”

More gagging sounds, and at this point I totally lose it and am laughing so hard I believe I may bust a rib.

“Did I just poison myself?”

“No. Actually urine is pretty harmless.”

“Yeah, that’s comforting.”

My oldest girl.   She have a crazy goin’ on.


I have nothing to say, nothing to wax poetic or blog poetic or whatever poetic about today.


I know, hard to believe I can’t bloviate on something or wax on something or something on something.


So, you tell me about you in the comments…go ahead, no one reads this blog except the two of us. 

And, for inspiration….


Oh hai! Yes, I inspire...terror, that is.

One? Two? Better or Worse?

So, I went to the optomedrip, optemotris, optomuhtis, umm…eye doctor last Friday.

It was my regular exam, no biggie – except my eyeballs gots better!!

Because, you know…ninjas.

No, there’s some technical explanation for it that comes down to this:

Eye Doc: Yeah, as you get older if you have astigmatism it can correct to farsightedness, which is what you have.

Me: Awesome.

So, as we were chatting about whether or not I’d need tri-focals or bi-focals since I still need glasses for the computer and reading, I asked the doctor about something that had occurred to me when she was examining my eyes.

You know the infamous eye exams.

The strange-looking eye probe/reader thingy is placed in front of you in a darkened room and then an eye chart is illuminated on the far wall. 

The object is to try and trick you into saying you can’t see anything so your eye doctor can prescribe glasses.  Except if you are like me, and don’t play by the rules, you fool them….and still need glasses in the end.

Doc: Read the first line that’s clear.

Me: (looking at the largest line) Uh…heh..heh.

Doc: (flipping something on the machine so a larger chart appears) Now?

Me: Ah…okay, E  –  V  –  O  –  P (it was the bottom line, indicating 20×25 vision)

Doc: (begins flipping through lenses) One? (flip) Or Two?

Me: Two

Doc: (flip) Two? (flip) Or Three?

Me: Three

And so it goes until at the end, the doctor shows you how things will look with your new glasses and everyone proclaims “Hallelujah!”*

*I may have made up the ‘hallelujah’ part.

Anyway, as we were chatting I told her that during my exam I  began to wonder how many times a day she does the “One, two, three…” blah, blah.

She rolled her eyes in response.  “You don’t want to know.”

“So, why don’t you do something different? You know, say…One, Two, Badger, Squirrel. See if anyone is paying attention?”

She laughed, loudly, before saying in a whisper, “You know what’s really bad?  I can’t go higher than ‘four’ because it confuses most people.”

That’s sad.

Not unexpected, mind you, just sad.  I told her so and we both had a laugh.

So, after much searching of the inventory I chose these glasses only in brown and I added the anti-glare feature.  

How do you like the new me?

Too much? Not enough? Be honest, now.