I feel the need

I feel the need

Friday, September 27, 2013

Five for Friday: The crazies may be gone, but my job is still insane...and hilarious.

Good afternoon!

I was starting to think that, with the departure of Elsie W., Noelle C., and Aqua Girl/Pandora, my job was no longer going to be funny.  I especially thought that when the newest in the line of ISP's showed up.  Her name is Kay and folks, I'm delighted to say that since Kay showed up, I no longer wish to die every single day.  I no longer wish to leave Stuff, Installed. 

Now part of that is that Kay is hilarious.  She's a fluffy girl, like me, and we laugh a lot.  Yes, she's twenty years younger than I am, but her sense of humor and mine a very close.  I think our boisterous laughter is starting to confuse NBM.  He doesn't know how to deal with two women in the office who like each other and have zero interest in him on any level.

Part of the reason I like my job once more is because, well, I'm a genius.  Rather, I'm being hailed as a genius.  See, in order to get someone normal into that ISP chair, I had to figure out how to make the work schedule more normal.  NBM wasn't going to do it, he's not an outside the box thinker.  But, after some serious pondering, I hit upon a plan that not only gave Kay a two day weekend, but also gave me...a THREE DAY WEEKEND!

Yes, I now work a 12 hour day on Mondays...but I have Fridays off!  TAH DAH!

The downside to all this, however, is that my face book posts are no longer filled with misery and stupidity. I was starting to worry that I was no longer funny.

And then I started to really listen to our customers and I realized that I am working in a gold mine of ridiculousness.  Which brings me to my five for Friday:  Five things that happened in the last ten days to remind me that my job is still insane and hilarious:

5)  "My job is wait for someone to insult me like that."

I'm really starting to think that the AARP population is out to make my life difficult on purpose.  Earlier this week a gent walked into my showroom and started asking me questions about what we do and don't install here at Stuff, Installed.  He asked if we installed toilets or sinks.  I said no, and explained what we do.  He asked if we installed windows.  Again, I said no and again I explained what we do.

He then asked me, "Well what good are you?"

Hey, I'm a lady.  And I was wearing jewelry and perfume and nice lady like looking clothes that day and darn it all I didn't feel the need to have Mr. REALLY Old Spice question my purpose in life. 

And so I let fly with, "I wait here all day for people like you to ask me that very question,"

4)  "And I assumed you weren't a jackass. Guess we were both wrong."

Mr. Really Old Spice didn't stop his insults. Most of you know I have a candy dish on my desk.  And when people say, "May I take a piece of candy,"  what I say, nay, what everyone in a polite society says is, "Sure, help yourself."

This jackwagon decided he was going to be cute.  When I said that, he picked up the whole dish and started heading for the door. Now, granted, he was old, so it wasn't like he was moving at the speed of light, but still, I sat down at my desk and waited to see if he was really, truly, going to walk off with my entire pile of candy...and the dish as well.

By the time he got to the door, he stopped  (I think he was winded from the walk) and he looked at me and said, "Hey, you said I could help myself."

Now, I wanted to say a lot of things.  But what I said was, "Well, I didn't think you were the kind that stole from ladies.  But hey, if you truly need that candy dish, well, you're right, I did say help yourself."

It took him about five minutes to old man stroll back to  my desk, put the candy dish in its spot and go back to the door. 

3)  "Just how filthy are you?"

Part of my job at Stuff, Installed is to take customer calls  from people who have questions or problems with the stuff we install.  Most of the time it's very simple and I'm able to solve a problem in a few minutes.  I'm just that awesome.  But then there are days that I get a call that's so wildly out there I start to think about just how I managed to fall into a job where all of our customers are naked when they are using our product.

This week I took a call from a lady, let's call her Edna.  Edna was old, OF COURSE, and had a problem.  See, we installed a bath tub in her home.  Now we installed that tub almost ten years ago.  But hey, there's a lifetime warranty on the tub so long as she doesn't do anything stupid with it, like clog dance in it wearing golf shoes or drill a hole in it.

Edna wanted to install a safety bar.  No problem, I said, and I quoted her a price.  All was well.  Then Edna launched into a complaint I'd never gotten before.

"When you installed my tub I had a lever that I could pull up and down to empty the tub. But when you installed my tub you put the stopped in the drain and that's how I'm supposed to get the water to drain out, but pushing on that stopper."

I'm with her so far.

"Well, when you installed the tub, you told me I couldn't have that lever because you didn't install that kind of thing."

"That's correct," I tell her.  "You drain our tubs by pushing on the stopper in the drain."

"Well I just say your TV commercial and I watched it very carefully and you have that lever on your tubs now, and I want one."

I curse the day we ever put together a TV commercial.  It's a nice commercial, don't get me wrong.  But we can't afford to run it during prime time, so we run these commercials during the day, on the Game Show Network, or on those networks that run reruns from the 1950's.  The people who see our commercials are people who are watching 1950's TV during the day.  They are not people who can see the TV screen that well, or who can hear all that well.  I know because I take calls from them and 99% of the time the TV is SCREAMING in the back ground.

"Well, Ma'am, I don't know what to tell you, but we do not install those levers."

"You are trying to withhold the lever from me.  I want you to install that lever because I don't want to get out of the tub and then have to put my hand in that nasty bath water to empty the tub.  And now you're lying to me because I watched that commercial very carefully."

(It might not even be a commercial for Stuff, Installed.  Most people confuse us with the other 99 stuff installation companies out there.)

I tried to explain to this lady that I wasn't lying to her, but in the back of my mind I just couldn't help wondering just how dirty this woman was...and why she was so loathe to put her hand in the water mere seconds after she'd been SITTING IN IT.

"Well I'm going to have someone else put that grab bar in because you're just lying to me about the lever."

"Ma'am, I would not recommend having someone else install the safety bar because if you have someone else drill a hole in our product, you will void your warranty with us."

"I don't have a warranty with you."

I could go on...but I'll just say she accused me a second time of lying to her, this time about having a warranty.

2)  Three accents, two time zones and one computer later we discover that I'm not the idiot.

My computer has been a source of aggravation since the day I started at Stuff, Installed.  It's slow, it's unreliable, and it shuts down for no apparent reason some days.  But hey, I'm not a whiner...at least not at work.  But two weeks ago NBM realized that everyone's Internet was too slow for words and since it was starting to affect his ability to access ESPN.com on his work computer, he had someone come in and look at things. The tech informed him that if he had to work on my computer, he'd quit.

I got a new computer a week later.

I was not all that excited to install it.  See, even though my computer is slow, everything I need is right where it's supposed to be on it.  NBM assured me that the IT guy at our home office in Tennessee would transfer all my files from my computer to another computer in the office, we'd install my computer, and then he'd transfer all the files to the new computer.  "Should take five minutes" says NBM who has the technical knowledge of, well, let's just say I'm his go-to person when he can't figure out how to operate Face Book. Which is pretty much every day.

I won't bore you with the details, but the transferring of files from old computer to other old computer took two solid days.  See, the IT guy in Tennessee got stung by a Brown Recluse spider and had to leave early and the IT guy at the home office in Canada couldn't figure out what Tennessee had done with my files.

One day three, I called Canada after installing my new computer.  Canada again couldn't find my files, so I called Tennessee. Tennessee wasn't picking up his phone.  Finally, on day FOUR, Tennessee transferred my files from the second computer to my new computer.

Couple things:  I couldn't print.  I couldn't scan, and there was clearly no word processing program on the new computer.  I couldn't open any of my files.  Sure, they were there, but I wouldn't open them.

I called Canada because THAT'S where the computer came from.  After answering several questions, Canada again reloaded my files. This time I could open them...but still couldn't print or scan.  (No big deal...it's just that that's WHAT I DO ALL DAY.)

On day five I got an email from Canada.  Turns out...they sent me the wrong computer.  They sent me a computer destined for some other desk...one that was going to load all sorts of fancy programs and that's why it literally had NOTHING on it. They'd also sent us a second computer, one NBM was going to use to replace another ancient machine.  Canada wanted one of those back.  Since NBM didn't feel like crawling under my desk to get mine it was agreed he'd send the other one back.

One day six, I called Tennessee twice, asking that he help me load a scanning program onto my new computer. I never heard back from him.

But I'm a smart girl and I have an empty desk next to mine.  So now, on Monday, which will be day nine of the five minute file transfer, I'll hook up my old computer on that desk and I'll officially have command of two desks and two computers.

All because IT won't return a phone call.  Probably another spider bite.

1)  "Well, if you're out of band with, you're out of band with.  And yes, I see how that is my problem."

I fill out permits for building inspectors.  This involves talking to a lot of older guys, guys who were builders and plumbers, but retired and now inspect building and plumbing.

Last week I mailed a permit to a small town.  The building inspector is roughly 100 years old.  A couple days later I called to schedule the inspection.  He scheduled it, but informed me he hadn't received my paperwork yet.  I said it was weird, since I mailed it a week earlier and the town was four miles from my desk.

He inspected the building a few days later and still insisted he hadn't received the paperwork and the check.  (The check being the more important thing.)  He then had his secretary call me. She's younger than he is...by about four years.

She asked me a series of questions, implying that I was lying about mailing the forms.  Then she asked me where I'd mailed the forms.

"I mailed them to the address at the top of the form."

"Oh, well, there's your problem," she said.  "That's our physical address.  We don't get any mail here."

"Where should I have sent it?"

"Oh, to our P.O. box."

"I see," says I.  "And is that P.O. box number on the form?"

"Where did you get the form?"

"From your inspector.  He faxed it to me."

"Well he got it from our website.  And we ran out of band with on the website and just didn't have enough room for one more line on the forms.  So the P.O. Box number got left off the forms and it's not on the site."

So let me get this right.  You don't get mail at your actual location  (doubtful, since I've mailed things to them many times) and you have to get mail sent to an address you don't have listed anywhere on your forms.  And this is my problem how?

Oh yeah, my job is still insane. 

Friday, September 20, 2013

See, K-Mart, this is why you suck.

Good afternoon!

K Mart Sucks...and now I know why.
I love the movie "Rain Man."  If you haven't seen it, you need to.  Go, right now.  Rent it, buy it, see if Netflix will let you stream it.  I'll wait. 

Okay, now that you've caught up, I was in college when Rain Man came out and I always thought they were a little harsh to that department store giant, K-Mart.  When I was a kid, we'd go to K-Mart when we were doing gift shopping or special shopping.  I loved the announcements for blue light specials.  I'd run around the store, at the risk of infuriating my mother, so that I could find the blue light and BE THERE when they said "Shoppers for the next ten minutes the blue light special will be No Nonsense pantyhose!"

I'll be honest, though, since I got older, and Walmart showed up in every town, and then Target started selling groceries, and Sam's Club sold me cheese pop corn by the drum, I haven't spent a lot of time at K-Mart.  I understand they've been going through a bit of a downturn lately, which is a shame.

At least I thought so, until I stopped at one this morning.

I needed a loaf of bread, some cat food, and a roll of birthday wrapping paper.  (Today Skippy turns 20.)  I didn't feel like making a trip out of may way for any of these things, and K-Mart just happened to be where I was.  So I stopped in for these three things.

And that's when I found out why K-Mart sucks.

In case the owners of K-Mart aren't aware, I will share my shopping experience with you all.

I stopped at the store at about 10 AM.  The store, according to the sign, opened at 8 AM.  Apparently, however, the automated doors didn't open until sometime AFTER 10 because as I was walking briskly into the store I aimed for the automatic doors.  I have issues with opening doors.  I also have issues paying attention to whether or not a door is open.  See, it's an automatic door which means when I'm near it it should OPEN automatically.

That didn't exactly happen.  At all.  I about smashed my face into the door.  And then I did that dance, that side to side dance to see if I could activate the door.  No dice.  So I pulled open the other door and went in.

The store was abandoned, which was fine by me since I have no patience for crowds.  I found the cat food and the wrapping paper right away.  All I needed was bread.  A loaf of bread. That's it.

Fifteen minutes of searching and I realized one thing: K-Mart had more shelf space devoted to Toffifay candy than they do to BREAD.  Don't remember what Toffifay candy is? Don't feel bad.  No one does! 

I eventually found bread...sort of.  There was a basket of reduced loaves of bread.  $2 for some no named loaf of paste white bread.  See, I was looking for something with maybe some fiber...or flavor.  I was NOT looking for an expired loaf of store brand glue.  And friends, that was literally the only bread, the only bread like anything in the store.  There were no bagels, no English muffins, no other breads of any kind in that building.  Two rows devoted to soda and chips...one shopping cart for expired bread. (Where's Michelle Obama...why isn't she picketing K-Mart?)

Well, armed with two of the three things I needed, I headed to the checkout.  This is a store that had, according to the signs, been open for more than two hours.  There was not ONE LANE OPEN.  Not one.  I
couldn't find anyone willing to admit they worked there.  In fact, after wandering around for five more minutes, I actually set my stuff down on an open shelf  (there were a ton of them) and I was about to leave when on single lane light popped on.

The woman scanned my items and asked me if I had a membership savings card.  I said, politely, "no."  What I wanted to say was, "Why would I want to admit I shop in a store where the employees are hiding from the customers who aren't here?"

I noted that this particular branch of K-Mart is hiring. I'm just putting that out there.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

I know where the Daryls are!

Good evening!

I thought I'd be writing about the insanely goofy things that seem to keep happening to me every time I get into the pool at Gold's.  I mean, granted, I should have known no good would come of me trying to replicate the foot stomp the guy in the speedo did a few weeks back. What was I thinking?  I'm old.  I'm fluffy. I have an arthritic toe!  Slapping my feet on the deck of the pool was...in a word...ill-advised.

However, no, I'm not going to tell you how I managed to further cripple myself by giving in to the urge to do that weird foot slap walk the speedo did.  Nope, not gonna tell you.  Not gonna do it.
Instead, I'm going to tell you about the other time in my life when ridiculous things seem to happen to me...without fail.  When I'm standing in line for ANYTHING at Sam's Club.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Sam's club, it's one of those buy in bulk warehouse stores.  They've added a few things since they opened their doors and now you can get big screen TV's, tires, prescription meds, eyes checks, hearing checks, and oh yes, your toilet paper...in gross.  It's the one stop shop for people with unlimited storage space.  (Or with children who can't seem to eat enough peanut butter to satisfy them.  Seriously...you should see how much peanut butter we go through.)

Now I get why people join Sam's.  If you buy in bulk, you get a better price.  We buy fruit there, the milk prices are always good, and face it, with four cats, we have to buy kitty litter by the truckload.  I get it.  I have kids.  We have a ton of cats.  We need to buy in bulk.

And yet...it seems like every time I'm in a line at Sam's club...I'm behind an old guy who is gumming up the works because 1)  He's in self checkout and hasn't a clue what he's doing; 2)  he's at the pharmacy and forgot what his doctor was supposed to order for him...and he forgot his birthday...and he forgot everything; 3)  he's in customer service asking all the question that could possibly be asked about everything because he's an old guy and has no place else to go.

I'd like to make a solemn vow at this point, and I'd like all the retired people to sit up and listen and maybe adopt this as their own policy:  I solemnly swear, when I have retired, and I have NO PLACE ELSE TO GO AND NOTHING ELSE TO DO ALL DAY I will get on with my daily business and be off the streets and out of all lines by 4:30 in the afternoon when the people who are still employed start their shopping and errands.  I will do this because, as a retired person, I have ALL DAMN DAY to get in lines and ask questions and forget things in front of people, and I don't need to be doing it during the time of day when exhausted mothers and fathers are just trying to do ONE LAST THING before they get home and order pizza...again...because they're tired...again...and have to get up and go to work early in the morning.

Now, I'd like all retired people to raise your right hand...I'll wait...because that's what retired people MAKE ME DO EVERY TIME I'M AT SAM'S CLUB!

Today was no exception.  I had four stops to make after work and one of them was to return a pair of pants to Sam's.

Let me stop here for a moment and just say, if Sam's doesn't want people to return clothing, they really should provide a trying on room.  And if pants makers don't start getting some sort of standard for women's pants, I'm going to have some sort of attack.  Seriously, any pair of pants that is in my size and labeled "SUPER STRETCH"  should FREAKING FIT!  I should not have to lie on the bed and suck in my fat if I've purchased a pair of pants in my numeric size that are labeled "super stretch."  There should be a standard.  A 16 should fit no matter what the label.  I should NOT be able to wear a 14 in some pants and a 16 in others and then not be able to even zip up an 18 in another brand.  That's just wrong.

Anyway, back to the standing in line.  So I'm in line waiting to return a pair of pants.  That's all I wanted to do.  Go in, return, leave.  Any other store in the world, this is a four minute transaction tops.  I know.  I've returned a lot of pants.

At Sam's, however, I got behind this retired couple who, I'm guessing, wanted to hear the complete history of Sam's club while trying to take out a home loan at the customer service desk.  I realize Sam's doesn't do home loans.  I'm pretty sure Old Person One and Old Person Two did not.  Not, given the amount of time they spent asking questions of the Sam's club employee.

But this post isn't so much about the retired couple in front of me as it is about the two old guys behind me. 

Back in the 80's there was a very fun show called "The Newhart Show."  If you're not familiar with the plot, it doesn't matter.  The biggest laughs came from a named Larry.  Larry was a derfy looking guy who had a line he said every time he came on screen followed by two derfier looking guys:

"Hi, I'm Larry. This is my Brother Daryl, and this is my other Brother Daryl."

And we laughed every single time.  Every. Single. Time.

Well, for those of you wondering where the Daryls wound up...I can tell you. They were standing behind me in the customer service line at Sam's club this afternoon.  And they were there, and I'm not kidding here, JUST TO STAND IN LINE.

There they were, standing there, sipping Coca Cole out of those gigantic Styrofoam vats Sam's sells.  And they looked just like they did back in the day, just a bit older, but certainly no cleaner!  A female employee of Sam's stopped to see if she could help them, maybe direct them somewhere or point them toward the door where their essence of Coke and old man wouldn't be quite so...sturdy.

"No thanks," they told her.  "We like standing in lines."

And there it is.  The reason I keep getting behind retired people at 4:30 in the afternoon. They have nothing else better to do, so they like to stand in lines...and clearly, none of them is finished doing that until well after 4:30.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Hey, Honey...when did we turn into hippies?

Good evening!

If you are a fan of American football, you're in a major TV coma right now.  For Packer Nation I say, "No Shame."

But I digress.

Since the Packers played late, Hubby and I made a run to Target to pick up a couple things for the teeny tiny bathroom project we'd started this weekend.  (And when I say "we"  I mean I said to Hubby, "Hey, I think we should paint the kid's bathroom white this weekend and he said, "ok" and then he proceeded to spend $350 on a multitude of things, including a new vanity...which we had to buy because, and I did not know this, when you paint a bathroom you have to remove the vanity to get the whole wall painted and our current vanity was 30+ years old and had absorbed that many years of toilet over flows...that's a lot of yucky water for a sub-par particle board vanity to absorb over the years.) 

ANYWAY, since the Packers played late we ran to Target for a few things and wound up in the food section.  Since Target opened their stores to include an almost full grocery department, it's been a bad thing for my Target card...Hubby mentioned he wanted to check out the cereal aisle.  I reminded him that we had plenty breakfast cereal.  I'd recently purchased to "super size" bags of cereal at Woodman's.  Hubby reminded me that he had little interest starting his day with a massive serving of store brand "Super Sugar Smacks."  (Yes, he's the vegetarian of the family.  Very health conscious.  Except when I baked those key lime squares...)

So we headed to the cereal aisle where we played a little game we play when we go shopping together.  We pull down two similar products from the shelf and read, out loud and with much mocking and editorial commentary, the dietary information panel.  I pulled out a box of "Fiber One" cereal and he picked up the Kashi.  We read the information and turns out, his choice won.  But it came as no surprise, since the Kashi cereal contained...and I'm not making this up..."naturally sweetened fiber twigs."

Ya know, my dad always made fun of the bread my mom made him eat.  He called it "twig bread."  It was a joke.

"Twig cereal," however, is no joke.

So he bought the twig cereal and as we made our way to the check out line I made a couple cracks about hippie cereal.  He added fuel to the fire by pointing out that he was wearing green pants, sort of hippie look. 

My husband, who tries so hard to not be mentioned in this blog, was giving me this post of a silver platter.  A silver platter trimmed with "naturally sweetened fiber twigs."

I kept up the hippie talk all the way to the car.  He was wearing green pants, eating twig cereal, he's a vegetarian, this was soooooo going into the blog.

And then I took a look at my legs.  It's humid around here, so I was wearing a pair of denim capris, revealing the exact amount of leg a woman my age and weight class should reveal. That's when I realized...hey, I haven't shaved my legs in a couple weeks.

I have a legitimate reason for this:  I have a skin condition that makes my skin burn on contact.  So I don't shave nearly as often as I did back in my 20's...but in my defense, all the hair making energy in my body seems to be moving from my legs to my face, so it's not like my legs were exactly shaggy, but still...there it was.

Hubby laughed and said, "So, you're a hippie too."

Yeah, great.  When, exactly, did that happen?

He laughed about it.  I laughed about it.  But I'm really laughing because tomorrow I'll be enjoying a lovely bowl of store brand sugar smacks...and he'll be eating sweetened twigs.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

I put a comma after cheese...I'm going to keep saying "good-bye."

Good evening!

I realize we live in a fast paced, gotta have it right now sort of world.  I freak out if my children don't answer a text within five minutes.  But I've forgotten how I'd disappear between the hours of school ending and dinner starting.  My mother would have no idea where I was, but I knew if I wasn't sitting at the dinner table at a certain time, she'd blow the whistle and if I didn't hear the whistle, that meant I was too far away from home and I was sure to lose TV privileges for a week.

Have I mentioned the whistle? No?  That's a story for another day.

Anyway, I realize we live in a world where things move fast. They have to just so we can all keep up.  (Keep up with what?  If the thing or person we're all trying to keep up with would take a day off maybe this would be a better world and we wouldn't have to have PSAs on TV talking about texting and driving or talking on the phone and driving, or doing your homework while driving.)

we've cut out a lot of manners in the interest of moving more quickly.  We send e-cards because buying, addressing, and mailing a real card takes too much time.  (Frankly, finding the stamp for the card would befuddle me for at least an hour.)  We send emails instead of thank you notes...again, because it's too hard to find the address book/stamp/pen.  We text instead of calling because actually talking to a human takes time.  You can text or email anyone any time of the day or night.  I can email or text whatever thought I have and the person I'm contacting can get back to me when they have time.  And hey, if I don't hear them...well, I tried, right?

We message people on Face book because that's where we are most of the time.

I'm not complaining.  I'm right there with you.  I hate answering the phone at home because I do it all day long.  People know that about me.  It's easier to get me by text, email, face book.  I use abbreviations, too, because typing out "Laughing out Loud" takes too long.

But there is something I noticed lately that I cannot stand for.

No one says good-bye anymore.

Think I'm kidding.  Have a phone conversation.  Now, when you end the conversation, we used to say, "good-bye" or "see ya later"  or something of the like.  Not anymore.  I make dozens of phone calls a day, and I take even more.  I can't count the number of times I'm in the midst of saying, "Have a great day, good-bye" and the person on the other end has already hung up on me.

I get this from customers and coworkers alike.  It doesn't matter what the topic is, it seems like my phone calls all go like this:

"Okay, Mr. Smith, I have you down for 4Pm on Thursday."


"thank you, have a great day..."  But by this point I'm talking to dead air because Mr. Smith is gone.

Did I miss a memo?  Is this the new thing now, sort of like dropping that comma after the second to last thing in a list?  (You know:  I'll have pasta, wine, cheese, and meatballs for dinner.  Now we don't put a comma after cheese.)

Well, I, for one, am resisting.  I still put a comma after cheese and I'm going to say good-bye, or something like it, to end a phone conversation and if it kills me, the people I talk to are going to respond in kind.

If I can keep them from hanging up on me!

Monday, September 2, 2013

I wrote it...now you need to read it!

Good morning all!

So here in the US today is Labor Day.  That's a Monday where everyone gets the day off the remember how Labor built this county.  And when I say everyone gets the day off, I don't mean the medical profession, or restaurant workers, or retail employees.

Anyway, one of the most recent fruits of my labor is my first Elsie W. book.  Only a handful of people have actually purchased the thing, which surprises me, given how many people told me I should write the book.  Well I wrote it...now you all need to read it! 

Seriously, if you're looking for something that's going to make you laugh, check it out HERE.

If you're looking for something a little more dramatic, maybe a tiny bit spicy, check out my other books  HERE.

If you have a Kindle, you'll be able to read these books RIGHT NOW!

I wrote them everyone...now you need to read them!  And then I'll write more, and you can read those and I'll write more and more and I'll become your favorite author of all time and they will teach my books in college courses and people will flock to hear me speak and I'll get an honorary degree from Harvard and they'll make my books into movies "based on the beloved best seller."

So I did my part, now you have to do your and together we can make this dream a reality!

See how hard I work for you?

At Least the Creative Spark isn't Dead.

Good day. So for a little more than a week I've been battling my usual summer cough that turns into a sore throat.  Every year I g...