tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40253590956184640872024-03-15T01:18:06.460-07:00It Can Only Happen to Sarah!The Habits, Hobbies, and Horrors of a completely normal woman.Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.comBlogger626125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-50652473042257484402024-02-09T08:28:00.000-08:002024-02-09T08:28:58.314-08:00New Year's Resolutions: Let's see if I can do better this year.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI87pkUvp6m8cpyeQi-8QVMqpFw6RkrKYUnL47PbfSpZDNwwtxKN7dlOGYOdbQEeVC9IiEpG8Z25PO0p79lJl7W3tdLIedAsXkRfMHiyJ0jf0e3pvGfuhuK7lfxpu_c-X2EmavcqsigN4Ef_tWJT6F9Lp_5qp4GuZSm_vWVcAClikOaeNrFyoDliuCNe0/s360/homer.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI87pkUvp6m8cpyeQi-8QVMqpFw6RkrKYUnL47PbfSpZDNwwtxKN7dlOGYOdbQEeVC9IiEpG8Z25PO0p79lJl7W3tdLIedAsXkRfMHiyJ0jf0e3pvGfuhuK7lfxpu_c-X2EmavcqsigN4Ef_tWJT6F9Lp_5qp4GuZSm_vWVcAClikOaeNrFyoDliuCNe0/s320/homer.png" width="267" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />I'm fully aware that it's almost the middle of February, FAR past the time when I give out the grades from my New Year's Resolution from the previous year. In this case, the previous year being 2022. Oh yes, 2023 was that kind of year.<p></p><p><br /></p><p>So here are the resolutions I made in 2022:</p><p><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">5) Stop using my Visa after February 1, 2023.</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMy4Q7d9E6flmRm4HBJt1i0AePU4qtbTeF8nobEsuWBJP7HtUR6XjUgIyT8TUntZO9V5meo25cGypQMBIshj8eHh_58H9n5H34In70YPJVPt_8CzAbUKk9zUAGgwVKL4-4UJGlJuTcC-9kygch89pkhuK_Ohjm6W_1kAzoIp8MuMz9FgSskivPomAXc6U/s480/I'm%20an%20idiot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMy4Q7d9E6flmRm4HBJt1i0AePU4qtbTeF8nobEsuWBJP7HtUR6XjUgIyT8TUntZO9V5meo25cGypQMBIshj8eHh_58H9n5H34In70YPJVPt_8CzAbUKk9zUAGgwVKL4-4UJGlJuTcC-9kygch89pkhuK_Ohjm6W_1kAzoIp8MuMz9FgSskivPomAXc6U/s320/I'm%20an%20idiot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></b><p></p><p> Yeah, that's an F.</p><p><br /></p><p><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">4) Time at the computer means working or writing. Not shopping.</b></p><p><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></b></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; font-size: 15.4px;">Please refer to #5. Also F<b>.</b></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino Linotype, Palatino, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; font-size: 15.4px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">3) Get back on the program!</b></p><p><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></b></p><p><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">Okay, I was actually sort of okay with this. I didn't lose any weight, but I didn't gain anything from my start of 2023 numbers. Give me a C+.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></p><p><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">2) Take a class.</b></p><p><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></b></p><p><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">I actually looked around for a class to take. And then I got bogged down in getting hired by two companies at the same time, quitting my job with Stuff Recovered, and starting at "Stuff Sorted." So, figuring out 2023's version of applying for and interviewing for jobs and then starting a new job, that's kind of like taking a class, right? At least I'll give myself a solid D.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></p><p><b style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">1) Replace guilt with self-care.</b></p><p><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">And we're back to failing. F</span></p><p><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">So, in review, 2023 wound up being Three F's, a D and a C+. Not great. </span></p><p><br /></p><p>I made one simple resolution in 2024. Ready?</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LVHy0ZVMuDSFaY1_oCDl75BJbk7itwnHdixPAm9l3ie2dbzw_5EqLz9awdAkCcWCbwEyIbRQibrkvENgghc9UHiIRTPVkwtwSWQkNQufLizhNhUIVA4chQtDDsg-LH7H7GyvlqrQEEa9Rl8G68tcnf9idMGeHx1rimRZ08cT2PYOIFmKx8fH7UQtMPk/s640/perfect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LVHy0ZVMuDSFaY1_oCDl75BJbk7itwnHdixPAm9l3ie2dbzw_5EqLz9awdAkCcWCbwEyIbRQibrkvENgghc9UHiIRTPVkwtwSWQkNQufLizhNhUIVA4chQtDDsg-LH7H7GyvlqrQEEa9Rl8G68tcnf9idMGeHx1rimRZ08cT2PYOIFmKx8fH7UQtMPk/s320/perfect.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>DO NOT USE THE KOHL'S CARD OR THE TORRID CARD OR PAYPAL.</p><p><br /></p><p>2023 Was kind of rough on the credit cards. I was easing my general sense of depression with online shopping. A LOT of online shopping. A LOT. So, this year, I've put away my two store cards and promised myself not to online shop with PayPal this year. </p><p><br /></p><p>Six weeks in, how am I doing?</p><p><br /></p><p>Well, I used PayPal one time. In my defense, it was the first time I'd been on eBay in two years and it was muscle memory.</p><p>okay, clearly I have no defense. LOL</p><p><br /></p><p>As for Kohl's, so far, so good.</p><p><br /></p><p>Torrid, well, I found a wee loophole. They let me use my Torrid awards and all that even if I pay with my Visa. So...I shopped AT Torrid, but not WITH Torrid.</p><p><br /></p><p>So, now Lent is upon us, and as you may know, I like to give up something for Lent. So, here we go:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAtDpfEpeZZWG6n8Aq8E2cxeMYcrqbG4cNDEOo3xF03dUjKJK0TAd2nDqJbidql3EI_b_ewwt2XOKWT7W6Dkntt_V6SD3IlXpPIQ5WhklREoFROQGNfoIsFyBNjQhLDJfRsB6BALdxs2ppjQPh-9I725-UyhDhZquuOAx1KJmzj69eRmbyIHB5vIKrjFM/s1080/giving-up-for-lent-meme-1080x720%20(1).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1080" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAtDpfEpeZZWG6n8Aq8E2cxeMYcrqbG4cNDEOo3xF03dUjKJK0TAd2nDqJbidql3EI_b_ewwt2XOKWT7W6Dkntt_V6SD3IlXpPIQ5WhklREoFROQGNfoIsFyBNjQhLDJfRsB6BALdxs2ppjQPh-9I725-UyhDhZquuOAx1KJmzj69eRmbyIHB5vIKrjFM/s320/giving-up-for-lent-meme-1080x720%20(1).jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Yeah, I'm not giving up coffee. That would be silly.</p><p>No, here we go:</p><p>NO ONLINE SHOPPING FOR LENT. That's right. 40 days of no online shopping. </p><p><br /></p><p>I have to be organized enough to get my book order in for the big event I'm doing in April. I'm the keynote speaker for the <a href="https://www.sistersinchristretreat.org/page/sisters-in-christ-retreat-details-2024#!">Sisters in Christ Retreat</a> in Michigan April 19-21. So, yeah, I have to get my book order IN before Fat Tuesday. (That'll be a huge hit on my poor, over-used credit card.) And then....NO ONLINE SHOPPING for 40 days.</p><p><br /></p><p>Which will be fine, since I'm trying like the dickens to get my newest <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Abracdabra-Marchino-Menopausal-Millionaire-Mysteries/dp/B0C1JBHVJ6">MAX MARCHINO</a> novel out by April 1. I'm way far away from that. So, yes, what I need is 40 days of NO SHOPPING.</p><p><br /></p><p>Oh, BTW, here's the new cover for the newest book:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTygadlc7ve_J-jr4T6PmtI4d8nZEJ1MO2pp_3yX5IQg_1sLOs4rOoayYeE7zEaJ3iaxJmrCun3vsf3-8oWvlVDU4AU7w9Fp0PFhps58M7EZtop9dnYcs27KZUxgtdL0kIr86VWta-h2-WF_uA9TJmW6j1HgSLH6K0fi6z9MQPc6hoAR74KJJpK9lfXlw/s2600/Blod%20and%20Roses%20front%20bradley%209-8-2023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2600" data-original-width="1858" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTygadlc7ve_J-jr4T6PmtI4d8nZEJ1MO2pp_3yX5IQg_1sLOs4rOoayYeE7zEaJ3iaxJmrCun3vsf3-8oWvlVDU4AU7w9Fp0PFhps58M7EZtop9dnYcs27KZUxgtdL0kIr86VWta-h2-WF_uA9TJmW6j1HgSLH6K0fi6z9MQPc6hoAR74KJJpK9lfXlw/s320/Blod%20and%20Roses%20front%20bradley%209-8-2023.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><br /><p>Pretty great, right?</p><p><br /></p><p>So there you have it. I'm doubling down on giving up retailing. Let's see how we do!</p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-1299935674120872202023-12-22T07:48:00.000-08:002023-12-22T07:48:11.111-08:00And now for something completely different...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJEpmcLAPhNGl01d-Cb_GnEUsy49Weqw-s5BZKg4Zt-3IlI9x_oDXLlCJHLQVZZV6fxmJYpcJo2K0el5G4MbDsRvoCMwWG1E3FPiCunG1yslmQ51mKA73fx8vdB-eWnwXMH-vaU9MGKvZeOo0Hjq6Afl4GmAlzR2hafN1pdXumpjDs9fJToryK9TShX4g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="689" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJEpmcLAPhNGl01d-Cb_GnEUsy49Weqw-s5BZKg4Zt-3IlI9x_oDXLlCJHLQVZZV6fxmJYpcJo2K0el5G4MbDsRvoCMwWG1E3FPiCunG1yslmQ51mKA73fx8vdB-eWnwXMH-vaU9MGKvZeOo0Hjq6Afl4GmAlzR2hafN1pdXumpjDs9fJToryK9TShX4g" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Howdy all! I know, I know, two blogs in two days? Who is this?</p><p><br /></p><p>Well, I promised I'd tell you all about my continuing job saga, so here we are.</p><p><br /></p><p>okay, back in the spring of 2022 I was laid off from what I thought was going to be my job until retirement. Turns out, the owner sold the company, the new owner didn't know jack or squat about running a company, and the result was Sarah had to find a new job. (The two owners are doing just fine, so how is that fair?) </p><p>After a few months on Unemployment, which isn't as much fun as one would think, I started the cubicle life at Generac. That lasted six weeks. Not because I didn't get along with anyone, I really, really liked the people I worked with. I am in touch with several of them still, more than a year later. Not bad for 6 weeks of work. But the cubicle life was not for me.</p><p>So I landed a gig at this wee little IT company. I know, you're all thinking; IT? Sarah? Sure, why not? It was sold to me as a really simple, no stress, gig with an absentee owner and permission to watch whatever I wanted to online.</p><p>PERFECTION!</p><p>And it was. Until the guy who trained me retired. Then I went from the part time girl with no responsibilities to the part time office manager who had to run payroll and pay bills online and make sure the rent check got out on time. And all that I managed just fine.</p><p>What I couldn't manage was the suddenly not so absentee owner who turned out to be...well, for those of you who've read my Elsie W books (<a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/Not-While-Im-Chewing-Audiobook/B0CKS4KMXJ">NOW AVAILABLE ON AUDIBLE</a>) let me put it this way: Like Elsie, but with paperwork and general disorganized computer stuff instead of food. Also, when the moon was full he'd freak out over pretty much everything. Especially me. And how I wasn't selling anything. </p><p>Um...I'm a receptionist/office manager/ paperwork pusher at a small IT company. What, exactly, was I supposed to sell?</p><p>Yeah, so this became a theme: Full moon, boss yellling, Sarah bewildered. A girl can only take so much of that. I've heard this song and done this dance (Evil Bossman, NBM) I'm all done with the overlord cray-cray that makes me cry at work. So, at some point in September I started looking for a new gig.</p><p>I actually got a new gig, with a previous employer, but it's a start up and so far, so clients. So that's on hold. Meanwhile...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOZ4li0kWzjkqIMCSh47xRim_oCYjcf8zFXiQEeWvGTqfPCZjCyCI3GeeitpRsDcl9kbKnCbGoRMiEPbN4gZQSLnCtL5G7EaHhTAM-7HXXzUKZzTN3qCG_DPmTDILlA04O7U-A4r5krRx1iIq5DKL9zTWm_T71ywaaSI7uzmgfiEnZgNPsqDrjeCZQF-I" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="395" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOZ4li0kWzjkqIMCSh47xRim_oCYjcf8zFXiQEeWvGTqfPCZjCyCI3GeeitpRsDcl9kbKnCbGoRMiEPbN4gZQSLnCtL5G7EaHhTAM-7HXXzUKZzTN3qCG_DPmTDILlA04O7U-A4r5krRx1iIq5DKL9zTWm_T71ywaaSI7uzmgfiEnZgNPsqDrjeCZQF-I" width="320" /></a></div><br />October: The moon was full and the boss was in the office. In spite of the fact that we had a ton of stuff going on and he was behind on everything, he took an hour or two to listen to all of my incoming phone interactions with customers. And then he called me up to his office.<p></p><p>He informed me that he was writing me up for insubordination because in all the phone calls he'd listened to, I wasn't acting like a salesperson. In fact, he asked, what was the point of me, he had an automated phone system, that could do everything I was doing in the office, but for free. I tried to defend myself, explain how a number of the calls weren't even involving any sort of anything, but he said, "If you try to defend yourself, I'll fire you right now. Or you can leave."</p><p>Two things: 1) Home slice doesn't quit without a new gig lined up. Boss is going to have to say the words that gets me unemployment.</p><p>2) This wasn't the first time he'd asked me why he was paying me for anything.</p><p><br /></p><p>Job search started to get a bit more serious.</p><p>November: The first day back from Thanksgiving, Boss calls me on my cell before office hours. He says, "When Bob gets into the office, send him home. We don't have enough work for him this week and he's not doing anything anyway."</p><p><br /></p><p>A little background on Bob: Boss wanted a sales guy, someone to pick up the slack for tech #1, and someone to maybe sell a new tech product Tech #1 and I had been talking about for months. The first guy he hired was some guy he met in a bar. Brought in without any background check or even a resume. He couldn't work before noon because he had one of those breathalyzer starters on his car and couldn't get sober enough to start the car before noon.</p><p><br /></p><p>He lasted four days.</p><p><br /></p><p>Second tech was a younger guy, bright, personable, really quick learning. Also hired without a background check or any phone calls to what I later found out was a REALLY spotty resume with a ton of gaps in time. He often called in saying he was "working from home." (We had no work from home.) Turns out, he had a raging cocaine problem. </p><p><br /></p><p>He lasted four weeks. Showed up to work six days of that.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3zTcqjBnzN-oI1QzDfNyiyXEfJ7hBibyNHiiF-xdObMw4xN0HPr3c8treYY_IRZsFx1BX7l5itaup0-pmrHPA5GWZjlKWks16eM6GSa6_PIVjsvxq3zy3kBW9KoCjenx5EQlMiTiFZkh35pr7iM-I_gx628YL3uM9ywUogeSGVK6EEQN9n8Yien05NTg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3zTcqjBnzN-oI1QzDfNyiyXEfJ7hBibyNHiiF-xdObMw4xN0HPr3c8treYY_IRZsFx1BX7l5itaup0-pmrHPA5GWZjlKWks16eM6GSa6_PIVjsvxq3zy3kBW9KoCjenx5EQlMiTiFZkh35pr7iM-I_gx628YL3uM9ywUogeSGVK6EEQN9n8Yien05NTg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Boss and I had a long talk after that. I said, to comply with our business insurance we had to do some kind of background check on our employees since they go into people's homes. He promised the next guy he'd give me time to at least check on references and former employers.</p><p>A week later, Bob showed up. Former Navy, older than I was, and with about 10% more tech knowledge than I have. Nice guy, showed up for work every day, and did what he was told. But NOT a quick learner, took more of Tech #1's time for everything. However, a solid dude. (I looked at his resume after the fact and wondered why Boss considered him a "tech.")</p><p>Anyway, after three months, Bob hadn't become the salesperson Boss wanted him to be. That was a shock to everyone, because no one else in the office, including Bob, knew he'd been hired to be a salesperson. So when Boss wasn't yelling at me, he was yelling at Bob.</p><p>Back to the day after Thanksgiving. I'm told to tell Bob to go home. Well, when Bob showed up, it was clear that Boss had already sent him a text. </p><p><br /></p><p>And then there were several unpleasant phone calls, all on speaker phone (because Bob's hearing wasn't great) and all loud (because Bob is a loud person and Boss yells a lot). Tech #1 and I sat at our desks and listened to the fallout. Bob packed up his desk, gave us the key and walked out.</p><p>He said he was fired. Boss said he quit. I had to deal with the Unemployment paperwork battle between them.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfQI-S_zf3BMuvM1tfPwIOypHO2CZM-uPJNS8T5ZKa9Qt6QXwATUp4_ii1KFtqueXlZMTv59cA5y2V0jPcvq8sMhwHI2myF7d6dDnP6aulhK0dt-vLydPUbzEUCeCL6k3cIx4YdHw8st8ei_6Vz_gof07DV51yZiU4qNcH2lIaJPQOkhxQBs01Vy73sW0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfQI-S_zf3BMuvM1tfPwIOypHO2CZM-uPJNS8T5ZKa9Qt6QXwATUp4_ii1KFtqueXlZMTv59cA5y2V0jPcvq8sMhwHI2myF7d6dDnP6aulhK0dt-vLydPUbzEUCeCL6k3cIx4YdHw8st8ei_6Vz_gof07DV51yZiU4qNcH2lIaJPQOkhxQBs01Vy73sW0" width="320" /></a></div><br />That's when I started going on interviews.<p></p><p>Remember, I do have a job waiting in the wings, but no word from new boss, so I accepted a job in the workman's comp industry, the same industry I had hoped to retire in. I went in interviewing for one job, and came out with an offer for another. </p><p>I'll be sorting medical documents. No phones. No customers. NO SUPER SECRET SALES DUTIES. For the first time since...oh...1993, I won't have a job involving a forced smile and cheerful phone manner.</p><p>I cannot wait.</p><p>Anyway, so last week I gave my two week notice. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpkBn0QYYCPE18ZQEkap8yNWAm8SmPvzsoEyX_fp98FwWzwlowDdG8xfLxOx9j87BJ-WT00zjqVLBf7UzukPOzUW9irOLXBnE_7UxuVFc0NCCQ0j1yGdjCKZcnE3KDhHrrygC9Cv07gDWm7QftfmC3vyF9uZNE0h7qhgO0yacw2QMbMKafGwqJXUovB0w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="504" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpkBn0QYYCPE18ZQEkap8yNWAm8SmPvzsoEyX_fp98FwWzwlowDdG8xfLxOx9j87BJ-WT00zjqVLBf7UzukPOzUW9irOLXBnE_7UxuVFc0NCCQ0j1yGdjCKZcnE3KDhHrrygC9Cv07gDWm7QftfmC3vyF9uZNE0h7qhgO0yacw2QMbMKafGwqJXUovB0w" width="242" /></a></div>It's such a small company, I thought about giving longer notice. And then I remember the number of times Boss invited me to be fired or quit. Well, two weeks he gets. At Christmas. <p></p><p>Yesterday, Tech #1 suggested I send Boss a list of things I do. Now, Boss is the guy who hasn't been in the office since I gave my notice last week, and only talked to me one time, telling me to pick up Christmas cards for him to put our Christmas money in. (Yep, I had to buy my own Christmas bonus holder. And he didn't ask me for a receipt. Just like I dropped $70 on wall hangings to make the office look less like a prison...) </p><p>So I made the list. For someone not worth the money they're being paid, I sure do a lot when you put it on paper. And hey, most of it is things like, paying bills, running payroll, making bank deposits. You know, all that stuff that keeps the doors open. </p><p>I sent that list to him. Boss did pop into the office at the end of the day. He skittered to his office, put some cash in our cards, and handed me the cards. Didn't even sign them. So I can reuse them. He thanked me for the list, but didn't answer any of the questions I had regarding training the young lass (the one person I hired in the midst of his series of bad hires. I'm 1-1 he's 0-3.) in what I do so Boss doesn't lose his healthcare or gets overdrawn on his accounts.</p><p>What he did do was bitch about the state of healthcare in the US because he has to go into the doctor's office each week for allergy shots, and then gripe about being sick. And then he coughed on me.</p><p>I have two more days left. I start the new gig on January 2. I will probably have to go back to the old office at some point to 1) drop off my key because no one else will be in the office on my last day to take it and 2) run payroll so I get my last check.</p><p>So there's that.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCNbaHvEf_XJpshQS84WiXtGkef0H4ShR0QXEbbbeGvGxKOANUDgI87pB2iaTIGIUTPSLtJgkt3NspifYwd1lZx4ZMxaO4eCd2r872-a2lCP-JfZicIp3C-AGoJKFm12LJRN6YwwLOU9Dy-DkBf0XLmP7bKvnPBUVfBO4gEn9smaKais0X6f_YjQ4t9Cw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2217" data-original-width="3000" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCNbaHvEf_XJpshQS84WiXtGkef0H4ShR0QXEbbbeGvGxKOANUDgI87pB2iaTIGIUTPSLtJgkt3NspifYwd1lZx4ZMxaO4eCd2r872-a2lCP-JfZicIp3C-AGoJKFm12LJRN6YwwLOU9Dy-DkBf0XLmP7bKvnPBUVfBO4gEn9smaKais0X6f_YjQ4t9Cw" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-8389235885552216822023-12-20T08:15:00.000-08:002023-12-20T08:15:16.975-08:00Well, it all comes out in the wash. Literally.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipiLaSW3NemAckicsl20x03M01AONbuyXKR12IvBgmijjAognTeo5HLnM63S65ZB_dSzs9RkUCJ1vrky-VruRRgw-QlAlVK8iSnJornnvq539g8iRRtoFrRZsqneZL0L6v4ucrNHFClR0saqcnb0hSCuZrVMfhBUdCgcNW4au3P8SUzqy8UNqL1vQyc84" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="550" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipiLaSW3NemAckicsl20x03M01AONbuyXKR12IvBgmijjAognTeo5HLnM63S65ZB_dSzs9RkUCJ1vrky-VruRRgw-QlAlVK8iSnJornnvq539g8iRRtoFrRZsqneZL0L6v4ucrNHFClR0saqcnb0hSCuZrVMfhBUdCgcNW4au3P8SUzqy8UNqL1vQyc84" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Hello and happy holidays!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Egads! How is it December 20 already? I realize my last blog was in September...and I can't believe that! I have so much to blog about here at the end of 2023! WOW!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, first up: I'm once again changing jobs. As of December 29, I will no longer be working for a small tech company. Turns out, I don't play well with computer geniuses. Who knew? More on that in a later blog, I promise!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">New Year's Resolutions coming up. This year was an epic fail. LOL</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Also, do I have a story about a storage shed for you! But that's a blog for another day! (Since I'm in the last gasps of my time here at the old job, maybe I'll just spend the week blogging!)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But today I'm here to talk about appliances, specifically the washer and drier. I have at least one friend who is sitting there going, "oh yeah..."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This past autumn my washer failed me. More specifically, Peaches sent us a text that read, "I think I broke your washing machine."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I mean, she hadn't. That thing had been making a fairly alarming noise for a while. But Hubby was in Colorado and I wasn't about to alert him to that while he was 2000 miles away. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhp3aMYysinDvBjL1KPWVBrC-i3XWdqSH8MKHtsFzmDXGf7X5nYXDcCsUQUMikEfVBWTa-LJ6fbi_i4WX46VmrAhB1h1kcuD9YqA6JOS_npCGOYu4bMTTBh31pyEALiJ1NXsmjrB5HEOQhdLsmvzdZmraAOA0vpbom9UPuQuiGoS_mLrt3a25oNGb54vcw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="888" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhp3aMYysinDvBjL1KPWVBrC-i3XWdqSH8MKHtsFzmDXGf7X5nYXDcCsUQUMikEfVBWTa-LJ6fbi_i4WX46VmrAhB1h1kcuD9YqA6JOS_npCGOYu4bMTTBh31pyEALiJ1NXsmjrB5HEOQhdLsmvzdZmraAOA0vpbom9UPuQuiGoS_mLrt3a25oNGb54vcw" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Hubby hit his phone and found a new washer for $650. Could be delivered to the house in a couple days. I thought, winner winner.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But, Hubby had other ideas. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He has a cousin who owns a bunch of apartment units in La Crosse, WI. (Three hours away from us on the opposite side of the state.) He contacted said cousin who told him, yes, he had a washer/drier pair he could sell to us for $400. He would only sell us the pair, not just one.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, excessive, but bigger win!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Except, how does one get a washer/drier across the state? Well, that's easy! We have some very good friends...at least they were our friends at the time of the broken washer...lol...who live in the La Crosse area. They own a truck with a trailer. And they are the nicest people in the world who, for whatever reason, like us and will do things for us. (Seriously, we love these friends, but they are too nice! We will call them Sylvie and Max.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So Hubby contacts Sylvie and Max and sets up a time for them to bring us the washer/drier. He venmos the money to his cousin and, for $400 we are a GO!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, one does not simply expect friends to drive across the state with appliances for free, so we told Sylvie and Max that we'd buy them lunch. And, Hubby, knowing lunch was just not enough of a thank you, also got a Kwik Trip card for $100 to cover gas.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So on a rainy day, Sylvie and Max delivered and helped install the washer and drier. Hubby bought a bunch of new hoses and whatnot, to the tune of $50. (A move I don't begrudge, it's just smart to get new connections for new-ish appliances.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Lunch, with tip, wound up being somewhere north of $125 because we're not just going to take them to Mcd's. We went to a nice place with tables and wait staff and adult beverages. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let's look at the running tab:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">$400 for the appliaces. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">$100 Kwik Trip.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">$50 for hoses</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">$125 for lunch. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Total: $675 for the "cheaper" way to go.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, the upside was we got to see Sylvie and Max, which is priceless, so while this is amusing, I'm not griping.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But wait. The story doesn't end there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8DEqHGnbnS2tIGjjkJfKsnFu_G0wAdO3NspExFnpN6Ul-WvtrpQ5wL-1VgORBXf59YLzH9VkpK9X5Y3FGpQkEnTwmp5_qoMofGc5K7tB4jTK7AXyMqYHjmqvJiFO3_xvfT8EP3LOxNmt3AJ8QFFZWBkvdMDt5wlGL5gTXfO0zk6MYbbAWXAbXala0Y2g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="474" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8DEqHGnbnS2tIGjjkJfKsnFu_G0wAdO3NspExFnpN6Ul-WvtrpQ5wL-1VgORBXf59YLzH9VkpK9X5Y3FGpQkEnTwmp5_qoMofGc5K7tB4jTK7AXyMqYHjmqvJiFO3_xvfT8EP3LOxNmt3AJ8QFFZWBkvdMDt5wlGL5gTXfO0zk6MYbbAWXAbXala0Y2g" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Normally, Hubby is a handy dude. He can, and has, fixed appliances all over the house. So when we started this journey of the broken washer, I didn't question him as to whether or not he could fix it.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Guess what? He could, and he did.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For $18.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yep, turns out, while he normally would have checked to see if he could repair the machine prior to replacing it, he didn't do that this time around. Until after the fact. And he got it working beautifully right away.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For $18.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But wait, the story still isn't over.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Our basement is not one where we can keep two washers and two driers happily. I wish it were. It would ease a number of arguments with Skippy about whether or not we get to move each other's laundry. So, we had to get rid of the now extra pair.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hubby listed them on Facebook Marketplace. He sold when quickly to a fella a couple miles away from us.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For $600.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Here's the best part: While the guy buying the appliances lives close, he was actually buying them for his daughter...who lived...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">IN LA CROSSE!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Are you laughing now?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's all I have for the moment, except I'm going to leave you with this image:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHvqVopR6Rn2dBcIw-eZPTe_SlrEO4it5j4Rz7afM4zkaQNIXrrfozpLyJsvjqYBAxUyHrrYUbucq4J9jZnqEliBuBUBb-rLEoOPdy520fZgLdpgSRq04X82OWrcI68FL9n425xsJ9acJNIY4QJj1tM_vZo090FQZ30MwwivFHEGNhsFegPWNgfEZs3BY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="569" data-original-width="634" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHvqVopR6Rn2dBcIw-eZPTe_SlrEO4it5j4Rz7afM4zkaQNIXrrfozpLyJsvjqYBAxUyHrrYUbucq4J9jZnqEliBuBUBb-rLEoOPdy520fZgLdpgSRq04X82OWrcI68FL9n425xsJ9acJNIY4QJj1tM_vZo090FQZ30MwwivFHEGNhsFegPWNgfEZs3BY" width="267" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />some of you will find it funny. But, my friend "Jubilee" is going to find this hilarious.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqMXeDjOhabXfq_KVeg6eJ0rvlcRENiSF6qCrhqplSBt6Z7Y3E-FXiwxb8mH10TLzhSWeHSx6-xxTR03SyTd2YBWvmUybUfS3XypgNSRDXQhcGpLH4vqvv8x7p-dogMZ2dhMCWptCjCnqkWKxOZlw0xh8-v3sqpGv9vpZc5GpBr1IcLYy9E6cjNe9PVfw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="550" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqMXeDjOhabXfq_KVeg6eJ0rvlcRENiSF6qCrhqplSBt6Z7Y3E-FXiwxb8mH10TLzhSWeHSx6-xxTR03SyTd2YBWvmUybUfS3XypgNSRDXQhcGpLH4vqvv8x7p-dogMZ2dhMCWptCjCnqkWKxOZlw0xh8-v3sqpGv9vpZc5GpBr1IcLYy9E6cjNe9PVfw" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-45144953281789753532023-09-14T12:07:00.002-07:002023-09-14T12:07:36.629-07:00Next thing they'll ask is if I want fries with that....which would be less weird.<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAKpzFcuzAunfLydYX4ZgE4p_MWoPZ9SOHQfhnZve7iEIFlOA09QJe0YFto8YedazdGTQtk6iFT_9YaWkbtg8AfWL1JD-EkTdf-4dEnQDqnTkqqNDOymONE2qs_fxePSM4HtHvXrjKAY4o5EyqZUSuL5KyTVBA3E9_AU8nAcZu3yBqOlunsrC6KmB6vq8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAKpzFcuzAunfLydYX4ZgE4p_MWoPZ9SOHQfhnZve7iEIFlOA09QJe0YFto8YedazdGTQtk6iFT_9YaWkbtg8AfWL1JD-EkTdf-4dEnQDqnTkqqNDOymONE2qs_fxePSM4HtHvXrjKAY4o5EyqZUSuL5KyTVBA3E9_AU8nAcZu3yBqOlunsrC6KmB6vq8" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Howdy ho everyone! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So this week was my annual women's stuff doctor's appointment. By the time you get to be my age, and I'm quoting a doctor person on this, "they really aren't all that interested in that part of you." so really, it's my Biannual women's stuff doctor's appointment. Except I have been pushing it off, because it's ridiculous, and because it's annoying so, actually, it wound up being my TRIENNIAL women's stuff doctor's appointment.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I won't go into the gory details. If you know, you know and if you don't...TODD...you really don't need to. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A couple things changed since the last time I was in there for my poke and scrape. First, my insurance company changed. Hubby got a different job, so I had to go through that whole thing with the card and the copier and all that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The next thing is I had to sign a sheet saying that this was an appointment ONLY dealing with my annual check up and anything else would be billed separately. I found this interesting. I mean, what, if I ask a question about menopause, is that separate from the poke and scrape? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, so I settle with a book, but I don't get to read it because for the first time ever, my doctor isn't in some delivery room someplace. So we do the weight...yay...and the blood pressure (shockingly good, right on point, which was unexpected because I've had a rough week) and a couple other GYN directed questions from the nurse. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then she says something I couldn't believe I was hearing: "Hey, do you want a tetanus shot today?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtJHp5bGdsdenEPfSDzIuOUBkGQuxsriooMHNmd4b62y9Qwo3AQMHzyMW0PF_t06MlufPyq3qhx-I344Acq-q99mJFf4kAzDPXp5fLFIAUqyOfHXLsoU_y6AL2pR3-DDE85QwahVBYkdgQ8f6CC8Nozu6MLL4Yr5a4s-PYyj5bQuN5bnSpAHGXbb8LW6c" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="476" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtJHp5bGdsdenEPfSDzIuOUBkGQuxsriooMHNmd4b62y9Qwo3AQMHzyMW0PF_t06MlufPyq3qhx-I344Acq-q99mJFf4kAzDPXp5fLFIAUqyOfHXLsoU_y6AL2pR3-DDE85QwahVBYkdgQ8f6CC8Nozu6MLL4Yr5a4s-PYyj5bQuN5bnSpAHGXbb8LW6c" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Now, I'm not a genius, and I certainly don't pretend to know much about health insurance. But I'm pretty sure that I just got upsold on a tetanus shot that did not fall under the canopy of the annual check up.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh crap! I asked if the piped in music was new...I'm so totally getting billed for that.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnB2s4-tixoQUFurtdcAl3h-3rry2jSbwvMC_ALMU5CTfBM8QwDD34wkzptWHwx-a7Uz4ICuQsjYE8nQQLN4CxbkPms_F6fKsEpI7R9veZqNf4iZKaEaGKDqG2syjemf_R_ysY8g4TRd6RyKpvr9RnwdqQA1e47KbotT7w-E-ul5vMwLfsMh819oR3ZGY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="600" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnB2s4-tixoQUFurtdcAl3h-3rry2jSbwvMC_ALMU5CTfBM8QwDD34wkzptWHwx-a7Uz4ICuQsjYE8nQQLN4CxbkPms_F6fKsEpI7R9veZqNf4iZKaEaGKDqG2syjemf_R_ysY8g4TRd6RyKpvr9RnwdqQA1e47KbotT7w-E-ul5vMwLfsMh819oR3ZGY" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />This is the weirdest combo platter of medical stuff I've ever been offered. I didn't even know the GYN nurses knew how to deal with anything other than, you know, female whatnot.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, hey, why not. I mean, I'm also due for a shingles, flu, and Covid booster. Just shoot my arm full of all manner of viruses and let's see what happens. Like getting French fries AND onion rings and Cheese curds at Culvers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well they just did the tetanus that day. I have to go someplace else for the rest. Although, given how crappy I've felt since I got the shot, I'm wondering what else they put in there. Oh, and of course I can't wait until I see the extra bill for the shot...and the chitchat about the piped in music.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVGXF24s2fuYYH4IoVtpjA0NZ0C1OYMCeg3-tyQ2vRbtT-gMwYSMbKVpbS5UPLK5OOa_mxG6EzIhXmSlad6m7fCU63J98ZDryoe6r8IRrpC5gsDFeZ9SrXpbG0RZfu8WR92W4-5x9US2RAaQguqMieKRn-aS_rhC-zkY3h-A0viUNBPBhyb0HmBvxxqQI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="640" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVGXF24s2fuYYH4IoVtpjA0NZ0C1OYMCeg3-tyQ2vRbtT-gMwYSMbKVpbS5UPLK5OOa_mxG6EzIhXmSlad6m7fCU63J98ZDryoe6r8IRrpC5gsDFeZ9SrXpbG0RZfu8WR92W4-5x9US2RAaQguqMieKRn-aS_rhC-zkY3h-A0viUNBPBhyb0HmBvxxqQI" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-65906432624075407442023-08-14T09:41:00.000-07:002023-08-14T09:41:02.627-07:00In my defense, Gordon Ramsey never said NOT to do this!<p> </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjc1jqLph5rvzG4ekbZlDSyTteM77U9SHuMPGwTk4s3EAMqypFFreEbHuEWwIF_ta6bt-PtdpvcvHaiihEaFYrcT6Z6lvbFSwZsOXDgPD65nxaXbEguIt7FdsUNqAspaWKUstX3z3L2nXpcBrAUq2g6A3tgvgHU6FgDsGB3L1xBnCAN-rfXMNgJF2bQdQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="600" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjc1jqLph5rvzG4ekbZlDSyTteM77U9SHuMPGwTk4s3EAMqypFFreEbHuEWwIF_ta6bt-PtdpvcvHaiihEaFYrcT6Z6lvbFSwZsOXDgPD65nxaXbEguIt7FdsUNqAspaWKUstX3z3L2nXpcBrAUq2g6A3tgvgHU6FgDsGB3L1xBnCAN-rfXMNgJF2bQdQ" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Hello and howdy!</p><p>So...there's been one, okay, maybe two, kitchen disasters this past week in the Bradley kitchen. And before anyone asks, no, I didn't take pictures. Why would I do that?</p><p><br /></p><p>The first one I've been pretty up front about: I managed to make a meatloaf so disgusting, we couldn't eat it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXAdV7vhIlJM5BQbNDIDxTWx1ZxciP_FK_xx_GCwb-exWEPEdu_YmuExzibg4ACAQkhhNeZTkFR7vQkRUA5pDgX7YT1x7cAbL-2ZBQVwO1p5DFg_Tbb56XYju-Ta1d_OgJ4dR2PY8F6xb3SXCApHAfCKPnK5KlIy2P5HVWDv5DDut8uTHibaUVgc7QZuY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="500" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXAdV7vhIlJM5BQbNDIDxTWx1ZxciP_FK_xx_GCwb-exWEPEdu_YmuExzibg4ACAQkhhNeZTkFR7vQkRUA5pDgX7YT1x7cAbL-2ZBQVwO1p5DFg_Tbb56XYju-Ta1d_OgJ4dR2PY8F6xb3SXCApHAfCKPnK5KlIy2P5HVWDv5DDut8uTHibaUVgc7QZuY" width="320" /></a></div>How does one ruin meatloaf? <p></p><p>That's a fair question. I mean, I've been making meatloaf for decades, and I make pretty good meatloaf. I'm not bragging. I do. I generally mix a couple kinds of ground meat, whatever I happen to have, add eggs, ketchup, dried minced onions, some bread crumbs and I bake. Out comes dinner. No fuss no muss. Generally no leftovers.</p><p>And yes, last week, I managed to make a meatloaf Skippy wouldn't eat and Hubby wouldn't taste. That's how bad it was. It tasted like feet.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEeDwIop_hbbd_JYJVyhQ364o6u9u6Dm9CKD-fgzXkKwP-QgrTLI8LWYQooyHgvX1Rw4xIqUjF5Vq35Fj62y1HNt0rsv0igL0gMMfNMT-LlC0o5widxk4rOYcdqVO2svT2WBY447_-1yXwUczIqxc-rRFPq_utw1JWrxC8fzGedfhWdQTa9wtjELegOJY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="900" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEeDwIop_hbbd_JYJVyhQ364o6u9u6Dm9CKD-fgzXkKwP-QgrTLI8LWYQooyHgvX1Rw4xIqUjF5Vq35Fj62y1HNt0rsv0igL0gMMfNMT-LlC0o5widxk4rOYcdqVO2svT2WBY447_-1yXwUczIqxc-rRFPq_utw1JWrxC8fzGedfhWdQTa9wtjELegOJY" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>What was it? Well, I had a pound of ground turkey, and then I had like six brats in the fridge. So I took the brat meat out of the casing, mixed it with the turkey and all the other stuff I dump in a meatloaf. It was a bit pale, but otherwise looked right. Then I baked it.</p><p>The end result? Skippy took a bite and asked, "So, how do we feel about the meatloaf tonight?"</p><p>I'd already tasted it and was dialing up Marco's for pizza.</p><p>Okay, that was number one.</p><p><br /></p><p>Number two...well, I haven't told anyone about this. But I did something with eggs that wound up making such a mess, I actually threw out a space rug from the kitchen.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-USqXcxLDlSGcdvq4xCp1GjPc-zinasrv8D4by0CTc7zf7PIqYxs5v5CNodHoMLM_9B_fMSwDGG-0lxt6sfjsPDiI-4oBiOFFky3-mJiOCi8H9sRzFMN_3CZS_87q9GgJrbGiUqkWpcfMtF58v7JNtWEoITAZFgWs4y3qPT1ffPhUsHuYvelzfg1nSYw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-USqXcxLDlSGcdvq4xCp1GjPc-zinasrv8D4by0CTc7zf7PIqYxs5v5CNodHoMLM_9B_fMSwDGG-0lxt6sfjsPDiI-4oBiOFFky3-mJiOCi8H9sRzFMN_3CZS_87q9GgJrbGiUqkWpcfMtF58v7JNtWEoITAZFgWs4y3qPT1ffPhUsHuYvelzfg1nSYw" width="194" /></a></div><br />Here's how this went down: I was alone Saturday afternoon. I'd just gotten done with Farmer's Market and I looked in the fridge. I had two raw eggs just sitting there because my 18 egg carton wore out and these two didn't have a home in the 12 egg carton I'd just bought. so, rather than leaving two raw eggs in the fridge to make a mess (I'm thinking here) I decided that for lunch I'd have egg salad. I just had to boil the eggs. <p></p><p>But I was in the middle of cleaning up the kitchen and didn't want to take the cover off the stove because I had a bunch of stuff piled on there and it would take too long. So...</p><p>I got my handy dandy microwave pot from Pampered Chef out , put some water in there, and put the eggs in as well. Popped the lid on and into the microwave it went.</p><p>For three minutes. You know...because I didn't want an over boil mess in the microwave.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhj-cs4tskTfPfddZMeaEPqR410WEK5PZ0xVfyNn7SZzDDsicfj3HYwMTa8GUPvb4brd4ZfVjLwt1jg7lW4U_3a1X7xM-21ryzcWXRdGloPHhUt9H6Ye5FaiPNfD4r7tSVDTa4AnpdfYiqSinhizXGEg49x2NQDZMnQPMuT1qxkhO87hVlwjEHmPOTS84s" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="800" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhj-cs4tskTfPfddZMeaEPqR410WEK5PZ0xVfyNn7SZzDDsicfj3HYwMTa8GUPvb4brd4ZfVjLwt1jg7lW4U_3a1X7xM-21ryzcWXRdGloPHhUt9H6Ye5FaiPNfD4r7tSVDTa4AnpdfYiqSinhizXGEg49x2NQDZMnQPMuT1qxkhO87hVlwjEHmPOTS84s" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Well three minutes passed and I knew those eggs were in no way going to be hard boiled. But there was no over boiling, so that was good. I put it in for another 3 minutes and went about my business peeling the ears of corn I'd bought at the Market. </p><p>Fun fact. I can clean four ears of corn in one minute 23 seconds. I know this because when the timer on the microwave hit one minute 37 seconds, the eggs exploded with a force that blew the top off the microwave pot and blew the microwave door open. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIbT8I6SFp_eblkci0UbNRkHCa9v-3LtN_w7zLe1HexeXXjWH2pC9_NZvsSLwzISZrpmDdjQSVhE1Zg0f2BZaiST6ojEeRqh3eJH7FT_yPg4_SDTXBya3kJSICAIoqaxG7uQpx7yXWv6C-UaC_fu482VRV5qCBs5ws6JDN5czaGDv3t7bve-kCAgPigdA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="600" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIbT8I6SFp_eblkci0UbNRkHCa9v-3LtN_w7zLe1HexeXXjWH2pC9_NZvsSLwzISZrpmDdjQSVhE1Zg0f2BZaiST6ojEeRqh3eJH7FT_yPg4_SDTXBya3kJSICAIoqaxG7uQpx7yXWv6C-UaC_fu482VRV5qCBs5ws6JDN5czaGDv3t7bve-kCAgPigdA" width="320" /></a></div><br />I'm not saying it was a mess. I am saying I considered buying a new microwave. It was like two sulfur bombs exploded and there were tiny bits of egg white, yolk, and shell shrapnel all over the immediate area. <p></p><p><br /></p><p>I think it's a testament to how much of a mess I am in the kitchen that I didn't even swear or anything. I just looked at the microwave, dripping with egg shards, and calmly made three decisions.</p><p><br /></p><p>1) I was going to finish peeling the last two years of corn.</p><p>2) I was going to light a couple highly scented candles.</p><p>3) The space rug immediately below the microwave was going to be the catch all when I did cleanup and I was then going dispose of the whole mess as a mobster might a dead body: wrapped in a carpet.</p><p><br /></p><p>Cleanup took a while, and honestly, I won't be surprised if we find more bits of shell or dried egg lying around in the coming weeks. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCEiRkHUTHopIRwHWSl5TWgsT6OZX0C05RZkHBksztz8rjAX2sCop7_HMnU6TOlUD_rwAnQl60-P2bkaaNQW615bGv_aCLPqCsMzowycoO2P62r9MPfxMnE8Azbfiqz1WQUpfUPN-0HZ0nsPxGSBv9uCYdXFTCJ7Mm7eSgEHFoCQzqr-3dg4zH37LoX_E" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="847" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhCEiRkHUTHopIRwHWSl5TWgsT6OZX0C05RZkHBksztz8rjAX2sCop7_HMnU6TOlUD_rwAnQl60-P2bkaaNQW615bGv_aCLPqCsMzowycoO2P62r9MPfxMnE8Azbfiqz1WQUpfUPN-0HZ0nsPxGSBv9uCYdXFTCJ7Mm7eSgEHFoCQzqr-3dg4zH37LoX_E" width="320" /></a></div><br />I'd also like to point out that not once on any of his many shows, has Gordon Ramsey said to NOT boil eggs in a microwave!<p></p><p><br /></p><p>I think now is a good time to remind you that I recently wrote and published a cook book! <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sarahs-Cookbook-Humans-would-rather/dp/B0BKRZSCRP/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1WW2BKIAAQHVH&keywords=Sarah%27s+Cookbook+for+real+humans&qid=1692031119&sprefix=sarah%27s+cookbook+for+real+humans%2Caps%2C117&sr=8-1">Sarah's Cookbook for Real Humans who would Rather Watch TV than Cook.</a> is available on Amazon in print or digital form. Sorry, the Turkeybratloaf recipe is NOT in there.</p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-55371110923060404162023-08-02T12:36:00.002-07:002023-08-02T12:36:41.060-07:00The Second Balcony is the place to be!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLtKc-oypM0_nRQ7EVdwcTB5pz_JL47lCwRfHjP4URZBKJSXtwle4C7AVjiXpix1KPjawqYtqqVEbKk2pZYb7o7-TLI7AyKAHp2Gn5wsrKLUhfLWOW5xUvnB9yGEaXW3-LUm-UuQlBx6QSDWgwU02pelbyYgkbAhHIe12W4PCWA9VBaV6QgTsol_hfOgo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="1024" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLtKc-oypM0_nRQ7EVdwcTB5pz_JL47lCwRfHjP4URZBKJSXtwle4C7AVjiXpix1KPjawqYtqqVEbKk2pZYb7o7-TLI7AyKAHp2Gn5wsrKLUhfLWOW5xUvnB9yGEaXW3-LUm-UuQlBx6QSDWgwU02pelbyYgkbAhHIe12W4PCWA9VBaV6QgTsol_hfOgo" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Good morning!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So last night Hubby and I went to enjoy my Mother's Day gift from him and the kids. We went to see <a href="http://rickspringfield.com">Rick Springfield</a> at the Pabst Theater in Milwaukee. Now, I haven't seen Rick in concert for a few years for a number of reasons:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">1) He really hasn't been close by for a couple years. And I'm not one to get in the car and road trip all over anymore.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">2) Many of his fans have had a tendency, in the last ten years, to be out of control hags who are rude to those around him and dump drinks on everyone, especially me. (I will site the "unplugged" show at the Barrymore, the show at the Crystal theater in the Dells, and the last Summerfest show I went to where one of his "front row fans" literally got into a fight with the bass player of the band preceding rick because, well, he wasn't Rick.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">3) There is no 3. I just haven't wanted to be associated with the rude, drink dumping drunkards I kept running into at his concerts. Which is a shame, since a most Rick fans are awesome, and Rick always puts on a super show. I mean, I've seen him more than a dozen times, obviously I enjoy the shows. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">But I digress.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So we made it a date night, Hubby and I. We had a quick sandwich and adult beverage at the <a href="http://newsroompub.com">Newsroom Pub</a>, which is right across from the Pabst Theater and makes some of the best drinks and sandwiches around. The prime rib sammy is AMAZING. Plus, the fries are actually worth the red calories on Noom.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQVjMIQ4Qb_8JSGGV681QaDkO2s86L18EuUWYt0RaZEjvhZ0AtCGELIwmdIN7EzpNyl5AdXsmAATGyz51_H59UCQnvWCoTY_WATsUy8s0h2hBu3arB22ucMXDDkDi93AiOYv8SOIIUKRoCjhmzrr3E28FCTkrG72inVaxLbzDd1V7BrrIxH4GSjpPBZ5w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQVjMIQ4Qb_8JSGGV681QaDkO2s86L18EuUWYt0RaZEjvhZ0AtCGELIwmdIN7EzpNyl5AdXsmAATGyz51_H59UCQnvWCoTY_WATsUy8s0h2hBu3arB22ucMXDDkDi93AiOYv8SOIIUKRoCjhmzrr3E28FCTkrG72inVaxLbzDd1V7BrrIxH4GSjpPBZ5w" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />From our vantage point, we could see concert goers walking up and down the street. It was then that Hubby said the funniest thing of the evening, "There's a lot of Meloxicam coming to this concert tonight."</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIXCNH9GEO4S_bNk7xLRaOMTGG44J1zTfOrBANS23f0VgvHLqbKPKIDTRbqsIwmrILxS7heQG7zV4RZse64m5jhely7aAMNTkvhr8Ur4t9ywKL6lXrjN-5rlW_RfOT-cOyN9UxRb7-_c0vsbijFr0jC9egg2R7YH7CCud7R0XrzH8IKAaKFi9YyNPGgMY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIXCNH9GEO4S_bNk7xLRaOMTGG44J1zTfOrBANS23f0VgvHLqbKPKIDTRbqsIwmrILxS7heQG7zV4RZse64m5jhely7aAMNTkvhr8Ur4t9ywKL6lXrjN-5rlW_RfOT-cOyN9UxRb7-_c0vsbijFr0jC9egg2R7YH7CCud7R0XrzH8IKAaKFi9YyNPGgMY" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />For those of you with joints that work: Meloxicam is the drug of choice for many of us who have arthritis. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hubby wasn't wrong. I mean, one never thinks of themselves as old, not really, until one sees a stream of one's contemporaries navigating a city block of sidewalk with canes, walkers, and that fun side to side gate many of us have thanks to bum knees and hips.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Hey, when did we Rick fans get so old?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTzv79fK_oHmxIexrc3MDErMISwzOcLFqqwsPjNSqsyPzPpRV_7q0IztkRyxFqcWnod9UcBo5BsHTAiEiqClArkSTfRJiLF0VcVKOw_Hc2NN8a2AXQugkc8zIs7Gc8eznHfxcyhzZ-jgGcgVobW8bhpxQkRoRQRNLUkO9P-RktYSBVNoL9Jp9pU0F5uvc" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="560" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTzv79fK_oHmxIexrc3MDErMISwzOcLFqqwsPjNSqsyPzPpRV_7q0IztkRyxFqcWnod9UcBo5BsHTAiEiqClArkSTfRJiLF0VcVKOw_Hc2NN8a2AXQugkc8zIs7Gc8eznHfxcyhzZ-jgGcgVobW8bhpxQkRoRQRNLUkO9P-RktYSBVNoL9Jp9pU0F5uvc" width="224" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not an actual group from the concert, but not far off.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">After dinner, we headed to the theater, which is a beautiful place. There's security, of course. And I'd like to point out that I spent some time earlier in the day swapping vital items from my normal purse to my tiny concert going purse. I sailed through security.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then there was Hubby. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now, to be fair, Hubby subscribes to Gibbs' rule 9: </span></p><p><b style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #262727; font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #262727; font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgaLrOYRrtJ-UiJBJ3DUL8TffD7FzbEo27f8-CCv9ee-x7ocuzoRUH8grUgKunDHhnUy9YcajlkWIpiuweyVuCdL9OKDo5JlkZX96HmlsOQ7JAUqVbETV-7GdoctK0YwbDwuc-bbbx5PrGNWeumY3_tCXRnri0qRvbjqHSLm7597PLlxBSY_QJBNe4f-48" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="1014" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgaLrOYRrtJ-UiJBJ3DUL8TffD7FzbEo27f8-CCv9ee-x7ocuzoRUH8grUgKunDHhnUy9YcajlkWIpiuweyVuCdL9OKDo5JlkZX96HmlsOQ7JAUqVbETV-7GdoctK0YwbDwuc-bbbx5PrGNWeumY3_tCXRnri0qRvbjqHSLm7597PLlxBSY_QJBNe4f-48" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><b style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #262727; font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #262727; font-size: 17px;">Rule #9: </b><span style="color: #262727; font-size: 17px;">Never go anywhere without a knife.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #262727; font-size: 17px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In this post 911 era, however, following that rule has proven to be a little...inconvenient. Especially since Hubby tends to forget that he has a knife on him. It's a tiny little thing, hooked on to his keyring.</span> </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCxMRykdT-2B62O4hC8um33RHzdWVXesBYEn27h25CrdYS6y3Ae1tUgQlBrqjtnN0CqAuW8IXMgwLNv9lR1oszrVUVtgLtjkBO99qfDyUkA734fx4-3VhrRk6yOQ1GrIgPVRHHDqrp6yrf4iP83ng4e_UtkbNAqWg7ANT9rcTBMFXSYKHAW6E0tUokvFo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="2400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCxMRykdT-2B62O4hC8um33RHzdWVXesBYEn27h25CrdYS6y3Ae1tUgQlBrqjtnN0CqAuW8IXMgwLNv9lR1oszrVUVtgLtjkBO99qfDyUkA734fx4-3VhrRk6yOQ1GrIgPVRHHDqrp6yrf4iP83ng4e_UtkbNAqWg7ANT9rcTBMFXSYKHAW6E0tUokvFo" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">I can't tell you how many knives he's had to surrender at airports, plays, and yes, concert venues. Sometimes he remembers it's on his ring. And sometimes he does not.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Last night...he did not.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So I got through security, which was one lovely older lady holding a tiny flashlight and yelling, "put your hands over your heads" as we walked thorugh the metal detector. She fished through our wee purses. Gents handed her their wallets and...keys.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">"That can't come in here," she says to Hubby, pointing at the tiny knife (seriously, no longer than a key). Fortunately for Hubby, we were parked in the underground lot directly under the Pabst. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ten minutes later, he was back from the parking garage and we were headed to the Merch booth. That wasn't a bad line. I did notice that after all these years of touring the Upper Midwest, Rick's T-shirt people finally got the hint and started offering bigger sizes...up to 4X. SWEET! We fluffy Rick gals like our concert gear BIG!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Our seats were in the second balcony. If you've been in these big, old, classic theaters, you know the seats tend to hearken back to yesteryear when people were mostly starving and were shorter than we tend to be today. Also, in the second balcony, the stairs are STEEP getting to the seats toward the front of the balcony, which we were. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I settled into my seat and looked around, waiting to see the faces of the people behind me, people who would, undoubtedly, be the ones to dump an adult beverage on me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">There was no one. Not for three rows of seats, there was no one.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Well, we were still half an hour from go time, so I wasn't all that confident.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Next to us was a family. Yes a family. Mom, Dad, one wee boy of about 7, and two preteen girls.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Well," says Hubby, "at least the people next to you won't be drunk."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Silver lining, for sure.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">however, between the girls and me were two seats. Two seats which would, very likely, be filled by someone who would have to use the bathroom six times.</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisAWMEw1V3wC7XGtK8ORC6W81EySdblCqCdVlSKyLUFyBXPMrzFobY_d6hreAyeVHCC1pDOcvPLgj0TwCzMiJyRFxt0s5h-4TYsI_iOKivizkUSr7NamgrSHY7sVuqs_5sBKxZ9t7JRp-hw0KJquzakH1cmdeMgzl7dNdE93IS80_fZgKVTJBZS8ngEbs" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="614" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisAWMEw1V3wC7XGtK8ORC6W81EySdblCqCdVlSKyLUFyBXPMrzFobY_d6hreAyeVHCC1pDOcvPLgj0TwCzMiJyRFxt0s5h-4TYsI_iOKivizkUSr7NamgrSHY7sVuqs_5sBKxZ9t7JRp-hw0KJquzakH1cmdeMgzl7dNdE93IS80_fZgKVTJBZS8ngEbs" width="184" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Second balcony people don't get anywhere this close.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Time ticket down. Seats in the row right in front of us, the people in the front row of the balcony, filled up. Seats across the aisle filled up. But NOTHING, no one next to us and, more importantly, no one BEHIND US!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The lights went down, the roar of the crowd went up. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: RICK SPRINGFIELD!</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilFsmCh9UgVTQxwUAdoSdNrK_ixgrECEf0s5PlLEGVbEB2kM7iHuJiUfXneMBrOIgXvTBGwisSbbgsrcnJgLS561IgHMWBs9C47qDpGeqJshqS9mhd7QZxKo60dr1eSP1IK2NGNEFQckTcZ916moWEM4llJ6w635siMtlV6QxoiOm6r3JYOYLlsVzIqqc" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1335" data-original-width="2000" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilFsmCh9UgVTQxwUAdoSdNrK_ixgrECEf0s5PlLEGVbEB2kM7iHuJiUfXneMBrOIgXvTBGwisSbbgsrcnJgLS561IgHMWBs9C47qDpGeqJshqS9mhd7QZxKo60dr1eSP1IK2NGNEFQckTcZ916moWEM4llJ6w635siMtlV6QxoiOm6r3JYOYLlsVzIqqc" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sure, in the second balcony we were having fun that looked like this:<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1-iiX5nFRRug0ZRaZXBZC62yEpZp1avm9HvCvix9QYTs9cIBK_qRB5a7SpJO5MnDXWpAL_KtuyYhmAGQEdsp2I7hGvEtYQzxoEqk5wflcAHGu6Y0mHjI3E7EtixYx0YcWgvD-J-YwNEo_sx1EksJkENJ5jfSfe6vO0VzMiIkgM1yiRz30_W4N0V9TW4E" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="2400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1-iiX5nFRRug0ZRaZXBZC62yEpZp1avm9HvCvix9QYTs9cIBK_qRB5a7SpJO5MnDXWpAL_KtuyYhmAGQEdsp2I7hGvEtYQzxoEqk5wflcAHGu6Y0mHjI3E7EtixYx0YcWgvD-J-YwNEo_sx1EksJkENJ5jfSfe6vO0VzMiIkgM1yiRz30_W4N0V9TW4E" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">but felt like this. That's how much room we had!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">No one to the left of me for two seats. No one behind me for two solid rows! I'm sorry, Rick, buddy, that you didn't sell out. But we in the second balcony WERE ROCKING OUT! It was AWESOME! There was a group of women, small group, couple rows up who were dancing and singing with the joy only people in an unconfined space can feel.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Meanwhile, next to me:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAakM9jangqQhf_75h-Ptw8EdxlwFcfSqlMAppTe4s2juMG9HU7WP1uV0zYr35torreyzTaRu7yidmyW4n2_cKWdMD8ZaVZCJUqnW1E3b8xt7upT4Y257OGRIuAi9AD-VsPsi2qoZZ3ahlAs3xt3tU4eHXVxgL8PJ3j89qSzSnp7LclUw4XmCS6kQSpI0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1080" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAakM9jangqQhf_75h-Ptw8EdxlwFcfSqlMAppTe4s2juMG9HU7WP1uV0zYr35torreyzTaRu7yidmyW4n2_cKWdMD8ZaVZCJUqnW1E3b8xt7upT4Y257OGRIuAi9AD-VsPsi2qoZZ3ahlAs3xt3tU4eHXVxgL8PJ3j89qSzSnp7LclUw4XmCS6kQSpI0" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The two young girls, and honestly, they couldn't have been more than 11 years old, were bouncing in their chairs and squealing and singing</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">ALMOST AS MUCH AS I WAS!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I haven't a clue where Mom went. She might have had one of those front row seats, I don't know. She handed earplugs to everyone and then vanished. Dad and wee Brother also relocated, but they went to the landing above us at the entrance to the balcony. So Dad was able to see his girls having the time of their lives.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Reminded me of when I took Peaches and a friend to the Jonas Brothers concert years ago. So adorable. And the fact that they were enjoying MY fave from my younger years was all that much more fun.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The concert was AMAZING. Rick has always been a great musician, something that was lost for a time in the midst of his teen heartthrob years. His albums, btw, in the last 20 years, have been far superior in quality and musical interest than his "hit albums' from the previous 20 years. He played a number of songs I haven't heard in concert, which was a blast. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">As concert goers will tell you, there's a lot of distortion at live shows. So when Rick started talking on the mic, I plugged my ears to filter out the distortion and hear what he was saying. I always tell myself I'm going to bring earplugs and then I don't.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Well, wouldn't you know it? Those delightful little woodland fairies next to me saw me plugging my ears. One of them tapped me on the shoulder and handed me extra earplugs.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sniffle.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLx1J6GQ7oYjlUEUS4j4KeiJ6R4YCuByM3NBgwNeLsvwAOaD196fIZPdpkhEgZTTWcNjqIGDtRj0wpihU1q9l2ojhIPCtofzpKWnMMWMrAZinKS2WPg_f2Fi7WzBMNR6rwqjFT8RkAAgyokhsHnDX4YR5bF-nRs5M_mzaNIIeUltCxHFCLhtOlPcuYIUU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLx1J6GQ7oYjlUEUS4j4KeiJ6R4YCuByM3NBgwNeLsvwAOaD196fIZPdpkhEgZTTWcNjqIGDtRj0wpihU1q9l2ojhIPCtofzpKWnMMWMrAZinKS2WPg_f2Fi7WzBMNR6rwqjFT8RkAAgyokhsHnDX4YR5bF-nRs5M_mzaNIIeUltCxHFCLhtOlPcuYIUU" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now able to hear everything, I was at a whole new level of happy. When he started in on "Don't Talk to Strangers" a concert favorite, the whole place went crazy. But NO ONE enjoyed that song more than the second balcony and especially those of us in Aisle B on the left!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">By the time he did Jessie's Girl (shirtless), the tweens were in a level of girlish glee generally reserved for only the biggest of boy bands and, you know, Taylor Swift. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhahMo4WWNX2Mleg6J-g9IaA2kRVwDNfOGCKFxcMBvqraBYkVbktL_WugB50fJWG6QSruHOI03L3e1J7cU9prpnNaY9SU1UxrS5hIyKDSPPz7w7s-1v8USFyualvZusTcvw4O6texUy_3bkJQU9n99M8oJ4Ges5LXMe_PAMw2_kSHvpx1zyjjv0EZ4IKJA" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1279" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhahMo4WWNX2Mleg6J-g9IaA2kRVwDNfOGCKFxcMBvqraBYkVbktL_WugB50fJWG6QSruHOI03L3e1J7cU9prpnNaY9SU1UxrS5hIyKDSPPz7w7s-1v8USFyualvZusTcvw4O6texUy_3bkJQU9n99M8oJ4Ges5LXMe_PAMw2_kSHvpx1zyjjv0EZ4IKJA" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Props. This guy is almost 74!<br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Meanwhile, Hubby noted that Rick about to turn 74. "Which means I have 18 years to get into that kind of shape."<br /><br />I love Hubby. He makes me laugh.<br /><br />I wanted to stop and thank the father of the two girls for raising them right: You know, sharing earplugs, enjoying the concert properly, not dumping anything on me, oh, and loving Rick Springfield. But they took off before the encore was over. Which was smart. I mean, who wants to get stuck in the traffic jam of walkers and canes?<br /><br />We got out of the concert without incident and, I should note, we only took the elevator down one floor instead of two because, as the guy with the liquor cart told us, "There are people on two who need the elevator more than you."<br /><br />That was the perfect ending to a great evening! </span><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-26610174136043241992023-05-19T08:02:00.003-07:002023-05-19T08:02:26.832-07:00FIVE FOR FRIDAY! Why I want to move to Middle Tennessee.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtQOvPdgzZxFK_-34qNSncv2c_EpYPHsMpsxQR9sjK-Wt2PqlcyfZxukNjgthV5UCBfi02sZiZEZv0lgebjDd2YFDuxkoB-5wsaC6nIJjMHzVuWidJSjtAb-O2h2VB6IZIGvRvcfCQAVwBERzULGGGaoD16o3jH94jd07L3vGc9dmMh1hY0zjTopOg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="897" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtQOvPdgzZxFK_-34qNSncv2c_EpYPHsMpsxQR9sjK-Wt2PqlcyfZxukNjgthV5UCBfi02sZiZEZv0lgebjDd2YFDuxkoB-5wsaC6nIJjMHzVuWidJSjtAb-O2h2VB6IZIGvRvcfCQAVwBERzULGGGaoD16o3jH94jd07L3vGc9dmMh1hY0zjTopOg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p><p>Good morning all! Welcome to the Five for Friday! This week we're going to address the five top reasons I want to move to Middle Tennessee, and no, it's not because I love Nashville. I mean, I do, but that's not in the top five reason. Or maybe it is. I don't know. All I know is I've been home from my vaca in Middle TN for a week and I want to go back RIGHT NOW!</p><p>(A gentle reminder: I do not deal with politics in any manner, nor do I allow political comments on my blog or FB page. This blog is for entertainment/humor purposes. If you want to bark about the political policies of any state, go someplace else. Thank you!)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx7okIUNrXTJ1fdtmwMJxBsBEiMBICRb4ZrZyNrdSGLeNHLtU1N6eE7p52CEGMs9JKfWX2b9MCz96gCf55BpHyBLVxcGhQIHbUDJwR-YqS-rgLvJiJjRHi0r9p6-p2xikHKv5KKt1BxPRBDan6K33WWWF6XjeQDOdD1JrMoy5b9mHNJr2vOSMwygiL" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="600" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx7okIUNrXTJ1fdtmwMJxBsBEiMBICRb4ZrZyNrdSGLeNHLtU1N6eE7p52CEGMs9JKfWX2b9MCz96gCf55BpHyBLVxcGhQIHbUDJwR-YqS-rgLvJiJjRHi0r9p6-p2xikHKv5KKt1BxPRBDan6K33WWWF6XjeQDOdD1JrMoy5b9mHNJr2vOSMwygiL" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>So here we go with the top five reasons I want to move to Middle Tennessee.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>5) They name roads after people they don't know. Which means I have a shot at getting a road named after me!</b></p><p>I'm not even making this up: We stayed at place in Lieper's Fork, TN, which is close to Franklin, TN, which is kind of close to Nashville. If you're in the area, you'll either drive on or cross <a href="https://www.williamsonherald.com/features/w_life/who-was-mack-hatcher/article_03cc7476-3612-11e7-81ff-9360d05d50db.html">MACK HATCHER MEMORIAL PARKWAY</a> about fifty times. It's a very large highway project that was completed a few years back. It's a road that circles Franklin. If you're in the area, you cannot miss it. Also, it's new, it's beautiful, and it clearly cost a crap ton of money.</p><p><a href="https://www.williamsonherald.com/features/w_life/who-was-mack-hatcher/article_03cc7476-3612-11e7-81ff-9360d05d50db.html">But: who was Mack Hatcher? </a> Turns out, most of the people who voted for and paid for this highway project had NO CLUE who this dude was. (click on the link to read the news story that the local papers pulled out of dustballs because even the news people didn't know!)</p><p>What this means is that I, a fairly unknown entity who works very hard to be a public figure, have a shot at getting some kind of road or avenue or lane named after me...if I move to Middle TN. I'm pretty sure THAT would boost my book sales, right?</p><p><br /></p><p><b>4) Really interesting Civil War history.</b></p><p>This isn't political, this is history, and Tennessee as a state, and Middle Tennessee as a location, is silly with it. <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tennessee_in_the_American_Civil_War">Did you know that Tennessee sent more troops to fight for the UNION than any other Confederate state? And some of the worst battles in the war were fought in Tennessee. </a></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1sy0jTxQTl7Mgj8OV-kfaJ7hf00JEMP3lyJKQE8ZoepWaRzQO7mF7u7Oizb1i9rsKtf-GY4nN36LImU-XAfK9ov-fMaGzfvpU8sdsXM2aU1F8N6WaeEHbgQJcxI5yffGsxQTqZeAWKSEHY-ps7a0IMVIogBaFs1zy7Vd_e2xWY1EzReKJcCRZJYKq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1sy0jTxQTl7Mgj8OV-kfaJ7hf00JEMP3lyJKQE8ZoepWaRzQO7mF7u7Oizb1i9rsKtf-GY4nN36LImU-XAfK9ov-fMaGzfvpU8sdsXM2aU1F8N6WaeEHbgQJcxI5yffGsxQTqZeAWKSEHY-ps7a0IMVIogBaFs1zy7Vd_e2xWY1EzReKJcCRZJYKq" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6TvPN7542mtycvE4TQ_LHfJ3IeWwfCNiZQUOIBl-dL0snsm6F8gakGfMLFDp1Cn38FqKEQN7xGrfRotxrGb9do6ZNFSui8PNTnFAjO3mTyGApe1VWj_YF8rdlZGwsyIBS0TSMMH4xUgtxiYyF9DVVnNo5FqmOYjFdo8pJRTOfr56Bia50nw7TWG8o" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6TvPN7542mtycvE4TQ_LHfJ3IeWwfCNiZQUOIBl-dL0snsm6F8gakGfMLFDp1Cn38FqKEQN7xGrfRotxrGb9do6ZNFSui8PNTnFAjO3mTyGApe1VWj_YF8rdlZGwsyIBS0TSMMH4xUgtxiYyF9DVVnNo5FqmOYjFdo8pJRTOfr56Bia50nw7TWG8o" width="180" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLksRb0X0xQV9wIo9NmpTwfOcRLMI2y-ReaPlkvC8MRyoUa1IeJJUXqMcG_Jkuqm-DhxYgDXi4On0h8DtT1pm151XkVCGOg4wX7cGyOCPS8m_V5iv4mO-HMVjCM15SWmEDRRlT954jNEZNunWl8iEjrf0rqc0MIqTZ49fqX1j34oKb8fSU9tapUpaQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLksRb0X0xQV9wIo9NmpTwfOcRLMI2y-ReaPlkvC8MRyoUa1IeJJUXqMcG_Jkuqm-DhxYgDXi4On0h8DtT1pm151XkVCGOg4wX7cGyOCPS8m_V5iv4mO-HMVjCM15SWmEDRRlT954jNEZNunWl8iEjrf0rqc0MIqTZ49fqX1j34oKb8fSU9tapUpaQ" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiClf5GCh-pRd8aS1jfGm0Um39rR3uYzwmDXY57KPQU4Zqm-l4w3GsQKvJQQCYBfyIfxbK9ElI79OucOjg45UIQGhPrKCXZD4pnTc3mVhjFfftTPbmrMBq7TEoYxckVO1y9ah71ERX7YgT0WWUTQk_pl2NGc-lYpSyrmePVH1xy8meuAsSx97DIrUq2" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiClf5GCh-pRd8aS1jfGm0Um39rR3uYzwmDXY57KPQU4Zqm-l4w3GsQKvJQQCYBfyIfxbK9ElI79OucOjg45UIQGhPrKCXZD4pnTc3mVhjFfftTPbmrMBq7TEoYxckVO1y9ah71ERX7YgT0WWUTQk_pl2NGc-lYpSyrmePVH1xy8meuAsSx97DIrUq2" width="180" /></a></div><br />It's also why, to my complete astonishment, there's a statue honoring Union Colored troops and then not fifty feet away another statue honoring Confederate soldiers in Franklin. I find that fascinating and I want to know more!<p></p><p><br /></p><p><b>3) Biscuits, Biscuits everywhere!</b></p><p>It should come as no surprise that I enjoy a good biscuit. And I'm sure most people know that the best place to find biscuits (the American kind, not the British word for 'cookie') is in the South. </p><p>Did we eat biscuits while we were there? You know we did!</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiF3A2Dv1PQ45Oz2Bk-LuU3cWOmqddNu5IhYjS3W64BSx0xD2yX_RaAiD8A63neq531H4IXhIDGEL6HxUha4kutQ4pPPd25mPd6CjWNi8jtsubwjgMz9vUsdfjPyZU-IyfnpwqqFsqaCv1njiKJU7rixMu9JzgEdDO-by0h8Z0skwHQTf59u-t54oV1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiF3A2Dv1PQ45Oz2Bk-LuU3cWOmqddNu5IhYjS3W64BSx0xD2yX_RaAiD8A63neq531H4IXhIDGEL6HxUha4kutQ4pPPd25mPd6CjWNi8jtsubwjgMz9vUsdfjPyZU-IyfnpwqqFsqaCv1njiKJU7rixMu9JzgEdDO-by0h8Z0skwHQTf59u-t54oV1" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.lovelesscafe.com/">Pimento cheese and fried green tomatoes on biscuits from the Loveless Cafe.</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br />We ate at the <a href="https://www.lovelesscafe.com/">Loveless Cafe</a> (thank you to the show, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somebody_Feed_Phil">Somebody Feed Phil</a>, and enjoyed their lard based drop biscuits. They were good. They were solid and fluffy all at once. I thoroughly enjoyed the pimento cheese (don't knock it 'til you try it) and fried green tomato on the biscuit. </p><p>Then...</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4_HokTrL0q6J5TYxuZgnHfZ4z49mJifNLhT14oxPK9AQG_7JqmjKaKWdqq_cWzMo0-GUsrfyrBooetEMsKDEaLOs2GvqO7oK7x2mwdKloNjeyg3Qc7KL7fLGC9te1NdaOO2DdrzN2LNoIp_iWT_5La2H-w8GpJErNZ6kMoaATGZqggSwlBAnRYMeJ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4_HokTrL0q6J5TYxuZgnHfZ4z49mJifNLhT14oxPK9AQG_7JqmjKaKWdqq_cWzMo0-GUsrfyrBooetEMsKDEaLOs2GvqO7oK7x2mwdKloNjeyg3Qc7KL7fLGC9te1NdaOO2DdrzN2LNoIp_iWT_5La2H-w8GpJErNZ6kMoaATGZqggSwlBAnRYMeJ" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.biscuitlove.com/">It's called the SEC (without cheese for me) and a side of sausage gravy at Biscuit Love.</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Then we discovered a happy little place called <a href="https://www.biscuitlove.com/">Biscuit Love</a> where the biscuits were butter based, layered, melty, and beautiful. In the battle of the biscuits, (so far) this was my favorite.</p><p>But THEN...</p><p>Oh don't get excited, this is still from Biscuit Love, </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHxhTgj6F5pDknEf-X0qIqwDgaU5ilzu5fMzJGshN-3IQY6WbB64Co-usH9-IdIWB4O5eubXV7XaAJ--uStSs0TzEveWLcH6mTH1J4WMHEmB2F7kGgPHu5vYfK7SndrNIN3-_MxKNMuLg3Ijtat7i-U9lynVJlL6KIiznGzsChhokzWRrkZRNJvGp7" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHxhTgj6F5pDknEf-X0qIqwDgaU5ilzu5fMzJGshN-3IQY6WbB64Co-usH9-IdIWB4O5eubXV7XaAJ--uStSs0TzEveWLcH6mTH1J4WMHEmB2F7kGgPHu5vYfK7SndrNIN3-_MxKNMuLg3Ijtat7i-U9lynVJlL6KIiznGzsChhokzWRrkZRNJvGp7" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The BONUT.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Those geniuses created the BONUT. This their biscuit batter dropped into frying oil, then set on a bed of blueberry compote and DRIZZLED (see picture above, if that's drizzled, well, I'd hate to see FROSTED) with a lemon, mascarpone creme.</p><p>So, yeah. I need to move to further my studies in biscuits.</p><p><br /></p><p>Honorable mention, because it's not a biscuit, but it is a baked good: <a href="https://fivedaughtersbakery.com/">Five Daughters Bakery</a></p><p>Why this bakery? Well, their specialty is a little thing called a 100 Layer Doughnut.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhu0zQgJofN7sXNQA8W554Q0lRsPcJ_WECYqg4v8xtTvbvFd4YGNdn3A_7a2Y03gYr4JA3FKpDMfOtRCdFuYvCOdTRsUtL8hWt0iGsy-wXE0G_7cQcYooseSBD0vEzd6TvCxK3k2xzsGu8Pw19eDyjtpawhmLVwqGEbPrKU8zQS-ypPywgsF5TJhSgd" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhu0zQgJofN7sXNQA8W554Q0lRsPcJ_WECYqg4v8xtTvbvFd4YGNdn3A_7a2Y03gYr4JA3FKpDMfOtRCdFuYvCOdTRsUtL8hWt0iGsy-wXE0G_7cQcYooseSBD0vEzd6TvCxK3k2xzsGu8Pw19eDyjtpawhmLVwqGEbPrKU8zQS-ypPywgsF5TJhSgd" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJNLddb1D2kBgb5aNUZI0FakBzPGRk0mSv0urR6bPLU5R6P-udFODZ7w_S7zYvtRAHGo3dASpq9Yh3a3AHRoO1o32K2SvCIW20GwvnI-L_O4_qt2avfVqQXKzZOsLKKRlNMEplzSp7xt5Vm89OaHCcu1XBq5miVwQqG_fgsthj6-CvuyfpJEbW0Enf" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJNLddb1D2kBgb5aNUZI0FakBzPGRk0mSv0urR6bPLU5R6P-udFODZ7w_S7zYvtRAHGo3dASpq9Yh3a3AHRoO1o32K2SvCIW20GwvnI-L_O4_qt2avfVqQXKzZOsLKKRlNMEplzSp7xt5Vm89OaHCcu1XBq5miVwQqG_fgsthj6-CvuyfpJEbW0Enf" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsMXny5VLqfNwKe4PzVSsoEwrWwQ7WZzzeyViX00gJBPJBAy7WV-QsJ5YTVcM6N6tRkJ-WIdzhdwowfReLBdw5kZ9LOHTeK24GlX4ASOfgLs7NvYCsrKFuTnlxEM0Uw_aoPbBqEw_5Yuwcz0qhzVYUAgp-m-CVSl6hf0TluGZpVm_ZTyU8lLigf2nD" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsMXny5VLqfNwKe4PzVSsoEwrWwQ7WZzzeyViX00gJBPJBAy7WV-QsJ5YTVcM6N6tRkJ-WIdzhdwowfReLBdw5kZ9LOHTeK24GlX4ASOfgLs7NvYCsrKFuTnlxEM0Uw_aoPbBqEw_5Yuwcz0qhzVYUAgp-m-CVSl6hf0TluGZpVm_ZTyU8lLigf2nD" width="320" /></a></div><br />Sorry, bakeries in Wisconsin. All other pastries are ruined for me forever.<p></p><p><br /></p><p><b>2) Property Taxes</b></p><p>This is going to be short and sweet. I enjoy looking at real estate listings in places we visit. I like to see what housing prices are and what property taxes look like.</p><p>Know what property taxes are on a $3 million dollar condo in the heart of Downtown Nashville is? We're talking a 3 b4ed, two bath, high rise, all updated, all glorious condo.</p><p>$300 a month.</p><p>That's what I'm currently paying on my modest little spot here in Wisconsin.</p><p>Oh, what about the HOA fees, you ask? On that $3 million listing...$280 a month. I've seen HOA fees DOUBLE that on a 1 and 1 condo here in Waukesha. And those don't include underground parking!</p><p>Oh yeah, all this and NO PERSONAL INCOME TAXES.</p><p>Middle Tennessee here I come!</p><p><br /></p><p><b>1) You aren't going to believe this.</b></p><p>If you've read this blog for any amount of time, you know I have one big, overwhelming issues that tends to cloud my opinion of all public spaces: The restroom.</p><p>I'm here to tell you...EVERY. SINGLE. RESTROOM. WAS. CLEAN.</p><p>We went to public restrooms in a large food court, at a professional baseball game, in a concert venue, in restaurants, and even one in a little dive bar only locals go to: EVERY SINGLE ONE WAS SUPER CLEAN! </p><p>Not just acceptable...no no. I'm talking about CLEAN. The one at the baseball game even smelled like FRIED CHICKEN. WHAT???????????????</p><p>I didn't see any paper products on the floor, there were no unflushed toilets, and everything was shiny and nice.</p><p>(On a side note...Indiana still remains the state with the GROSSEST public restrooms. What's the deal, Indiana?)</p><p>Every public restroom I go into from now on is going to be judged by this experience. It wasn't one location, it was all of them, and all of them were fresh, good smelling, and clean. AND THAT, my friends, is the biggest reason why I want to move to Middle Tennessee!</p><p><br /></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-24520585860811556452023-05-18T10:04:00.005-07:002023-05-18T10:04:44.899-07:00Sarah goes to a concert. None of this should surprise anyone.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7NFlRk791hDx6ubaEBE3-uVBioAbV95nBWQ8Juf1cnBRlE_mSMe0ajpkbGFCTpOTe7W2J1vwng8ip81mjdsmq9dRMkJpxnD--5CH-zSvNeEKpdoHhrna3K89ADNBCF0eY9RdCo-XvQYRemE-g23nSkOqKuXH1TrFSI8wOUhQOQisOSmVJhppfRgIW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1000" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7NFlRk791hDx6ubaEBE3-uVBioAbV95nBWQ8Juf1cnBRlE_mSMe0ajpkbGFCTpOTe7W2J1vwng8ip81mjdsmq9dRMkJpxnD--5CH-zSvNeEKpdoHhrna3K89ADNBCF0eY9RdCo-XvQYRemE-g23nSkOqKuXH1TrFSI8wOUhQOQisOSmVJhppfRgIW" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Good morning! </p><p>So last week Hubby and I took some time off, rented a car (because the Mighty Cube and the Less-than-Mighty Scion weren't going to make this trip) and drove to Nashville to see John Mellencamp at the Ryman.</p><p>That's right. Sarah went to another concert.</p><p>Before I get to that, I have to share this video:</p><p><a href="https://www.facebook.com/sarah.bradley.7127/videos/1290523791557804" target="_blank">Sarah's drive in Indiana</a><br /></p><p>Just click on that and enjoy me filming what looked like the end of days...and which Hubby set to a little Metallica...which didn't help. LOL</p><p><br /></p><p>Anyway, okay so we went to this concert at the Ryman, the holy high church of music. Or something like that.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZplO-R-AVjzr52KE2-oX5lIPIB5jNRcnrbHaf_qA1FwAd2LWgNoC9sp5S_fHEtvdcqoR4rShDGB11ERlgchYWvPyBmkd3uFKFotMk921E87CBI6TcOj4cVfqWz14OqumN9ZyVM45y3HGTCEMpZXfOsqNeF99lLuA5WYEbgTcOIZIIf3WGkJoC717W" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2200" data-original-width="3300" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZplO-R-AVjzr52KE2-oX5lIPIB5jNRcnrbHaf_qA1FwAd2LWgNoC9sp5S_fHEtvdcqoR4rShDGB11ERlgchYWvPyBmkd3uFKFotMk921E87CBI6TcOj4cVfqWz14OqumN9ZyVM45y3HGTCEMpZXfOsqNeF99lLuA5WYEbgTcOIZIIf3WGkJoC717W" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDLUaESvrFoQ531clzl48HzK3yp1keJ5XxtQS5O5iYW7WoQw0JtYpaY5nkPJrL4rQw_kOAyPOOnsDTDxirlzyzKZ86-qThrz8UFxWZ7nFhihGXs0_Qx7-qVKJa2iiK0r7HSMMMM0JXBG0AuTWIQravvVmbcJLtqmoif5I1ihgqsvjf-Fw-tDcd_y1n" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDLUaESvrFoQ531clzl48HzK3yp1keJ5XxtQS5O5iYW7WoQw0JtYpaY5nkPJrL4rQw_kOAyPOOnsDTDxirlzyzKZ86-qThrz8UFxWZ7nFhihGXs0_Qx7-qVKJa2iiK0r7HSMMMM0JXBG0AuTWIQravvVmbcJLtqmoif5I1ihgqsvjf-Fw-tDcd_y1n" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is from the balcony. And yes, those are wooden church pews.<br /><br /><br />I've never been to the Ryman for a concert, but the rest of the family has been and all of them rave about the coolness of the place. <br /><br />I get it, historical. Great acoustics. "All the talent that's tread these boards." <br /><br />Let's look at this from the viewpoint of an upper middle aged woman with advanced arthritis in her feet and knees. The stairs are a BEAST. I'm not even kidding. We walked up the stairs to get in the line for the merch booth. And those stairs are STEEP. Like break your knees steep!<br /><br />So up the stairs we went and whilst hubby was in the merch line, I bought two bottles of water. Now, here's a fun fact about John Mellencamp and his concerts: He does NOT allow bottle caps in the venue. so if you buy a bottle of water or soda, the person selling you the beverage has to remove the cap. now, I was prepared for this because we'd seen Mellencamp in Milwaukee a couple years ago (when a fist fight broke out behind our seats and I got a rum and coke dumped on me.) but the woman at the Ryman was gob smacked about it. We had a lovely conversation as she removed the caps from our water bottles.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYqykB2QQkOye3NcKeLQttsNTfa73m2N-yfg-Grins708xrqjspQAL5ga6gvOIuA6gqdP0ZoMGR7mMuh0J4vTo-Fsi3QH6PiMzycBak6gsllymGxjfAk4_tw8buMmuPXI2-PTLPUo0ADx70EJ2mYcOVkn70cHrrzj0f3GXMf2bP--vi6_50qy0fxnk" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1821" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYqykB2QQkOye3NcKeLQttsNTfa73m2N-yfg-Grins708xrqjspQAL5ga6gvOIuA6gqdP0ZoMGR7mMuh0J4vTo-Fsi3QH6PiMzycBak6gsllymGxjfAk4_tw8buMmuPXI2-PTLPUo0ADx70EJ2mYcOVkn70cHrrzj0f3GXMf2bP--vi6_50qy0fxnk" width="158" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No bottle caps for you!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now loaded with uncapped water bottles, I go back down the stairs, painfully, and we head to our seats. Since the seats are all wooden church pews, not the padded comfy ones churches have now with the wider seat base and padded backs, nay nay: These were narrow, hard-core, old-time church pews and you best pay attention: anyway, where was I? Oh right, since these were narrow wooden pews, there is a specific way in and out of your seats. We were on the end, because Hubby loves me and knows I have to be on an end. But the downside to that was that anyone in the middle might need to climb over us to get out. That's fine, most of the time. I mean, once the concert for which you purchased tickets begins, you're going to pretty much stay in your seat and LISTEN TO THE MUSIC, right?<p></p><p><br /></p><p>Apparently not for the delightful trio I'm going to call "Drunk girl 1, Drunk girl 2, and drunkest guy in the building." And OF COURSE THEY SAT NEXT TO US. We all know it's not a concert unless Sarah is seated within spilling distance of the drunkest person in the room.</p><p><br /></p><p> Okay, so DG1 was already in place when we got there. Great. She's on the other end of the pew. No biggie. And I honestly thought-believed-hoped that would be it. Just the one girl. But then, as the lights started to go down, DG2 showed up. And instead of climbing over her friend, she climbed over us. Well, okay, we'll let that one pass. I mean, our seats were closer to the door, so it's fine, the first time. But she'd certainly opt to crawl over her friend later. Right?</p><p>And then, at some point during the first song, when it's good and properly dark in our rows, DGITB (drunkest guy in the building) shows up. And did he crawl over his friends? Of course not! Nope, he crawled over the two of us. Now, Hubby was standing. But I was still sore from going up and down those stairs so, since Mellencamp wasn't playing "Jack and Diane" I was sitting. But, in accordance with the time-honored rules of pew sitting, I turned to my right so DGITB could ease past me.</p><p>And he was oh so close...except not. Because remember, he's the DGITB. So of course, he stumbled against my knees and tromped on my arthritic big toe. Good times.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCZLm574HJDhFF_boEXDYCrIMARtM-aE5KVll0jauQ-fAZaQFb0Vvmj_SFRvWsvcJhIB9TdFjjRCZjiA1KCWAjWsm8Sr3jsJe-6oYd29tfBuyYlAYZftpN4HvWIyFkLbk8hToIKRMBf24UqOGuh-by6DLRtqB5n9y5Ps-Pnf3_2Lc9A14aYIYg-972" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="301" data-original-width="167" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCZLm574HJDhFF_boEXDYCrIMARtM-aE5KVll0jauQ-fAZaQFb0Vvmj_SFRvWsvcJhIB9TdFjjRCZjiA1KCWAjWsm8Sr3jsJe-6oYd29tfBuyYlAYZftpN4HvWIyFkLbk8hToIKRMBf24UqOGuh-by6DLRtqB5n9y5Ps-Pnf3_2Lc9A14aYIYg-972" width="133" /></a></div><br />As the happy time Trio settled themselves in their spaces, Hubby sat and I asked him, "How many times will DGITB have to get over us to get out?" <p></p><p><br /></p><p>"0," says Hubby.</p><p>"2," says I, rubbing my big toe.</p><p>The correct answer: 2. The first time, and bear in mind, they are sitting NEXT TO A FRIEND on the other end of the pew...and could easily crawl over her, was weird. First DG1 crawled over, and then DGITB. They walked literally three feet ahead of our seats to stand in the aisle and whoo hoo for about four minutes. Then they came back and this time, DGITB tried to stride complete over me. </p><p>I think we all know that didn't go well. </p><p>He crashed into my knee and tromped on my arthritic toe...again.</p><p>DG1 was behind him this time and she leaned in a yelled "Sorry, I've never seen him up close!"</p><p>Yeah, I got news for you, honey. You still haven't. Three feet closer from where we were did NOT constitute "Up close."</p><p>At this point in the concert, Hubby's water bottle is empty. He leaves the auditorium to see if he can find a bubbler (water fountain, whatever) to refill (because, you know, the environment). While he's out, I get a case of the nervous knee. Now, anyone who's sat in a movie or a play with me will know what's happening here. I have these moments where I bounce one knee aggressively for several minutes. Most people can't stand it, which is why I often spend time at movies and plays standing in the back or in the doorway. Such was my problem at the concert. Since hubby wasn't around to annoy and DG1 and 2 and DGITB were all whoo hooing to another song, I bounced away.</p><p>But I forgot one big thing.</p><p>There was no bottle cap on my water bottle.</p><p>And the water bottle was on my bouncy knee.</p><p>That's right, friends...this time the drink that got dumped on me...was MINE!</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4EnPpjZ0DfAOeSvNQK9HDo6tb68P-hpB-5q2qBpyXNlfNj5s1WDjQACPK8okLu1x5lBMzEWkKQq6jzRSn5qibOPYylE8WkLgf5cGNv1aIO_lgbDHch9Y-FA6Jm-kYzDkF1KhycVsMgffOR-fSNn97rWs1hsKNWP9MijD9QBeYEQOMN3e_n5IkmcRe" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4EnPpjZ0DfAOeSvNQK9HDo6tb68P-hpB-5q2qBpyXNlfNj5s1WDjQACPK8okLu1x5lBMzEWkKQq6jzRSn5qibOPYylE8WkLgf5cGNv1aIO_lgbDHch9Y-FA6Jm-kYzDkF1KhycVsMgffOR-fSNn97rWs1hsKNWP9MijD9QBeYEQOMN3e_n5IkmcRe" width="320" /></a></div><br />So now I have a bouncy knee, a sore toe, and wet pants.<p></p><p>Which I have to explain to hubby when he returned. He enjoyed that.</p><p>Oh and no, he didn't find a bubbler, so I gave him what was left in my bottle of water. You know, I was all refreshed and crap after dumping half of it on myself.</p><p>So we're back to enjoying the concert and Mr. Mellencamp takes a moment to pause and tell us a tragic story about an encounter he had with a homeless person in Oregon. Here's how that went:</p><p><br /></p><p>Mellencamp: Story, story.</p><p>DG2: AWW!</p><p>Mellencamp: Story, story.</p><p>DG2: AWW! (louder)</p><p>Mellencamp: Story, story.</p><p>DG2: AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!</p><p>Mellencamp: Emotional point of the story.</p><p>DG2: ....</p><p>Guess she blew out her AWWWS too soon. What is that; "premature awwjectulation?"</p><p>Back to the concert, cuz we aren't even close to done.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYfVbq63tA3LQbYh9T33GtSr-t6lDfsruqirGEVtsNLuRrDjcM212l8AfYxaaGIVOYo-_YmbSprD8qeW7xW-it3_1B8y7DOXMwTPXBt0Ugfw4CnFv45ZKfn1CD6ejOxM2E4ipUpYXIUWv8ooH1DJ-CuD85ufN4EpvzbukdD0UD8DGU8GJAiCjRRz_B" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="498" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYfVbq63tA3LQbYh9T33GtSr-t6lDfsruqirGEVtsNLuRrDjcM212l8AfYxaaGIVOYo-_YmbSprD8qeW7xW-it3_1B8y7DOXMwTPXBt0Ugfw4CnFv45ZKfn1CD6ejOxM2E4ipUpYXIUWv8ooH1DJ-CuD85ufN4EpvzbukdD0UD8DGU8GJAiCjRRz_B" width="320" /></a></div><br />Now the Happy Time Trio decide it's time to leave the pew again. And did they leave via the on which they were sitting? OH NO THEY DID NOT! Holding hands this time (for balance, most likely) they dragged themselves past us (I opted to stand this time to try and save what was left of my knees and feet). I don't know where they went, but about then minutes later they returned, again, holding hands, and again shoving past us in the narrow pew spaces.<p></p><p>Yep, I was done. I needed to get out of the place and since he'd played "Jack and Diane" and "Scarecrow" I was good to miss a few other things. Like a cut from his new album. Don't really care for the new stuff. LOL</p><p>So I head out to the restrooms (more on TN restrooms in my next 5 for Friday) and upon returning to the theater, I opted to stand in the back. And that's where I found myself next to "Indian guy with heavy accent who either doesn't know he's got an accent or can't hear the concert going on around him as he's trying to start a full-on conversation with me."</p><p>"It's better here," he says.</p><p>"Yep." Says I.</p><p>Mellencamp starts in on "Gloria," which is an awesome concert tune and I wanted to sing along.</p><p>"They don't want you standing in the aisles," says he.</p><p>"Nope." Says I.</p><p>"My friends, they tell me to stay in the seat..."</p><p>"G-L-O!" Sings I (with the crowd).</p><p>"But I like to stand and be..."</p><p>"R-IIIIIIIIIIIIII" sings I (with the crowd).</p><p>"Back here where it's better." </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuUPpx33HOVONQZZwihQDjDdcAoQ7XCOrWitQhQcE0Tk1UQz9Y6DU9bzVXUQq69Tu0YlEfdl-QcVcg86lOohH4zfHU-4D3miJTnD5HqHiUX5USecSWPWhwOHFFvYfWoX9H0LyyYsl0A3KlLM0z_4CkjZuheg-WSuSIBxBlkqESkaZIrNqGXEoWJxUU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuUPpx33HOVONQZZwihQDjDdcAoQ7XCOrWitQhQcE0Tk1UQz9Y6DU9bzVXUQq69Tu0YlEfdl-QcVcg86lOohH4zfHU-4D3miJTnD5HqHiUX5USecSWPWhwOHFFvYfWoX9H0LyyYsl0A3KlLM0z_4CkjZuheg-WSuSIBxBlkqESkaZIrNqGXEoWJxUU" width="206" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>I mean...dude, read the room!</p><p>"G L O R I A!" Howl I along with the other concert goers. Except the guy next to me. Who seems to want to talk more.</p><p>So, I go back to the pew. And the rest of the concert is perfectly fine and lovely and fun. By the time we got out of the Ryman my pants were dry and Hubby was a happy guy.</p><p>And that's my trip to the Ryman to see John Mellencamp.</p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-17432584332089207872023-05-07T13:25:00.007-07:002023-05-07T13:25:58.746-07:00The Coronation from a (sassy) Colonist's viewpoint<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNrQjkCyZvoGywlnIkYTbafPYEvjFw9JhFrnX8V9ndlrHIc8CUziJgOyHx0G6tSCRNcP1dniCaiuQpFqsZSbadmV50JCkdLDJMWaAPq9-Nal91wriNHyxcEPvuFhzBs-VEPw5wZhlG6YD0D3NdM-M7IIKPgOVGWAV9r4SlxsYVzt1otlrhPDAV4Sq3" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="474" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNrQjkCyZvoGywlnIkYTbafPYEvjFw9JhFrnX8V9ndlrHIc8CUziJgOyHx0G6tSCRNcP1dniCaiuQpFqsZSbadmV50JCkdLDJMWaAPq9-Nal91wriNHyxcEPvuFhzBs-VEPw5wZhlG6YD0D3NdM-M7IIKPgOVGWAV9r4SlxsYVzt1otlrhPDAV4Sq3" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>The summer just before I turned 14, I got up at the super crack of dawn to watch a wedding on my parents' 19 inch Hitachi color TV. My 2 boy cousins and my brother and I gathered around that wheezy beast of a television to watch Prince Charles and Lady Diana get married. we got up early to watch it live, napped through the first rebroadcast, and then were awake again to watch the recap later in the day. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhI4QAFWQLGCNeTTRmCJ9Gz0TdMDuu7LHjJfJJ1SO-bhw5ofFahuiuS1j3_azX1Ra5f99Mn3tY17ju0d9NZcgL4EY6ic3pPXZ7bRwg57cnoEqFxqcSMBy0YTdoE-xlLyCNm-dhvwrqo0LfBaBA3Ms6mZLMcwbodaRebaYb6vwSnbpKQWUgeKw55hNrl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhI4QAFWQLGCNeTTRmCJ9Gz0TdMDuu7LHjJfJJ1SO-bhw5ofFahuiuS1j3_azX1Ra5f99Mn3tY17ju0d9NZcgL4EY6ic3pPXZ7bRwg57cnoEqFxqcSMBy0YTdoE-xlLyCNm-dhvwrqo0LfBaBA3Ms6mZLMcwbodaRebaYb6vwSnbpKQWUgeKw55hNrl" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It was a magnificent moment in the life of this little Midwestern girl, who, until the moment of that wedding, thought everything was like Wisconsin, America, and the President could be anyone, even a peanut farmer from Georgia. Maybe even me, if I got better at math, like my parents told me.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEig8kN-_OI204vFibqa5WNKTha1cFyy4VKaa4-URcv7E91mfgQ9aq--lXm7ktzj2BSyFYxLoNTZQjrtc9ey9_kBlQs8ELMKy_mF8L_gLLfwdgdFYFOegBYHizgjQISnp8eVId2EeQN8MQxk80LVMmDDOQeuvbpYFeAEKxyTotvpfHLtoLZ_jqLa91_4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="679" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEig8kN-_OI204vFibqa5WNKTha1cFyy4VKaa4-URcv7E91mfgQ9aq--lXm7ktzj2BSyFYxLoNTZQjrtc9ey9_kBlQs8ELMKy_mF8L_gLLfwdgdFYFOegBYHizgjQISnp8eVId2EeQN8MQxk80LVMmDDOQeuvbpYFeAEKxyTotvpfHLtoLZ_jqLa91_4" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Then I watched as people with interesting accents got married in a massive church and a lady, hardly more than 5 years older than I was, went from a regular person to a princess.</p><p>I was, on a certain level, deep in my all-American brain, hooked on the royal family.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1jexKz0sLD8FnRAHKExPxr8KP_QO02UaPj9YbTOTwvx59y5UKnzNCrTshCDzi7RSeLdFZQe4ZzGHojvXI4tMGHkA_Ar90FUXHKIGW76vFbMVwfgwWuud7M0EiuQaIXQLaXg3VSyzTg7b2J0BLXtAtyrKQicwJKHrCMlHA1ayNBLLoyJr2YUTHChst" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="833" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1jexKz0sLD8FnRAHKExPxr8KP_QO02UaPj9YbTOTwvx59y5UKnzNCrTshCDzi7RSeLdFZQe4ZzGHojvXI4tMGHkA_Ar90FUXHKIGW76vFbMVwfgwWuud7M0EiuQaIXQLaXg3VSyzTg7b2J0BLXtAtyrKQicwJKHrCMlHA1ayNBLLoyJr2YUTHChst" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Since 1981, through scandals and divorces and all manner of nonsense, the British Royal family became, and again I can only speak for myself, less of a wondrous mystery and ideal, and more of a head scratcher. I watched Andrew and Fergie get married, and then not married. I watched the travails of Princess Diana and the treachery of Prince Charles (who by the time I was in my early twenties was no longer a Prince Charming, but more like an elephant eared dummy who would rather sleep with a leathery hag than the beautiful princess to whom he was married. Oh yeah, I had some serious thoughts and opinions about Camilla.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSTq3bv04VKd02y4pKaURb0zFKVK-kXHtpcPxWf4ET1tbnXfPCsXpt5b3ZMPreS1e4RtW0EndBJmmoS18XEpWtaW_Y1Dg-46xg4ju4X61_uB7v_Ty-PtKUro1y9dIYzoAslcuPPXfqqxc19zGUFRezd8p2PzCShW3u34tly4BB5MwytV2TeUXi-SPl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="450" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSTq3bv04VKd02y4pKaURb0zFKVK-kXHtpcPxWf4ET1tbnXfPCsXpt5b3ZMPreS1e4RtW0EndBJmmoS18XEpWtaW_Y1Dg-46xg4ju4X61_uB7v_Ty-PtKUro1y9dIYzoAslcuPPXfqqxc19zGUFRezd8p2PzCShW3u34tly4BB5MwytV2TeUXi-SPl" width="193" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Like most Americans, while the Royal family has become something of a quasi-soap opera/freak show, I still held Queen Elizabeth II with some affection and respect. Even more so when I got completely and hopelessly hooked on Netflix's "The Crown." Who doesn't love that show? I mean, besides a number of British celebrities, most of whom are probably salty because they weren't invited to be IN "The Crown."</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihe3vXiXDwK9wx8g8KrSTOA_FWEl8Y7hMDpcUa7Hgda1QfJ9iJI38W4R6bu7dhWFj1n5uSPnMY9ggSvulKea_Z4pXV4DaCIKzweVTWAwlsdj57-oQhjdiayFcU768zvTUcQIAogv4WFtZZrAxTSbL6y7B5cBNtRXWb5C-zlFr4S90Z05rMaCy_-3wn" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2880" data-original-width="2160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihe3vXiXDwK9wx8g8KrSTOA_FWEl8Y7hMDpcUa7Hgda1QfJ9iJI38W4R6bu7dhWFj1n5uSPnMY9ggSvulKea_Z4pXV4DaCIKzweVTWAwlsdj57-oQhjdiayFcU768zvTUcQIAogv4WFtZZrAxTSbL6y7B5cBNtRXWb5C-zlFr4S90Z05rMaCy_-3wn" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry Dame Judi Dench, no "CROWN" for you!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>And my opinion of Charles, as we went through the death of Diana and his subsequent marriage to Camilla, continued to slide.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvzn3k9zxyJt19p4FCEnCy6i6tKJXH48xW1bxbjda7K0v4fylMjJ718JfntpZ6u7rLjU5oGgKkt9IrB6AsICtly01au9TELNpSAJxabU9_f946Ae8EZf-fTp3f6DJ_jnv5SZvjRhY9V85mbwde3QmCAyWFZiNMHKqqweDO2QZTungwE0hSa3FbIu-2" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="700" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvzn3k9zxyJt19p4FCEnCy6i6tKJXH48xW1bxbjda7K0v4fylMjJ718JfntpZ6u7rLjU5oGgKkt9IrB6AsICtly01au9TELNpSAJxabU9_f946Ae8EZf-fTp3f6DJ_jnv5SZvjRhY9V85mbwde3QmCAyWFZiNMHKqqweDO2QZTungwE0hSa3FbIu-2" width="280" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh I know...like we Americans have so much smarter leaders...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I'll admit it. I've watched every documentary I can get my hands on regarding THE ABDICATION, every movie and TV series dealing with QE II, and really anything with a British accent. Thusly, when yesterday's coronation of King Charles III popped up on my telly schedule, I was ABSOLUTELY getting up to watch that thing live. Only this time, I was going to do it properly: On my 60 inch flat screen with stereo sound. Yeah, "Zadok the Priest" really booms out of those subwoofers, let me tell you!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cGl8L9MISdk" width="320" youtube-src-id="cGl8L9MISdk"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Anyway, what I'm getting to is I got up early, although not early enough because I'm old and I know about replays and recaps now, to watch the Coronation and I have a handful of thoughts.</p><p><br /></p><p>1) Bishop of Canterbery says WHAT?</p><p><br /></p><p>I was watching this Bishop guy talk and honestly, I wasn't listening all that closely because, well, i was looking at this woman:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixpERXCLDWnkJKu2ibKDOgI3Ba8reuiT2JL0Ia-SI27EpzUqQ8YFxm4rTNlYQjhs_RsKbs1IN5ttXZrsF4FXqgWjC3xZR30R_WqzLk4Gkip8UGGi1HKzZ_6ufK16ArlypB1iaoJoFJsgsXklDekriPkVgeXJJ8_g8dJlHLMJukj55ZBwZ5BoFUVM84" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixpERXCLDWnkJKu2ibKDOgI3Ba8reuiT2JL0Ia-SI27EpzUqQ8YFxm4rTNlYQjhs_RsKbs1IN5ttXZrsF4FXqgWjC3xZR30R_WqzLk4Gkip8UGGi1HKzZ_6ufK16ArlypB1iaoJoFJsgsXklDekriPkVgeXJJ8_g8dJlHLMJukj55ZBwZ5BoFUVM84" width="320" /></a></div>I mean...wowser. Look at her!<p></p><p><br /></p><p>Anyway, when I snapped my attention back to the Archbishop, it was actually a voiceover from a British commentator who said, "And there the Bishop compared the crown of King Charles to that of to the crown of thorns of Christ."</p><p><br /></p><p>Say what now? The crown of Christ...the crown of thorns. Even most non Christians have a working knowledge of the suffering and death of Christ and how the Romans beat a literal crown of sharp thorns into his skull. Is my lord archbishop REALLY comparing that to the gold encrusted headpiece Charlie boy had to wear for like half an hour and NOT ONE PERSON took a smack at him?</p><p>Well, this woman looks like she might:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglOZnuRKX6q8r1BoSnNZ22kR_nwzb5ePPS6CmQTjYtv481x9h3Hn2Q9CeiKXJU3zKJwHkNv_Cl2hi7jFY_QDztsAvwHpVfNUj6f5PEbFwgC5VQK6d2AxjmhHaW3YykcJa_hpfp2E6WapKs9B2JZcBv6XmwQ4ldPTKLR3alFqJH9pPwLokDIMu41MlJ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglOZnuRKX6q8r1BoSnNZ22kR_nwzb5ePPS6CmQTjYtv481x9h3Hn2Q9CeiKXJU3zKJwHkNv_Cl2hi7jFY_QDztsAvwHpVfNUj6f5PEbFwgC5VQK6d2AxjmhHaW3YykcJa_hpfp2E6WapKs9B2JZcBv6XmwQ4ldPTKLR3alFqJH9pPwLokDIMu41MlJ" width="320" /></a></div><br />I looked up the Archbishops sermon. Here's an excerpt.<p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;"><i>And the weight of the task given today, Your Majesties, is only bearable by the Spirit of God, who gives us the strength to give our lives to others.</i></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><i>This is promised by Jesus who put aside all privilege, because, as the first reading tells us, God will give all things for our sake, even His own life. </i></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><i>His throne was a Cross. His crown was made of thorns. His regalia were the wounds that pierced his body.</i></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">okay, and Charles' is a crown of gold and velvet and his regalia is a crap ton of gold swords and rings and a gold cloak. So, you know, same thing, EXACTLY, as Jesus. You betcha.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">2) Don't they have anything, you know, NOT USED?</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">We get it. American history doesn't begin to hold a candle to the reach of other countries. And we also get it, the Brits do love their museum pieces. I mean, take a look at their new, fresh faced king and queen:</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSX8d037HQlQFCk4OJIeYlhZR5xP-j1GGvyv5jWlZJUjGeX2dgVM9kLNboXM-K21dnFNREXr3FN2vKNWgDO9TSoSMemT__EWLX6qnvUGoe_DZQZUGAXzxfuVoWHTEly4MkbE7UwCEQil0yejfF_oaqc5foVz4fa7D9WmtreelMOlADtYiIIsb8bI0i" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSX8d037HQlQFCk4OJIeYlhZR5xP-j1GGvyv5jWlZJUjGeX2dgVM9kLNboXM-K21dnFNREXr3FN2vKNWgDO9TSoSMemT__EWLX6qnvUGoe_DZQZUGAXzxfuVoWHTEly4MkbE7UwCEQil0yejfF_oaqc5foVz4fa7D9WmtreelMOlADtYiIIsb8bI0i" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Camilla, dearest, I'm peckish. Is it time for supper?"<br />"Almost. It's 2PM."<br />"Oh lovely. I hope we'll be done with this in time for the early bird special at the Royal Diner."</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> My question is, could there have been something, literally ANYTHING that wasn't pre-18th century? I mean, the robe they put charles in, that stiff gold thing, that predated the Magna Charta! Here in the States, we got NOTHIN' close to that age. I mean, Our last couple presidents have been close...</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">the coronation chair is 700 years old. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi72-jIlw6cmW3WsILvZhapxMiamxhISmJtPfywtVaR-nCvGqovXrUYDplZAm5wIZNsyrLhyRvZTD53rYlHMz5DY-kzpX2mzXAA0PSXxbg76Jj1gBxRvlro65geffvYxdbVlYHNthykhA3VYNJADZKws_rUfN3ZF9QEnPWr5Fk3vH4PvbqGC1QFRz_j" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi72-jIlw6cmW3WsILvZhapxMiamxhISmJtPfywtVaR-nCvGqovXrUYDplZAm5wIZNsyrLhyRvZTD53rYlHMz5DY-kzpX2mzXAA0PSXxbg76Jj1gBxRvlro65geffvYxdbVlYHNthykhA3VYNJADZKws_rUfN3ZF9QEnPWr5Fk3vH4PvbqGC1QFRz_j" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">They said there was something called the Stone of Destiny...from Scotland.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">I was ready for that to be all studded out with glitz and whatnot like everything else. Nope: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg57nFNIOxxF18rSxMfg2tv6Kvup8rzfgJECurM2HpAwcDyUnma7X73vVD3T1-vO8oreAYGE2FSd2gbb2eXEW2AvLIt4IjQcMhTq6Dc23JsCSwK9pqwG-OP6G8UTjCN3DU4BkVQ_3XZSRqMkz9R4WzurJPfOGl3yz_H4zQg3WLWSPm4SRGeByVtmB_H" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg57nFNIOxxF18rSxMfg2tv6Kvup8rzfgJECurM2HpAwcDyUnma7X73vVD3T1-vO8oreAYGE2FSd2gbb2eXEW2AvLIt4IjQcMhTq6Dc23JsCSwK9pqwG-OP6G8UTjCN3DU4BkVQ_3XZSRqMkz9R4WzurJPfOGl3yz_H4zQg3WLWSPm4SRGeByVtmB_H" width="320" /></a></div> But what can you expect? That's been around for British coronations since 1296. And prior to that, for Scottish coronations. Americans, well the best we can do is a broken bell stuck in Philadelphia.<p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCABbF79bt0HCEHERLVpFVK9y6wPGdJzOGfgRwdCisI7CD06fQGPHAMRAr1CG-zykAu10ZvqNiUmvhZMIXryHYNUN3FH5VqDVAoAVwRPe-NHkbXe4Gt_sCedQgo29MU4TY9bK3IkNczB8bJLmKggwUs7T_C3z73Z8ykXjgiKZZXiuvkvNe_x4cf6kf" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="304" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCABbF79bt0HCEHERLVpFVK9y6wPGdJzOGfgRwdCisI7CD06fQGPHAMRAr1CG-zykAu10ZvqNiUmvhZMIXryHYNUN3FH5VqDVAoAVwRPe-NHkbXe4Gt_sCedQgo29MU4TY9bK3IkNczB8bJLmKggwUs7T_C3z73Z8ykXjgiKZZXiuvkvNe_x4cf6kf" width="157" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King Edwards chair and the stone of destiny. Not the way I'd decorate, but whatever.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />3) Did they just build what I think they did?</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">okay, having watched "The Crown" I was curious as to whether or not we, the great unwashed, would get to see the anointing of Charles. You know the part where this guy who's been waiting to get this job since birth finally gets it, but first has to come in touch with the divine and transform into something other than what he is?</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">Spoiler...we didn't get to see it.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">What we DID get to see what the King was undressed in front of everyone, right down to the white night sure ala early Ichabod Crane and then they built what looking like a very fancy OUTHOUSE around him.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaA_wAob7ibi20srou18ObzX938Lgu-RT7GZCeUr5IfeFNWI1DdKkDRSexplqnoamnEy5NW6aTIS2zWVEkIfzFUUd2q8BtihxsTXQ-DXV4QRel6wABcBJP36X__PbGKwXpj0uUVfJuaiFPzVRhHhe91QgI_f3FjhK3967nNU1D3SEweJY0xDnILNYq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaA_wAob7ibi20srou18ObzX938Lgu-RT7GZCeUr5IfeFNWI1DdKkDRSexplqnoamnEy5NW6aTIS2zWVEkIfzFUUd2q8BtihxsTXQ-DXV4QRel6wABcBJP36X__PbGKwXpj0uUVfJuaiFPzVRhHhe91QgI_f3FjhK3967nNU1D3SEweJY0xDnILNYq" width="320" /></a></div><br />Okay, I get this is a serious ceremony and it's all religious and also mythical. But I'm telling you, this looked for all the world like the King had to potty and the guys in red were super prepared for just that thing.<p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">I looked back at pictures of QE II's coronation. She got to wear a nice, well fitted dress. Granted, she was 50 years younger than Charles is now. But still. The best they could do was that night shirt? Oh, wait, was it some holy night sure of St. Felix or something?</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">Fun fact, Camilla also got annointed. But right out there in public. No potty time for her. Once again...the woman has to hold it while all the world's a toilet for the guys.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">4) Screw Elizabeth, it's the wild west here now.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">So, some of you have been following the whole Harry/Megan drama. Why the Royals haven't learned that getting married to a divorced American always results in exile to another country is beyond me. Anyway, Harry went to his pop's coronation. Megs did not. And Harry was a good boy and didn't wear the big fur robe with all the bows.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">Unlike Uncle Andrew. </p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;">Ah yes, if you're really following the Royals, you know that Prince Andrew is a big old disgrace on a level that made his divorce from Fergie look like really excellent behavior. Such was his level of disgrace that QE II banned him from wearing any uniforms or fur robes. And Charles also mentioned to his brother that he really should stay out of the fur robes because he's a complete menace and really should be in jail. (Andrew, not Charles.)</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgy4avdaQmWRko2Roev_A3bVx5mSmKI7hqszJdyhwydm5OuBx70lY691_LGgQxZltzxQBBFzH6QpWIell8vuaqoCIicw6wkyJL3H2t8DDwFEthsVsYt5tNHCepxTj-1bQVb5_m-_FuEFdCmKf7AqaGGor54mah93nbbsaJeEjCX3WB_qRHlTG5N3AhA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="474" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgy4avdaQmWRko2Roev_A3bVx5mSmKI7hqszJdyhwydm5OuBx70lY691_LGgQxZltzxQBBFzH6QpWIell8vuaqoCIicw6wkyJL3H2t8DDwFEthsVsYt5tNHCepxTj-1bQVb5_m-_FuEFdCmKf7AqaGGor54mah93nbbsaJeEjCX3WB_qRHlTG5N3AhA" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">Yeah, so there the disgraceful prince is...on the left, and WHAT IS HE WEARING? A BIG OLD ROBE WITH BOWS ON IT!</span></span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">So, King Charles should probably be yelling at his brother. Except here's the thing: Charles spent a big part of the day stomping on his recently deceased mother's wishes too.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">Oh yeah, did you notice? Camilla, the woman who was NEVER supposed to be queen, got into QE II's good books right there at the end and Elizabeth said she could be named QUEEN CONSORT. You know, like Prince Phillip languished his whole life as a Prince Consort. Never crowned. Never given that level of deference and respect. And that dude WORKED for it all the time!</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">But no. Camilla, she didn't produce an heir, she didn't do heavy royal work until she was old. She didn't do ANYTHING other than cheat on her husband and she gets "Queen Consort" from the queen.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">And then the queen dies and the first thing her big eared, namby pamby of his royal dorkiness does is NAME HER QUEEN. Not consort. Nope. QUEEN.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">So, she gets oiled and crowned and now she's HER MAJESTY.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">Somewhere Phillip is losing his crap all over again.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">5) Best part of it all, besides the horses?</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">okay I loved all the horses and the marching. Seriously. That was cool. But do you know what the very best part of the whole coronation was? </span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">No, not betting whether or not those two AARP members were going to make it down the aisle with their heavy headgear. And no, not hoping against hope that this chick:</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8PhAfRtLqMO0XOyz7jncGYwbM8L4CUvd95tYLeCxR-OqG_gpg6SChyEOsuU5UucoDgMs6E9RwF9gvBeWUy4rCqfkjIL18ww1JMB1Qi7IfLlyYoshgkU_5621nwdM7VTCPe_5ScHXUOCrPMzXssWVaz8dzUbq5N_-c0dFk8FfRnRBesEMZx-p88A3t" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8PhAfRtLqMO0XOyz7jncGYwbM8L4CUvd95tYLeCxR-OqG_gpg6SChyEOsuU5UucoDgMs6E9RwF9gvBeWUy4rCqfkjIL18ww1JMB1Qi7IfLlyYoshgkU_5621nwdM7VTCPe_5ScHXUOCrPMzXssWVaz8dzUbq5N_-c0dFk8FfRnRBesEMZx-p88A3t" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><br />would please GOD cleave someone in half. No, the best part of the coronation was this kid:</span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinZj4Q0ZhsGwEFqswwdP9OkUmlKEyRstWnDgM0-GSycDzHM5ylnlCHRGKAvzq1I-UvXsxjsWl4R0GglC9UyTXA0cO8tPhnojxt9pZBZJfwdWTeKNVkpMoBw9xbqD-zX0J0ml6IC1gjzeVbCsdSdsubJEq92BAI4k-xD4YWL4MT9ts3iOovb3lM7Zjw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinZj4Q0ZhsGwEFqswwdP9OkUmlKEyRstWnDgM0-GSycDzHM5ylnlCHRGKAvzq1I-UvXsxjsWl4R0GglC9UyTXA0cO8tPhnojxt9pZBZJfwdWTeKNVkpMoBw9xbqD-zX0J0ml6IC1gjzeVbCsdSdsubJEq92BAI4k-xD4YWL4MT9ts3iOovb3lM7Zjw" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">Four year old Prince Louis. I know he's the second son and the third kid and way far down the charts, but I love him and he needs to be at EVERY SINGLE royal event forever. I can't wait to see him as he grows up into an irreverent teen. Now, the good news is Kate is a level headed Normal, so he's got a shot of not becoming a freak show or marrying a basket case American Actress who can't get with the program and just be a princess. Time will tell. In the meantime, his facial expressions are EVERYTHING!</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Open Sans, calibri, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px;">So that's it. Those are my little thoughts on the coronation. Given Charles' advanced age, and how grossly swollen his hands looked yesterday, I'm guessing we'll have another one of these in a couple years. Can't wait to see what William does with that million year old robe!</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: "Open Sans", calibri, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0.225px; margin-bottom: 1.25rem; margin-top: 0px;"><br /></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-72899473711925888582023-04-12T10:21:00.001-07:002023-04-12T10:21:30.863-07:00These are the thoughts in Sarah's head. <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYyOgt_kkZckoAEUT7oBskOet4sPLJdIwsB8sPvzt4qL2hcRU50CGPEjZEenxl84JHIYZCxznfkfPQyZFPb9VzPOFLWR096l8ELAVyAW5OwZV4Twj5p5SHiIxF8ZMe80jxZNsmvKMkxXzagBrJPESuPBwpjn0oeGNCu3XMGT_z79ZzUceFu1s4lWM-" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="720" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYyOgt_kkZckoAEUT7oBskOet4sPLJdIwsB8sPvzt4qL2hcRU50CGPEjZEenxl84JHIYZCxznfkfPQyZFPb9VzPOFLWR096l8ELAVyAW5OwZV4Twj5p5SHiIxF8ZMe80jxZNsmvKMkxXzagBrJPESuPBwpjn0oeGNCu3XMGT_z79ZzUceFu1s4lWM-" width="320" /></a></div>Good morning!<p></p><p><br /></p><p>It's been a minute since I've done a proper blog about the ridiculousness of life and there's a good reason: my life just stopped being ridiculous.</p><p>Skippy and Hubby have been picking up their meds at the pharmacy on their own, so I'm not standing in line for that. In fact, I'm not standing in line for much anymore. So...no great stories about how insane people are standing in line. That was what, like 70% of my blogs?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxJge3xySW5IngxxyCJyh2NN7oJC1a3anLKgqG6cYuJDS4chCB-YaFojvg8ef4AQbZhFpnRBPFHob__7YBKFRadRxDi4NBvxBPIzG4VPEDN3GNKnjtU09ptHkijoRpfbv55tlJV29AsyUB5fyURcjfNb4m4rbqFDIG2ebotn71ah44WSIen2dM_K5i" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="746" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxJge3xySW5IngxxyCJyh2NN7oJC1a3anLKgqG6cYuJDS4chCB-YaFojvg8ef4AQbZhFpnRBPFHob__7YBKFRadRxDi4NBvxBPIzG4VPEDN3GNKnjtU09ptHkijoRpfbv55tlJV29AsyUB5fyURcjfNb4m4rbqFDIG2ebotn71ah44WSIen2dM_K5i" width="241" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>I started a job here at Stuff, Recovered, back in October, and I work part time at the moment so it's taken me a few months to get into the groove of the quirks of this company and the rest of the building we're in. And oh yes, there are quirks.</p><p>I'm not going to get into all the quirks, but it's been interesting, because our office suite is at the end of the line of a number of townhouse type office suites. I see all the cars come in and out. I see everyone go get their mail. And, best of all, I know exactly who is getting lunch at the Cousins' subs across the street.</p><p>More about that later.</p><p>Today I wanted to share a handful of random thoughts I've had in the last half hour. No explanation. Just the thoughts. Draw your own conclusions.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>In the absence of actual job stress, I'm pretty sure I create my own, just for fun.</b></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4ymKDkDZL_f_YEUvkso3YRJpqyD3cO1UUjahL6FJJf9puc47iWH1PBMQMysTe1f1Gk89bFD0W1WjQI1Q-GCUan3J-7GxD4SePpxJALbbzXcGoDduvYLkuNzMf46LwlP7w9Q4vCw5cKXDz4GH6W50g7NZoOCgzdlwRTBbNaprlVuOfqDgtfUcepQEK" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="5000" data-original-width="6581" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4ymKDkDZL_f_YEUvkso3YRJpqyD3cO1UUjahL6FJJf9puc47iWH1PBMQMysTe1f1Gk89bFD0W1WjQI1Q-GCUan3J-7GxD4SePpxJALbbzXcGoDduvYLkuNzMf46LwlP7w9Q4vCw5cKXDz4GH6W50g7NZoOCgzdlwRTBbNaprlVuOfqDgtfUcepQEK" width="316" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><b>This is the tenth time I've picked up my coffee cup to drink, and it's empty. What do I think, Jesus has somehow put more coffee in the cup when I wasn't looking? Or maybe Jesus is watching me, trying to get coffee out of an empty cup, and He's up there, in heaven, drinking coffee from a full cup, and laughing at me.</b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNCiRqr1mDZ800TdvrMKg30PX-xTAf0p-Sfqu1a_PxyD3eZneWmiZgUliQRJv1xJQv0dSACJFzo45TDQD7DOlUQToTA1ukx81214gHtVz9M8K2DxosXmG_c9NHP32aPCwsGIIFtREGNuvXnj0gk36Syzavq_A7TneDnwXFfueeDXMLqGHpcNz-cv5I" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="300" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNCiRqr1mDZ800TdvrMKg30PX-xTAf0p-Sfqu1a_PxyD3eZneWmiZgUliQRJv1xJQv0dSACJFzo45TDQD7DOlUQToTA1ukx81214gHtVz9M8K2DxosXmG_c9NHP32aPCwsGIIFtREGNuvXnj0gk36Syzavq_A7TneDnwXFfueeDXMLqGHpcNz-cv5I" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br /><br /></b><p></p><p><b>Do I really like coffee, or do I like coffee memes so much I drink something every single day that I don't actually like? </b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtpCSwiKNvbtDn9dZS2rqkvvi9Uw6s1zvGEKQsJ4ONolynpsfziagSkQRSumvQGh25UIZ7EgXtWaF6Sq_VyoIP6JrUWI2ibEdWkfdwREGzL1ae1ipMMpFIvpyMOhVK5eSrrvxFcD6K_QKVbyxA1FwtuyFNGB_dXtajMVMjn6szoigksdBIltEz91xt" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="3840" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtpCSwiKNvbtDn9dZS2rqkvvi9Uw6s1zvGEKQsJ4ONolynpsfziagSkQRSumvQGh25UIZ7EgXtWaF6Sq_VyoIP6JrUWI2ibEdWkfdwREGzL1ae1ipMMpFIvpyMOhVK5eSrrvxFcD6K_QKVbyxA1FwtuyFNGB_dXtajMVMjn6szoigksdBIltEz91xt" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br /><br /></b><p></p><p><b>I just found out today that the people outside my office window can see me staring at them. Will this stop me from staring? </b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixbn0ARk9qHCyLnOJNx3BVbc3NRiiOpWS10dzf77-9u8ez1G2ngBrqsyzE76PB3FwHDyroQ_WVDYOsFHhi3Gth2bExrdZkvKErP5YUcK0htVI-SCSpikC54Uc8fy1aRUb-OPMQ4ZotcW47W-mj3CZa7Hy2whKjvySwp1bR3P-amf_0oLVentNN0HBL" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="700" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixbn0ARk9qHCyLnOJNx3BVbc3NRiiOpWS10dzf77-9u8ez1G2ngBrqsyzE76PB3FwHDyroQ_WVDYOsFHhi3Gth2bExrdZkvKErP5YUcK0htVI-SCSpikC54Uc8fy1aRUb-OPMQ4ZotcW47W-mj3CZa7Hy2whKjvySwp1bR3P-amf_0oLVentNN0HBL" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br />Do the people in my building really like Cousins Subs or do they use it as a excuse to walk past my window and taunt me with their food while I eat my sad home made sandwich?</b><p></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAMFAqRg6rYIC-kxktsz17GmIceJULXA7R9wZUhV3LIkI0MgL3irObPwsoqQXOQTFvuC47cxYo3Qj55_nc72gzpjDsFwLy8frBXb46Av9HOKrjDHkqxH5VMmNPPG7rS8HFCXGav7wMu3l9O064GV7NUiA4NLPvFTLR351fS2k4dKA-AE9qkA3smvVc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAMFAqRg6rYIC-kxktsz17GmIceJULXA7R9wZUhV3LIkI0MgL3irObPwsoqQXOQTFvuC47cxYo3Qj55_nc72gzpjDsFwLy8frBXb46Av9HOKrjDHkqxH5VMmNPPG7rS8HFCXGav7wMu3l9O064GV7NUiA4NLPvFTLR351fS2k4dKA-AE9qkA3smvVc" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><br />I just took another drink from my empty cup. Seriously.</b><p></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p>There. That's my last half hour of work. So...enjoy that...</p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-76033635173973636162023-04-07T07:01:00.007-07:002023-04-07T07:02:25.874-07:00FIVE FOR FRIDAY! (EASTER EDITION!)<p> <span style="text-align: center;">This post was previously published on April 19, 2019.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMY08MkcZ_NGNBKyJLSwK6EsOi9Qs7Dq5wGfqvhLRE2C7dNTGEeYjsXTbAO1ChQkF4Rs4JNK9Aui1QTwUuKZG8bhVjjNXcEL1bEn1ySM2VAd75ZCx20onAtEG1WsWYHutTl6K9u09WU3E/s1600/5forFriday.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="650" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMY08MkcZ_NGNBKyJLSwK6EsOi9Qs7Dq5wGfqvhLRE2C7dNTGEeYjsXTbAO1ChQkF4Rs4JNK9Aui1QTwUuKZG8bhVjjNXcEL1bEn1ySM2VAd75ZCx20onAtEG1WsWYHutTl6K9u09WU3E/s320/5forFriday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Good morning all!<br /><br />So Sunday is Easter, which means if you celebrate Easter, you're probably spending a good part of today looking for that bottle of white vinegar that you "KNOW" you bought last year for egg coloring.<br /><br />Easter, possibly more than most holidays, has some odd traditions. Much like chili recipes, holiday traditions vary from family to family and I'm sure it's no shock that my family has some distinct, odd, ways to celebrate our risen Savior. (Because, remember, Easter is a religious celebration...which makes the whole rabbit thing a head scratcher for me.)<br /><br />Here are my family's top 5 Easter traditions:<br /><br /><b><u>5) Sunrise Church</u></b><br /><b></b><u></u><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9uXSr6vTbnw4fCqxif8QSffKbdprwt-bQCl10165ukT9zNVOxGSJmJUVMjPB2PyCG4GRvwgn6QD1cjpZwpFR87yHNMWrZlWZBwzQ3x1OkSQ1jlJNt0fBj61dVXgHmenLWYLsOiLEOvc/s1600/mrbeanasleepinchruch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9uXSr6vTbnw4fCqxif8QSffKbdprwt-bQCl10165ukT9zNVOxGSJmJUVMjPB2PyCG4GRvwgn6QD1cjpZwpFR87yHNMWrZlWZBwzQ3x1OkSQ1jlJNt0fBj61dVXgHmenLWYLsOiLEOvc/s320/mrbeanasleepinchruch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I understand that Lent is the season of preparation and sacrifice. And I also understand that those of us who give things up for Lent are eager to get a jump on eating/drinking/doing whatever it is we gave up. That said, who came up with Easter Sunrise Service?<br /><br />For those of you not familiar, this is the Easter practice where the first service (and most popular) of Easter Sunday typical kicks off at some ungodly hour, like 6 AM. Or maybe 7 AM (when I was a teacher in a parochial school, the pastor said, "Sunrise can happen at any time in the rest of the world, but here sunrise is 7 AM.") Either way, it's early. EARLY. My earliest and most vivid memories of Easter involve NOT getting watch "Emergency" the night before (because it aired at 8 PM and that would keep us kids up until 9 PM EST and getting us up for 6 AM church would then be impossible. So we actually wound up going to bed when it was still light out. Oh yeah, we fell asleep RIGHT AWAY. Also, my parents took that extra time to hide the eggs. And, since we weren't asleep, there was a lot of yelling. But I'll get to that later.) Also, getting up that early, my mother was not...at her best. Not a coffee drinker, my mother could only rely on her natural energy to get her into a day. Prepping two kids for church at 5 AM (Because my parents sang in the choir, we had to be there even earlier) my mom had a tendency to be a touch...um...grumpy. Heaven help my brother and me if we inadvertently found an Easter egg while gulping down a bowl of cereal. That would ignite a howl from my mother. "STOP LOOKING FOR EGGS WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE FOR CHURCH!"<br /><br />Of course, once I was a parent, I was no better on this point. I joined the church choir, we dragged our kids to that Sunrise service. In fact, this year will be the FIRST TIME in my life I'm not going to a Sunrise service. Nope, the church I go to right now has a 10:15 service and I'll be bright eyed and bushy tailed for that!<br /><br /><b><u>4) Hiding the eggs</u></b><br /><b><u><br /></u></b>My father is a man of numbers and stats. He loves keeping exact time on all of his clocks. He makes lists. He ranks baseball and football teams according to power rankings. No, not the ranking the leagues give the teams, his own algorithm. He is the reason I know what time it is in almost every country in the world, because time zones are very important to him.<br /><br />And it was this attention to fact tracking and stats that made our Easter egg hunts so...horrible.<br /><br />See, my parents would hide a random number of eggs each year. And we had a limited time to find them. We had roughly forty minutes to find our eggs and baskets between the time we got home from church and the time we had to load into the car for the drive from Michigan to Wisconsin to see relatives for the long school vacation.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzF1i5YPqBjcGZflkBxiibSxVB2CYpOnw6kwLVxez2PqeME2T0ckmJ7ByJixG7ByoUmPgembbn2xeFzL03hnSGPN3OqLyag617hKFWc0pZp9DZRC28Svh2s7U-Wmcxmla4Pw2nR5ueHm4/s1600/sadeasterhunt.jpg" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-size: 16px; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="399" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzF1i5YPqBjcGZflkBxiibSxVB2CYpOnw6kwLVxez2PqeME2T0ckmJ7ByJixG7ByoUmPgembbn2xeFzL03hnSGPN3OqLyag617hKFWc0pZp9DZRC28Svh2s7U-Wmcxmla4Pw2nR5ueHm4/s320/sadeasterhunt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Not knowing how many eggs we had to find was one thing. Little kids don't care. But the real torment came when we'd find several eggs and both our baskets and we were ready to dive into the candy when my father would say, "You have three more eggs to find." He'd be standing there, all tall (He's 6'4") with his CLIPBOARD on which was a list of eggs and where they'd hidden them.<br /><br />This could go on for anywhere up to an hour. Which would mean we'd be late getting our start on our trip. Which would anger my mother for reasons I still don't understand. It's not like she was ever going to drive the car on that trip from Flint, MI to Jefferson, WI. That was a drive that took 8 hours and forced us through Chicago...the place Midwesterners all hate to drive. ("Did you get stuck in Chicago?" "Oh no, I went around Chicago.")<br /><br />Oh, and also we weren't allowed to touch the candy in our basket until we'd found all the eggs. Since our mother was anti-sugar, candy was something we didn't see more than 2x per year: Halloween and Easter.<br /><br />Yep, there we were, my mother furious that we were late, my brother and me screaming because we couldn't find the eggs, and my father, the always calm man, with his clip board telling us, "You have four more eggs to find."<br /><br />This would ultimately fire off a random ransacking of the house. We'd dig through the flour and sugar bins, yank thinks out of the fridge, turn over furniture. Meanwhile, my mother would be sitting in a chair, exhausted and cranky, muttering something about leaving the house for a week looking like animals lived there. Every few minutes she'd yell, "Dennis, just tell them where the eggs are!" And he'd say, "Then they don't get the candy in their basket." And we'd yell, "NO, WE WILL FIND THE EGGS!"<br /><br />Sure, we found the eggs. Failure was not an option, since we were promised that any egg we didn't find we'd have to eat once we got back from Wisconsin.<br /><br />When I was ten we moved from Michigan to Wisconsin and it was decided we were too old for Easter egg hunts. Doesn't seem quite fair to my younger brother, but I'm fairly certain that was a battle my mother won.<br /><br /><b><u>3) Church. Every. Single. Day.</u></b><br /><b><u><br /></u></b>Growing up devout Lutheran is not all that different from growing up any other religion if your parents are hard core about following the rules. That meant that Holy Week was church, church, and nothing but church for us.<br /><br />Lent already meant extra church on Wednesday nights. I didn't mind it so much when I was a kid because it meant a later bed time (I hated my 8 PM bed time from a very young age. I've always been a night owl.) and it meant donuts after church. I'm not sure who came up with this practice, but donuts, coffee, and being Lutheran is the second trinity just below Father/Son/Holy Ghost and just above, Casseroles/potlucks/free will offering baskets. (Yep, we Lutherans have a trinity of trinities.) Every Wednesday night during Lent we did church and then donuts. And there were two rooms for donuts: The adult room and the kid room. Generally my brother and I went to the adult room where my parents made an appearance, ate one donut, and then got us home before we got "too wound up" so we'd be in bed as close to 8 Pm as possible. (Honestly, my mother was militant about that bed time.) We BEGGED to go to the kid room. It seemed so...fun. So after years of listening to us whine about it, my parents let us hit the kid room.<br /><br />One time was all we needed. The games were fine, but they only let us have HALF A DONUT. HALF A DONUT? Nope, we were back in the adult room the next week.<br /><br />I digress. So after five weeks of extra church, we get to Holy Week...which is EXTRA EXTRA church. Palm Sunday. Maundy Thursday. Good Friday. Easter Sunday. (And, if you had it offered at your church, Saturday Vigil.) What kind of super torment was this for kids? And it wasn't like church is now when you could just go in the clothes you're wearing. Nope, you had CHURCH CLOTHES. This was especially awful on Good Friday because we had school for half a day, then church at noon and then we were off for a week. We had to wear our CHURCH CLOTHES to school with the command from Mom, "If you go out for recess and get these clothes dirty before church you're going to lose TV for a week." (That was her go-to punishment. It was very effective for me.) Now, the upside to going to a parochial school was that we weren't the only ones in church clothes on Good Friday. Nope, all the kids in my school showed up in church clothes and spent morning recess standing very still, not getting dirty.<br /><br />As a parent, yes, I did all the church services with the kids, because why wouldn't I? I was a bit looser on the whole "Church clothes" thing though. I believe God doesn't care what you look like as long as you're there. Although...no, we are a little lax with our mid week attendance. Okay, we're really lax.<br /><br /><u><b>2) The Easter Bunny </b></u><br /><u><b><br /></b></u>Um, we didn't do the Easter Bunny. Just like we didn't do Santa.<br /><br />To be fair, we only had one car, and we didn't live near a mall where there was an Easter Bunny. So the whole legend of the rabbit is not in my memory. Although...looking at these pics, I don't think I was missing much:<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgxAQbDTCWTuNsebqu2OzwxVS2fhyphenhyphenHjSZ_2BOS7DV19fYo0b3IygSeciLGWoal2btMZdY1IhD1H0sLn8SCjrmryf4yTjC4KmUktrCB1ZfgUug_Ac4DoyTf2sWYSunWhiSzrjlXmGU21E/s1600/bunnyterror2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgxAQbDTCWTuNsebqu2OzwxVS2fhyphenhyphenHjSZ_2BOS7DV19fYo0b3IygSeciLGWoal2btMZdY1IhD1H0sLn8SCjrmryf4yTjC4KmUktrCB1ZfgUug_Ac4DoyTf2sWYSunWhiSzrjlXmGU21E/s320/bunnyterror2.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoLr3TH8C5jSIbVzwBqVM_5bHqPnXnHyC6o8qsNYhxPy5_7zeXZ4Dybgr76ZbQtJFrCZp1OUdh9rrosviAnEkJqPqmZOUwvrPOzcQaSq5kMhxoZG5KfX8a6K0FW5hS4Hmpfo3NVT4nuI/s1600/bunnyterror3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="620" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoLr3TH8C5jSIbVzwBqVM_5bHqPnXnHyC6o8qsNYhxPy5_7zeXZ4Dybgr76ZbQtJFrCZp1OUdh9rrosviAnEkJqPqmZOUwvrPOzcQaSq5kMhxoZG5KfX8a6K0FW5hS4Hmpfo3NVT4nuI/s320/bunnyterror3.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><br />What...the...heck where people thinking? I saw the mall rabbit at our mall the other day and I thought, why do we do this? We tell kids, "Don't talk to strangers" and then we dump them on the lap of some mall employee in a costume?<br /><br />Which is why we, the Bradley family, have our own LEGEND OF THE NAUGHTY EASTER RODENT.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0i7Ou8_sBpcc877L_frNT0yqQACY4NkaTpFJOW2ocO6oSrgdo7sj9sql3gDu46aZI5C8seDYvqF95ue-fHNkLknn_cTM5iIPMoYzJ3XHT78Wh9hmRYFUF9uzAeibp06r9H41ttVdQ67o/s1600/bunnyterror1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0i7Ou8_sBpcc877L_frNT0yqQACY4NkaTpFJOW2ocO6oSrgdo7sj9sql3gDu46aZI5C8seDYvqF95ue-fHNkLknn_cTM5iIPMoYzJ3XHT78Wh9hmRYFUF9uzAeibp06r9H41ttVdQ67o/s1600/bunnyterror1.jpg" /></a>This started because, being poor folk like we are, if the kids wanted a specific pair of fancy shoes, we couldn't just buy them, they had to be for a special reason, like Easter. So each Easter Sunday, before sunrise church, I'd put the shoes boxes out in front of their rooms with the new shoes. The explanation was that the Naughty Easter Rodent had hidden our colored eggs and this was his way of saying, "Sorry." Then, when we got home from church, in the hour we had before we had to go to grandma's (sound familiar) we'd have to find the eggs and baskets.<br /><br />The tradition is now a bit simpler since the kids are adults. We don't do baskets anymore. Now we put shoe boxes on each chair around the dinner table. It's not candy and shoes anymore, it's small things like a DVD or maybe a jar of exotic honey Peaches wants for a baking project. Or that terrible candied ginger Hubby likes. But someday...someday I'm going to have grandkids. And then I will again share the full legend of the naughty Easter Rodent.<br /><br /><b><u>1) Tips and Butts</u></b><br /><b><u><br /></u></b>How this battle of boiled eggs came to be I'll never know. But on my dad's side of the family (which was the more whimsical side. My mother's side didn't "play with their food" EVER) did this every year around my grandmother's giant dining room table. Maybe it was because we were wedged into her tiny dining room, unable to move because the table was actually too big for the room. Maybe it was because we only got together 3x a year and we were loathe to leave the warmth of the family table. Maybe it's because by the time an Easter egg gets to Easter Sunday, it's barely food and really better for sport than eating. Who knows?<br /><br />I've written about Tips and Butts before, but I'll go over the rules again: Two people pick an egg each. They hold the eggs with the tips (narrow end) pointed toward each other, one egg above the other. They say, "go" and the upper egg smashes against the lower egg. They then flip the eggs to the butt (wider) end, and flip positions. The upper egg again smashes against the lower egg. The winner is the one whose ends are intact. The winner of the battle is the one who is holding an unsmashed end at the conclusion of the battle.<br /><br />My grandmother made multiple dozens of eggs, decorated beautifully and piled high on crystal platters. Those eggs, nestled in green plastic Easter grass, taunted us kids. Tips and Butts was the best part of ANY dinner!<br /><br />The only person who didn't participate was my Uncle Bob who sat at the end of the table. When an egg had both ends smashed, we'd pass it down to Uncle Bob who would peel it and, salt shaker in hand, would eat more than he would put back on the platter. Whatever peeled eggs made it past him would wind up in a faintly pink or blue colored egg salad the next day.<br /><br /><br />Friends, no matter what kind of celebration you have this weekend:<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9fudytD1XsaJNpO-YgSX7FDBDbo0B5lVtg9pQtDHelcs6UMB_3e4bHJgADN4xNWvwddROBIn4Ox1QN_syx0g-ZvXDIAjSnSPUxyxqsTMrnN1AF2ChZK2LAuZ_vB0jm4db0_iLaZZNjQ/s1600/happy+easter.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="403" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9fudytD1XsaJNpO-YgSX7FDBDbo0B5lVtg9pQtDHelcs6UMB_3e4bHJgADN4xNWvwddROBIn4Ox1QN_syx0g-ZvXDIAjSnSPUxyxqsTMrnN1AF2ChZK2LAuZ_vB0jm4db0_iLaZZNjQ/s320/happy+easter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">Secular</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvDU7e7YrC9YZhRCq_MY7PnH8Us3GmDaihDWZWIjcRhyphenhyphenyF5-IMyza0Cs31mgJLT3iaNz58wvLrgsPZJDez_80GcZ76eR9oge4ZdtTAYjPgxwzOIx97B1F3eg4bGyJ21rOkZue8vuLwn6c/s1600/Armenia+Easter.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="405" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvDU7e7YrC9YZhRCq_MY7PnH8Us3GmDaihDWZWIjcRhyphenhyphenyF5-IMyza0Cs31mgJLT3iaNz58wvLrgsPZJDez_80GcZ76eR9oge4ZdtTAYjPgxwzOIx97B1F3eg4bGyJ21rOkZue8vuLwn6c/s320/Armenia+Easter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">Old world traditional</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9Ut24xC6vNJX6hCu_yjix_yiy0lhR3mybY-vMxz6f-WIN0vJnajaGLSazwAyzvzgbhNs3bCW-DAR2dDYn5mu386DdI9PA3YQPBAeMl5orreIr9KuWT4dPvVQTcYtPAMncQRA8NyLDSY/s1600/religious+easter.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="405" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9Ut24xC6vNJX6hCu_yjix_yiy0lhR3mybY-vMxz6f-WIN0vJnajaGLSazwAyzvzgbhNs3bCW-DAR2dDYn5mu386DdI9PA3YQPBAeMl5orreIr9KuWT4dPvVQTcYtPAMncQRA8NyLDSY/s320/religious+easter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><div>religious</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">let it be a joyful celebration! Happy Easter to all!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-33995770402345658772023-03-09T13:34:00.003-08:002023-03-09T13:34:24.681-08:00Five for FRIDAY! It's OSCAR TIME!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqG-huxv589MVGmvUtue94hM3PyWICd7WcuzvBYZqrWuJXSS0SlGF5Mb-03Rh3Q-2dUI-AdMel_rAmvezJyKRzL4ZTTNgfyNle2yoNpe2pFSoX30mvTFNb7PY5Tdx-MDd_dAChs2RS_2dqNNqGlk3IaPC2i20DmWVeGrL-4U00Xiz0NfPT5OdA9T1-/s375/Oscar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="375" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqG-huxv589MVGmvUtue94hM3PyWICd7WcuzvBYZqrWuJXSS0SlGF5Mb-03Rh3Q-2dUI-AdMel_rAmvezJyKRzL4ZTTNgfyNle2yoNpe2pFSoX30mvTFNb7PY5Tdx-MDd_dAChs2RS_2dqNNqGlk3IaPC2i20DmWVeGrL-4U00Xiz0NfPT5OdA9T1-/s320/Oscar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Ah it's that time of year again...the time of year when Hollywood nominates some of the most awful movies as Best Picture and I do my darndest to watch them all and report back to you. With the OSCARS airing this Sunday, time is running short. I've seen 9 of the 10 nominated films and I have some very strong feelings about all 10 of them. I'll review them for you, and then I'll put up some Oscar night scenarios for the ones I think about the to actually be best picture. </p><p>So it's more of a ten or fifteen for Friday. </p><p><br /></p><p>Ready? </p><p><br /></p><p>Here we go:</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">All Quiet on the Western Front</span></p><p><br /></p><p>A German remake of a German masterpiece. (Don't bother with anything starring Richard Thomas.) Set in WWI, this is trench warfare from a German perspective. The original film was very anti-war, and this one doesn't change that path. What changes, an in this case, what is improved since the original 1930 film, (which did not stop the Nazis from blowing the world apart 9 years later, but whatever) are the effects and the approach to storytelling. It's dark. It's bleak. It's a macabre masterpiece. Do not watching with English dubbing. Go with German dialogue and English subtitles. </p><p>Score: 5 stars</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Avatar: The Way of Water</span></p><p>Mega bloated budget sequel to the visually beautiful, yet woefully preachy, and not that well written "Avatar" from 20009. This is the film I have not seen, which is weird because it's been in theaters what, like six years already? But even when it came out, I knew this one was going to be a hard sell for me. The original "Avatar" was like a gorgeous model. Pretty to look at, but a big dumb dud at dinner cuz she won't eat anything. Do i really want to spend more than 3 hours dedicated to a movie whose writers couldn't be bothered to come up with anything better than "unobtanium?" </p><p>Score: No score. Haven't seen as of this writing.</p><p><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The Banshees of Inisherin</span></p><p>Reuniting one of my favorite movie dues, Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson, "Banshees" a somewhat bleak, but not completely cold-hearted look at the suffocation of small-town life and the sacrifices we make for those we truly love. Farrell/Gleeson movies always bring something beautiful and original, without forgetting the humor. </p><p>Score: 4 stars</p><p><br /></p><p><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Elvis</span></p><p>Watching "Elvis" and then hearing the comments from people who'd seen the movie reminded me of two things: 1) I LOVE Baz Lurhman films. They are bright, they are shiny, they are full of a colorful frenetic energy. 2) Americans do NOT understand the concept of the "imperfect narrator." Those howling that this isn't the REAL story of Elvis need to sit down and have a cool drink of water. This movie is told from the viewpoint of Colonel Tom Parker. OF COURSE his tales won't mesh with the oft told history of The King. OF COURSE NOT! This is not a story ABOUT Elvis. This is a story about how Tom Parker saw ELVIS, saw himself, and saw his actions. Tom Hanks is brilliant, as always, and Austin Butler blew me away with his interpretation of Elvis.</p><p>Score 4.5 stars</p><p><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Everything Everywhere All at Once</span></p><p>I. LOVED. THIS. MOVIE! </p><p>This was not a remake. This was not a sequel. This was not a biopic of a beloved character. This was not under the direction of anyone well established in Hollywood. At first glance this isn't even a coherent story. And yet...this might have been the most beautiful depiction of the "what if" theory, and also of mother/daughter relationships I've ever seen. Brilliant. Chaotic. Hilarious. Violent. Subtle. Bombastic. This movie lived up to its name. It was EVERYTHING.</p><p>Score: 5 stars</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The Fabelmans</span></p><p>Ah yes, the semi fictional re-imagining of Steven Spielberg's life.</p><p>I guess if you slap Steven's name on a pile of dog droppings, someone will love it. And, apparently, this is the pile of dog droppings the Academy wants us to love. I thought this might be a delightful little romp through some kind of family movies or something. Nope. This "re-imaging" is a slag heap of self-involved crap. Endlessly long. Pointlessly depressing. The bit with the monkey was nice. </p><p>Score: 1 star</p><p><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Tár</span></p><p>A female orchestra director has personal problems. And she drives through a lot of tunnels.</p><p>See, now I thought this was a biopic. And I love Cate Blanchett. Turns out...it's not. And I love Cate Blancett a little less. </p><p>WORST PICTURE I'VE EVER SEEN. There is not one redeeming feature about this movie. It's boring. It's annoying. The main character is someone you want to slap a thousand times. There are about four minutes of real entertainment. Oh, and then there are the tunnel. You could, and if you're forced to watch this movie, you SHOULD make a drinking game. Every time Tar goes through a tunnel, do a shot. By the time you reach the end of this steaming turd of a film, you'll at least think you had a good time. This officially replaces "The Royal Tenenbaums" and "Dude Where's My Car" as the worst film I've ever seen.</p><p>Score: 0.5 stars</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Top Gun: Maverick</span></p><p>Sequel to the 1986 "Top Gun" this time Maverick is older, more mature, and still getting into trouble with the Navy brass.</p><p>Quite possibly the PERFECT movie. You don't need to have seen the original film...but it doesn't hurt to appreciate the new, more mature touch Tom Cruise has with his character and those around him. A touching performance by Val Kilmer brings tears to the eyes. Meanwhile, attention to detail and reality (yes, the actors really are flying those planes) shines in every scene. Maybe this won't be an award winner. It doesn't matter. This movie will live on for generations as a great American film.</p><p>Rating: 5 stars</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Triangle of Sadness</span></p><p>Rich people mistreat poor people on a yacht. Then bad things happen.</p><p>Okay, here's how to watch this hot mess: Skip the first hour. I'm not kidding. Skip the first hour of the movie. Fast forward until you see Woody Harrellson on screen. I promise you, you will have missed very little and saved yourself a lot of time. What you have left is actually not bad. You still have an hour and a half of rich people being bastards to poor people. And, by the time you finally get to the POINT of the story, you're not worn out watching a 60 minute perfume commercial. And honestly, the point of the movie is a pretty good one. </p><p>Rating: with the first hour- 2.0 stars. Without the first hour: 3.5 stars.</p><p><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: TiemposText, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Women Talking</span></p><p><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Women in an ultraconservative Mennonite colony vote to decide if they are going to continue living under horrifying conditions or strike out on their own.</span></span></span></p><p>Well, the writers didn't spend much energy on the title...because yeah, "Women Talking" is about...well...women talking. But in this case, it's not just women sitting around chatting. What they have to say is almost less important than how they say it and who says the words. The movie, based on the novel by the same name (so I guess we have to give the writers a pass, right?) is a missed opportunity. There are a lot of topics, important, vital topics to women today (the movie is set in 2010, but you can't believe it because of the pioneer lifestyle of the colony.) Rape, love, children, religion, honor, obedience, loyalty, freedom, heaven, safety: Everything women have talked about since the dawn of time is touched on by this cast. And oh, what a cast. This is the class A list of actresses. But, unfortunately, in spite of the impressive material and topics, in spite of the star-studded cast, this movie is a missed opportunity. Much was left on the editing floor, I think. Some topics, like what did Claire Foy spray in her kid's face, are left dangling. What was going on with that schoolteacher? We aren't told. Can Frances McDormand actually have a part where she expounds LESS energy than she did in "Nomadland?"</p><p>Oh wait, we get the answer to that. Yes. Apparently. Ms. McDormand is in this movie about seven minutes more than I am. And almost as comatose.</p><p>Judith Ivy, a longtime favorite of mine, shines in this film, as do most of the actresses, given the stilted dialogue they're forced to spew. "Women Talking" is lovely, warm, sad, and eye-opening. Ultimately, however, it's a victim of poor editing.</p><p>Rating: 3 stars</p><p><br /></p><p>okay. Those are my ratings. So, Sarah, you may ask. WHAT IS GOING TO BE BEST PICTURE?</p><p><br /></p><p>Well, let's start with what I know. I know I want "Maverick" or "All Quiet on the Western Front" or "Everything Everywhere all at Once" to be best picture. </p><p> I think Maverick is going to be completely overlooked. It's too...what's the word...oh, right, fun for the common moviegoer. Yeah, why would we want a movie that everyone who saw it enjoyed thoroughly to be the best picture of the year? Who wants that?</p><p>"All Quiet on the Western Front" will win best foreign language film. It won't win Best Picture. It should. But it won't.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now we get to the nitty gritty. </p><p>Elvis, Tar, Triangle of Sadness, Women Talking, and Banshees are also not going to be Best Picture. Too odd, too weird, too whatever. Not happening.</p><p>Which leaves us with: Avatar and Fabelman's.</p><p><br /></p><p>Here's a little Oscar History: Back in 2010, when the original Avatar was nominated for Best Picture, the Oscar night was all about the battle between Avatar and "The hurt Locker" a tense war film directed by Kathryn Bigelow. (James Cameron's ex-wife.) James had become quite the big fat jerkface after "Titanic", so I was out of control happy with The Hurt Locker beat Avatar. Unfortunately, this time around, I don't believe there's anything strong enough in this field of films to overtake Cameron's ego. </p><p>Then we have the Fabelmans. This film is so bad, but I can totally see the Academy bending over and kissing Steven Spielberg's butt. I mean, that would mean James Cameron is disappointed again, which is good. But then will Spielberg go back to making good, watchable movies, or will this encourage him to make more soppy depression medication movies?</p><p><br /></p><p>So... will Hollywood kowtow to one of these long-time guys OR, will they do what they should and make something that was original AND entertaining AND fresh AND fun Best Picture? Because if they do, then hands down it should be "Everything Everywhere All At Once."</p><p><br /></p><p>A few other predictions:</p><p><br /></p><p>Guillermo Del Toro's Pinocchio should win best Animated Picture.</p><p><br /></p><p>Best original song should go to "Naatu, Naatu" from the Indian film "RRR." Fun movie, awesome song. "Life me Up" from that wet blanket of a Marvel movie, "Wakanda Forever" will probably win, but it shouldn't.</p><p><br /></p><p>If "Blonde" wins anything on Oscar night, I will probably throw a shoe at my TV.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-90668667895825696852023-01-23T09:15:00.007-08:002023-01-23T09:15:54.242-08:00What is it and how did it get THERE?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiv6oLjE1VbS3aIYYST1YbahDzuxdvVVRUUEjandZxJUmX3z_yGG7bvMVxrtJlKBlzWK1Auee3-_a3T_XavWsB4ctMiEMPUsqEpraL7U1MzGgZjqWQrLThzQ2RAI0F2bPILEkoZBffHFloYx3D-g8cDp6U8a7aF-qlG9lK5qPcD4ukpotJjppUPly0P" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="630" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiv6oLjE1VbS3aIYYST1YbahDzuxdvVVRUUEjandZxJUmX3z_yGG7bvMVxrtJlKBlzWK1Auee3-_a3T_XavWsB4ctMiEMPUsqEpraL7U1MzGgZjqWQrLThzQ2RAI0F2bPILEkoZBffHFloYx3D-g8cDp6U8a7aF-qlG9lK5qPcD4ukpotJjppUPly0P" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>WARNING! This post contains graphic references to the female anatomy and foundation garments. DO NOT continue readings if you are under the age of 16, easily offended, or, you know, a dude. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPxV87f-pgMMZK2MtSEWt6s_Qiy74CwVVWBpNmOsPuLnafl6LeH-Ox2VwZie2FwarxprE2unlw1FS-Ix7MW6o7QkQinCDXlDaSn3moRxV4Eb7mC8RubMeIdrQoWShnOwsN3SMGoqqORzy1BAl4l4lLn1bf8HfvOuReh9zhli0UG_y7wxAgO1BTnp6A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="1140" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPxV87f-pgMMZK2MtSEWt6s_Qiy74CwVVWBpNmOsPuLnafl6LeH-Ox2VwZie2FwarxprE2unlw1FS-Ix7MW6o7QkQinCDXlDaSn3moRxV4Eb7mC8RubMeIdrQoWShnOwsN3SMGoqqORzy1BAl4l4lLn1bf8HfvOuReh9zhli0UG_y7wxAgO1BTnp6A" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Okay, girls, let's talk. You know how sometimes your upstairs foundation garments irritate the tender skin on your delicate bosoms? You know how we, as the female of the species, shop around for a bra that won't irritate, and, since there is no such animal, we just sort of settle for the bra of least annoyance and go through life with our boob skin being just a little irritated ALL THE TIME?</p><p>Oh don't make that face. I'm not the only one who puts up with this. If I were, memes like the one below wouldn't exist:</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxVWdPUBjlTp70LRLwxN6xYzzZraU8ljw2N1095Pkhdebesy51f8N33rGdUZdrvoK8YQu4tpxIIRVy5Ke_DdqaYVGNBNU_-GuA4ccmH7AGdzhO_P0xcneStroWvym8w_EtrDn5-ktbKNI8Zuup9gKbw5zfIYi_FwaG5MPp0DXpHScXEr3thNfGNJkF" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="663" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxVWdPUBjlTp70LRLwxN6xYzzZraU8ljw2N1095Pkhdebesy51f8N33rGdUZdrvoK8YQu4tpxIIRVy5Ke_DdqaYVGNBNU_-GuA4ccmH7AGdzhO_P0xcneStroWvym8w_EtrDn5-ktbKNI8Zuup9gKbw5zfIYi_FwaG5MPp0DXpHScXEr3thNfGNJkF" width="199" /></a></div><br />Anyway, so a couple of days ago, I put on my favorite bra, and by that I mean the one where the straps don't slide down my shoulders every five minutes, forcing me to reach inside my shirt and adjust, which makes me look like some kind of monkey. Now, I'll be honest, I pick out my clothes the night before and pile them on top of the cabinet in the bathroom. I used to leave them on the floor in the bathroom, but then the next morning they'd be all over the house because one of our cats lives with the strong belief that our clothing, especially the underwear, needs to be visible in all parts of the house.<div><br /></div><div>What I'm saying is, I pick out the clothes the night before because in the morning I tend to stagger around like something out of a George Romero film and making an important decision like "what am I going to wear" is way too difficult. Also, when I pick out clothes to wear for the next day, I simply grab a top and pants from my closet and (and this key) underwear from my drawer. I don't inspect my clothing. Tuck that in your memory bank for later.</div><div><br /></div><div>So now it's morning. I get up, weigh myself, because that's what I do every single morning. As if some fat fairy stopped by in the middle of the night and trimmed 70 pounds off my butt and gut. I brush my teeth, wash my face, feel around for any whiskers because, as you know, those must be dealt with. Then I get dressed. I remove the clothing from the top of the cabinet and then put the clothing on myself. Again, I do not examine the clothes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I go through my day, and honestly I don't remember if I was working in the office that day or not. Doesn't matter. I, an adult, went through a day doing things. And yes, my upstairs foundation garment was irritating my bosoms. as it generally does. At this point in my life, I just give the girls a good scratch and move on. It works, it doesn't work, all I know is that I have to deal with the irritation until 5Pm or whenever it's socially acceptable to remove the bra through my shirtsleeves and be comfortable again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, on the day in question, I decided not to just remove the bra, but to do a complete wardrobed tear down. Must have been a work day. LOL It's at this point I inspect when I'm removing. (I tend to spill food on myself...a lot...so I usually check to see if I've ruined yet another top.) as I'm removing e foundation garment, there, in the right cup, is...</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I have no idea what it was.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was dark brown.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was furry.</div><div><br /></div><div>And, when I poked at it, under the furry part it was hard. Like a piece of melted tupperware.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWKORC4KutfebWI_bPHFLIvvPZyyWGw6XiVS-SyCUz-i7qYL1bv93PonDDvHoyZ-j669WHksCQ9pKn7Tttj-u_0vUu4qw6OmzBbTugJ-KRfPdkRFELdPzoCWzffLRURuXYurDzQ-QuGBGu5bJCm0rhnnW7x4IsrFc_TMkqIDaDFze6-B_D-CL4s_dr" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="310" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWKORC4KutfebWI_bPHFLIvvPZyyWGw6XiVS-SyCUz-i7qYL1bv93PonDDvHoyZ-j669WHksCQ9pKn7Tttj-u_0vUu4qw6OmzBbTugJ-KRfPdkRFELdPzoCWzffLRURuXYurDzQ-QuGBGu5bJCm0rhnnW7x4IsrFc_TMkqIDaDFze6-B_D-CL4s_dr" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><p>Now, Ladies. We've all gotten that stray cracker crumb or bread crust or apple core stuck in our bras, right? (There's no lying on this blog.) But...what...is...this?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHWIk-TL6bixO0zzDKJrZWlDNVmQhTXbqfI2kuXaRb0fjiY-H3jCeTWy7orE9x1H0WTq7NWwu0PhSVyF2MQ7cBaQmexsrGb0PGyZXW9HkkZzNlOXjjBsoSPr2Wjps26QwI2MzsgaS15IdmwaLVEiF1euM-xZnHtHmfA6eYJpau0fGvAenUBsbv3DSM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="280" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHWIk-TL6bixO0zzDKJrZWlDNVmQhTXbqfI2kuXaRb0fjiY-H3jCeTWy7orE9x1H0WTq7NWwu0PhSVyF2MQ7cBaQmexsrGb0PGyZXW9HkkZzNlOXjjBsoSPr2Wjps26QwI2MzsgaS15IdmwaLVEiF1euM-xZnHtHmfA6eYJpau0fGvAenUBsbv3DSM" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>The first thing I did...you know...AFTER freaking out...was to check my right bosom. I mean, I don't know what I expected, but it would have surprised me to see that Right had exploded and left behind furry ectoplasm.</p><p><br /></p><p>and yes, it's at this point I know I should have taken a picture of the mystery substance. I did not. Instead, delighted to see my boob hadn't exploded, I tossed the bra into the laundry basket, promising myself I'd deal with it on Thursday, which is laundry day at the Bradley house.</p><p><br /></p><p>I didn't sleep well, knowing that IT was still in my bedroom, waiting to...oh I don't know...slither out of the laundry basket and attach itself to another piece of my clothing. So, after a sleepless night, I dug the bra out of the hamper and showed it to hubby.</p><p>Now, Hubby is a far more rational human who enjoys science and exploration. He took one look at the hard, furry, plastic attached to the inside of my bra and said, "What is THAT?"</p><p>Not quite the comforting analysis I was looking for, but at least I felt less stupid. If Hubby didn't know what it was, then I wasn't alone. He poked at the thing, tried to peal it off the bra lining. Nope, that thing was STUCK on there.</p><p><br /></p><p>"I thought maybe one of those Tide pods got stuck in there and didn't dissolve and then in the drier it melted and attracted a bunch of cat hair." This was as plausible a thought as I could have. I mean, we use Tide pods for laundry, and we have four cats, so a lot of cat hair winds up in our drier. That made sense to me.</p><p>"No, those pods dissolve with a drop of water," says hubby. I don't know how he knows these things, but I rarely question his knowledge of science and machinery.</p><p>"How about this," he says. "Put it in the sink with hot water and see if it softens enough to remove."</p><p><br /></p><p>That was a good idea, since, again, this is my favorite bra we're talking about. I'd really hate to have to toss it and buy a new one. I just got this one broken in the way I like it. (You know, the band's stretched out enough to accommodate my back fat.)</p><p><br /></p><p>So I filled the kitchen sink with hot water and a bit of Dawn Dishwashing soap (because I LOVE Dawn dishwashing soap) and waited. A few minutes later, I pulled the bra out of the hot water, and sure enough, the glue-adhesive-plastic-wax had melted enough and dissolved, leaving bits of dark fur behind. I rinsed the fur away and hung the bra up to dry.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6w8b_F3zglK0nwQhSYmkmlW3Y4Rk39lIWi8JE5np5cYXpmTusG67Bv6XysBumEjXJGnr4zrb2ZAuutAkdgPt_CS_hnJPdllGr9mhVbAmlRN40USA95nMhTFDn5J_CurL0dDh_Tj239Os3I7MWbMhlZI--dy1Jor8dafathz-YHdTALaOztdTg8ojC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6w8b_F3zglK0nwQhSYmkmlW3Y4Rk39lIWi8JE5np5cYXpmTusG67Bv6XysBumEjXJGnr4zrb2ZAuutAkdgPt_CS_hnJPdllGr9mhVbAmlRN40USA95nMhTFDn5J_CurL0dDh_Tj239Os3I7MWbMhlZI--dy1Jor8dafathz-YHdTALaOztdTg8ojC" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>But...I mean...WHAT WAS THAT? HOW DID IT GET THERE? And WILL IT COME BACK?</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivM3co7_wLTNTEZNEEaGIUyw_ZylXcA55SwOFE0KSOggkDF_gWjdccixd2aGyUu2URCSu80bwTdpf4GDLyswoaIYejAohzCSbCDeh10DFmghq8CN15vjblVMN_3sPfETBqB7mipEw2Q43t8rVQiPjYhd-WCBStTSKYGRx3DF_6WqkOeK1a2cmayiFb" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="498" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivM3co7_wLTNTEZNEEaGIUyw_ZylXcA55SwOFE0KSOggkDF_gWjdccixd2aGyUu2URCSu80bwTdpf4GDLyswoaIYejAohzCSbCDeh10DFmghq8CN15vjblVMN_3sPfETBqB7mipEw2Q43t8rVQiPjYhd-WCBStTSKYGRx3DF_6WqkOeK1a2cmayiFb" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Unfortunately, I may never know. And maybe that's a good thing?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0kVFQnaKuYx6OQVy4NvPMBlS8219oxby516O_0un88RoQSBHSYZ3Ja607LfXlAl69-Mh43b6OvTfOXw6OZ0wS7rey3-_e5O9IZiJ0WbE2GQZUmsVRjSCBDO7HtBHkBBf__IS1-Xr489q_Gxg0jkBeSgxmhf8v1wD2HaeRCfS9_9F6W0REHUHaXFud" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="272" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0kVFQnaKuYx6OQVy4NvPMBlS8219oxby516O_0un88RoQSBHSYZ3Ja607LfXlAl69-Mh43b6OvTfOXw6OZ0wS7rey3-_e5O9IZiJ0WbE2GQZUmsVRjSCBDO7HtBHkBBf__IS1-Xr489q_Gxg0jkBeSgxmhf8v1wD2HaeRCfS9_9F6W0REHUHaXFud" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p></div>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-43274932751785701652022-12-28T08:41:00.006-08:002022-12-28T08:41:56.126-08:00Five for Friday! (On Wednesday) NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION TIME!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3iEHrv91LYgRLUBrIDAUiIniIXhfye-GZJvvHus6WHcz_lqSHHWoJIDfiHX703L9QQAF-eO-NUiayOEn_U-43iVZVBotpGNRLqrjj4ZWuiCTwkcmgvfiolWdYeqyZF-LTolEXpF-ZpuB2gDMUCWY6mMfLe8Eym0NS3N9XoxUec27pPBbwnXdfsQmN" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3iEHrv91LYgRLUBrIDAUiIniIXhfye-GZJvvHus6WHcz_lqSHHWoJIDfiHX703L9QQAF-eO-NUiayOEn_U-43iVZVBotpGNRLqrjj4ZWuiCTwkcmgvfiolWdYeqyZF-LTolEXpF-ZpuB2gDMUCWY6mMfLe8Eym0NS3N9XoxUec27pPBbwnXdfsQmN" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Well here we are: the week between Christmas and New Year's. A lot of people's work and school schedules are messed up, there's American football on TV pretty much every day, and we're all a little confused as to what day it is.</p><p>It's also that time of year when we all sit down and take stock of our lives and make resolutions to quit smoking, lose weight, eat better, blah blah blah.</p><p>2022 Was quite the year of upheaval here at the house, and much of 2023 is going to be spent dealing with the fallout. Things do look brighter, which is positive, but it's going to be a lot of work. Keeping that in mind, I've cobbled together my New Year's Resolutions for 2023. (someone's going to have to remind me to give myself a report card next year!)</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMuMD-Ti9OFaUR_Byu1OyrLkHpPI2eDnyoZNMvrBKVa6kbOlbvcQgUB5mKtS5smYYBKD3mgXsE_LRSKz6XNN-Xs95k9RmWu9AQ0RIl6WgjHqjQtyG5mUQjMLfLqMt9S894rFnuRMWYohtMSfvo-eq73kJJeQhVD_EAvxYI5PkFycnmo68-oN2klASB" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMuMD-Ti9OFaUR_Byu1OyrLkHpPI2eDnyoZNMvrBKVa6kbOlbvcQgUB5mKtS5smYYBKD3mgXsE_LRSKz6XNN-Xs95k9RmWu9AQ0RIl6WgjHqjQtyG5mUQjMLfLqMt9S894rFnuRMWYohtMSfvo-eq73kJJeQhVD_EAvxYI5PkFycnmo68-oN2klASB" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><b>5) Stop using my Visa after February 1, 2023.</b></p><p>Part of the big upheaval is that I lost my fairly lucrative work at home job back in May. Spending three months on Unemployment did not come close to covering the bills. Which meant we had to dip into the credit cards and the kitchen fund in a major way. Then I got a job, a full time job, that still wasn't making as much as my previous job, and oh yeah, I hated it. I felt caged. Then I found an awesome job. Perfect in every way. Well, except it's currently super part time. It'll be full time sometime after February 1, but this meant that much of Christmas went on my credit. A little frustrating, since we were in a really good place credit card wise back in May. So, in 2023,I'm not going to promise I'm going to get my card paid off, but I'm resolved not to use it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiB49_IVIj5CXdBuJBnvPQyiXmchUMIa95G9VWK6LwBKgB0aWnB5PXhi8_B8uo-nepQrLGdCEr8N3kcXUpKkAkQ7kdOTWhL7nyNHxMzdr0S_9-vL5LppV8hgPH0BvbZhg_vEz1RZYMzcg0svMeopwgIobIizPKd4dosah6nnRUT8qqKyBXKW7NHIyIV" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiB49_IVIj5CXdBuJBnvPQyiXmchUMIa95G9VWK6LwBKgB0aWnB5PXhi8_B8uo-nepQrLGdCEr8N3kcXUpKkAkQ7kdOTWhL7nyNHxMzdr0S_9-vL5LppV8hgPH0BvbZhg_vEz1RZYMzcg0svMeopwgIobIizPKd4dosah6nnRUT8qqKyBXKW7NHIyIV" width="245" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><b>4) Time at the computer means working or writing. Not shopping.</b></p><p>Yeah, this is going to go a long way to helping the credit card situation. As you know I'm an office girl by day and an author in my off time. (Thanks to my great new job, I'm an author by day as well.) The biggest temptation when one is facing a computer screen is to, instead of working or writing, shop. This was especially true in the last several months because, you know, Christmas. So now, for 2023, the online shopping is, well, not done forever, let's be real, but it'll be cut down significantly.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>3) Get back on the program!</b></p><p>This is not a weight loss thing, although it might sound like it. As many of you know, Hubby and I did Noom for about 18 months starting back in 2020. I lost 37 pounds. For the last year I've been stalled and I've allowed 6 of those pound back on me. I blame the job upheaval, but it's a lot of stuff that's gone on, I've gotten off the program, and returned to some of my bad old habits. So, for 2023, it's not about losing weight, it's about going back to what I learned a year ago, and being smarter about the food I put in my pie hole.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>2) Take a class.</b></p><p>I've talked about a number of things I've wanted to do over the years, but I haven't mostly because it involves going back to school. And who wants to go back to school, and having that cut into my TV time? I live ten minutes from one of the best technical colleges in the country. I don't know what class I'm going to take, but I'm taking something. Watch out!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGFEhO9yrLcSwx_8gSZQGWlf8Ykk2Y0PYfGwYh3j6PEfSqPoyfyooCGG9AxiBQb84axDFgqkfMnAZ5faHA0n9FV01n78R4Y-VCx_hs9Ye3CEuXL3glM0cT6LZQefO0rUoQK71Ar0E55lFA_0ByFRnsAjZQOWD0L9Ln2_X3QNXD_Y1AuvPXl1qui0PO" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="349" data-original-width="620" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGFEhO9yrLcSwx_8gSZQGWlf8Ykk2Y0PYfGwYh3j6PEfSqPoyfyooCGG9AxiBQb84axDFgqkfMnAZ5faHA0n9FV01n78R4Y-VCx_hs9Ye3CEuXL3glM0cT6LZQefO0rUoQK71Ar0E55lFA_0ByFRnsAjZQOWD0L9Ln2_X3QNXD_Y1AuvPXl1qui0PO" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><b>1) Replace guilt with self-care.</b></p><p>Friends, I'm old, I'm fragile, and I'm wracked with guilt about so many things I can't even count them. This is the year I try and let go of some of that guilt and just...be better. Be less fearful. Be more loving. You get the picture. Oh, and also, maybe fall down less. Because falling down is not good for someone of my advanced years.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3OQMfk5Vmwuo_GbJ3SH7FLsqEtgrDMZaajvGULRYf3RiMqMAAAL2W8cVH76BSGImm6ui26DEw_w_61ZLyca07HXYsLR7-NJPVoF8TgVtjseE6HFbouwUfjPzR24G3OWyIfzEVOKaerMVY3NR0S6fBlrbU8TUmlg_HAF2nBlHsdk7TiNFenK4nPqEq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="932" data-original-width="1022" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3OQMfk5Vmwuo_GbJ3SH7FLsqEtgrDMZaajvGULRYf3RiMqMAAAL2W8cVH76BSGImm6ui26DEw_w_61ZLyca07HXYsLR7-NJPVoF8TgVtjseE6HFbouwUfjPzR24G3OWyIfzEVOKaerMVY3NR0S6fBlrbU8TUmlg_HAF2nBlHsdk7TiNFenK4nPqEq" width="263" /></a></div><br />So there we are: My resolutions for the near year. Will I keep them? Will I remember them past the end of today? Let's plow through 2023 and find out! In the meantime:<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgigqMutu0-6pLHlWUvNvJzNqcpThOOQhSMlz8pUfIWV-IHvVOg9MMsykAX4ixwyuQyVP8oE1AoIa1FW8flLvAnrriTnOyswd3XcK_CKgTO0cmUjY3P0rkha1HTHstzMVKnCFfW-UZBF8QLwWk-VNG-ehr6T6n7zre5fkTeQYCj_pp1wuH_NWu1AoQ-" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="800" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgigqMutu0-6pLHlWUvNvJzNqcpThOOQhSMlz8pUfIWV-IHvVOg9MMsykAX4ixwyuQyVP8oE1AoIa1FW8flLvAnrriTnOyswd3XcK_CKgTO0cmUjY3P0rkha1HTHstzMVKnCFfW-UZBF8QLwWk-VNG-ehr6T6n7zre5fkTeQYCj_pp1wuH_NWu1AoQ-" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-19501051624776438912022-12-19T08:09:00.006-08:002022-12-19T08:09:53.898-08:005 for Friday (on Monday): the only cleaning that matter for Holiday gatherings.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvqnaGYxW8e1zXSclV4PU1XUir43oIWg1a2K3UTYDjmtoLsaHFEHUQ05TVZayc2IeQBtLXX2SyCC3EKWT56suXFZMb0p0pB0myWnW0kwNqi3a6aTeUYrBveDaAmYjqY5hECOB4jqsr1f32fzsoS7MRpLdVyNcR8XbHTLNAA2FpEVhGLc0QhZBtMnIP" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="650" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvqnaGYxW8e1zXSclV4PU1XUir43oIWg1a2K3UTYDjmtoLsaHFEHUQ05TVZayc2IeQBtLXX2SyCC3EKWT56suXFZMb0p0pB0myWnW0kwNqi3a6aTeUYrBveDaAmYjqY5hECOB4jqsr1f32fzsoS7MRpLdVyNcR8XbHTLNAA2FpEVhGLc0QhZBtMnIP" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Good morning and Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas!</p><p><br /></p><p>So, Hanukkah has begun and Christmas Eve is this coming Saturday. And, even if you don't celebrate one of these two holidays, chances are better than even you're having some kind of late December celebration that involves extended family coming over for food and judgement.</p><p>Well, kids, listen to your good friend, Sarah, because I'm going to give you five tips to make you holiday prep much easier! Hit these five points and your holiday will be fine. (Hint: No one cares about dusty floorboards or spots on the floor.)</p><p>Cleaning for the holidays is so overblown. I used to get myself in complete knots over making sure every nook, cranny, and corner was spotless. Now, I'm older, wiser, and I have boiled down housekeeping prep to a list of 5 things you MUST do and the rest can be ignored. Oh, and better yet, all five of these points are located in one room. That's right. I'm not going to tell you to clean your oven or your microwave or even vacuum your carpets. None of that matters. (My sister-in-law once told me to clean my microwave during a Thanksgiving dinner because she was convinced my mother-in-law would think I was a slob. I cleaned the microwave, but other than sis in law, no one else looked in my microwave during that dinner. Also, at that point in my marriage, my mom-in-law thought I was a slob anyway. LOL)</p><p>I'm still a slob. I live with two guys and four cats and honestly, 90% of the time I don't want outsiders in the house. Those that show up are either people who are there all the time, like Skippy's girlfriend, Gigi, or like my mom, show sometimes shows up unexpectedly to use my bathroom. Well, you get what you get. It's not always pretty.</p><p>But the holidays are a time for people from far flung regions (and branches of the family tree) to show up at the house and one must make an effort. </p><p>Thusly and therefore, I give you my five points for holiday prep. Do these five things and nothing else matters. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>5) Clean the toilet, sink, and mirrors. (Duh)</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzlPBoA7A5gG_ZiWiyPVAJRM0j24TchNkaxXC6OWyujyyoLuLTJOSQ1GF1pkSLbqP9Oc4ELei2rePtWTw1jW_nt4XcWteiXgUW6oJz-9MUAnLlGMaU9wR5qwyNV2Lv0zW1Kv-kARMpvlXx-KxOaucBwItI2WkMbQPa9bD1nwV0tblcXT1IYapbB-XU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="570" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzlPBoA7A5gG_ZiWiyPVAJRM0j24TchNkaxXC6OWyujyyoLuLTJOSQ1GF1pkSLbqP9Oc4ELei2rePtWTw1jW_nt4XcWteiXgUW6oJz-9MUAnLlGMaU9wR5qwyNV2Lv0zW1Kv-kARMpvlXx-KxOaucBwItI2WkMbQPa9bD1nwV0tblcXT1IYapbB-XU" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>The toilet is the number 1, number 1 thing that has to be cleaned. Scrub it, let bleach sit in it to white out the stains, and then drop in one of those blue blocks that makes the water blue. (Makes it smell nice and further hides any stains you might have on an older toilet, plus it looks like you made an effort.) Make sure there's no hair on the seat lid or on the floor around the toilet. </p><p>While cleaning the bathroom sinks and mirrors might seem pointless, much the way cleaning the entry floor is because after the first person uses it it's no longer clean, at least run over the sinks and mirrors with some glass cleaner. Takes forty seconds.</p><p>You don't need to do the shower or tub unless you're having overnight guests. Just pull the shower curtain/shower door closed. Anyone who snoops behind there to see if it's dirty should be ashamed. If you do have overnight guests, here's a quick tip: fill the tub 1/2 full with water. Pour half a gallon on bleach in there. Let sit for a couple hours. Clean tub. For shower walls spray down with foaming spray and let that roll down the walls before you rinse. Clean walls. Spray bleach spray on any grout or calk that looks dingy, then rinse. Done.</p><p>That should take you all of 15 minutes per bathroom, not counting sit time for the bleach tub.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>4) Bathroom floors</b></p><p>Unlike the entry floors and the kitchen floor, you can't completely skip the bathroom floors. But, you also don't have to go nuts cleaning. If you must mop, I can't stop you, but I've found that a million bathroom floor problems can be covered by a bathroom rug. While you're cleaning the toilet, run a bleach wipe on the floor immediately around the toilet. Otherwise, a freshly washed or brand new bathroom rug or two will take care of the floor. DO NOT use a fuzzy cover on the toilet. While a fluffy rug is inviting, a fluffy toilet seat is asking for trouble.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>3) Declutter</b></p><p>Normally, I'm all about covering housekeeping shortcomings with twinkle lights and shiny things. But NOT in the bathroom. Fancy soaps, kitschy things, and family pictures need to be GONE. (Wall hangings are fine.) In the bathroom, an empty surface is a clean surface. DO NOT COVER THE TOIULET SEAT WITH ANYTHING FLUFFY. Clear out the baskets you might use for hair tools, makeup, all of it. Box it all up and put it in a closet. You want a spare decluttered room. Clear off the shelves, clean out the drawers.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>2) Make the bathroom user friendly.</b></p><p>Now that you've decluttered, it's time to prep the bathroom for guests. This is why you've cleared off the shelves and cleaned out the drawers. </p><p>First: A PLUNGER must be near the toilet, in plain view. Do not hide the plunger. Do not put the plunger in a closet. Put it next to the toilet. Trust me on this one.</p><p>Second: extra hand towels go on the shelf. A wet hand towel is gross. Set out a folded stack of hand towels so no one has to use wet ones. Also, set a basket someplace and mark it "wet towels."</p><p>Third: Bleach wipes on the shelf. You don't know what kind of toilet emergency your guests might have and they want to keep it that way. Have a large container of bleach wipes out in the open.</p><p>Fourth: Feminine Punctuation protection in a drawer. I don't care if your party is nothing but guys and elderly women. Have a package of pads and tampons in the drawer closest to the toilet. These things don't spoil, but your party will if some woman has an unexpected punctuation and has to go asking people for help.</p><p>Fifth: TWO extra rolls of TP ON A SHELF. Much like the bleach spray and the plunger, you don't want people unable to find extra TP when they need it. Yes, you have adorable TP covers or a lovely basket or a discrete shelf. Screw that. Put the TP on the shelf by the bleach wipes and the extra towels.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>1) If it smells clean it IS clean.</b></p><p>I worked for a cleaning company for 12 years, so I know what I'm talking about. Keep the bathroom smelling clean. Have a small, clean scented candle (not floral or baking, something fresh like clean linen or spring air or something like that) burning throughout the length of the party. Also have a full can of air freshener out in a obvious place. You may want to check periodically and spray the room just as a precaution. </p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>Oh, one other thing to ponder: Sound proofing. Smells and messes aren't the only thing people want to hide in the bathroom. Bathroom sounds need to be muffled as best as possible. A vent fan is a good start, but for the holidays, especially if you have a bathroom close to the kitchen or other room where everyone will be, you may want more sound buffering.</b></p><p><b>I recommend putting a radio or MP 3 player or something other music thing and have holiday tunes playing for the whole party. Believe me, this will ease a lot of embarrassment!</b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p>There you go. The rest of your house won't matter if you take care of the bathroom. Also, make sure you have, you know, food and drink. But a successful holiday party is NOT going to hinge on how clean your microwave is. People will remember feeling comfortable in your house, especially in your bathroom.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdnwolSORmbkpQFD0o_9XO5Jrcl2YkpgnrBr1jKfWnM6f2G5XhZ2N6mKZXL1nafpPLxQQ1ZBQ4K_46xnhQg620C3wE8HnthMM0-UhA8E89ZpWqUriJRq_VtHImNRIvkbA34BwfdzBFoUI0D0ePAV0AGtMhPX3OgtUEy4D0uzFbGdWUNLGKahWAu6Mi" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdnwolSORmbkpQFD0o_9XO5Jrcl2YkpgnrBr1jKfWnM6f2G5XhZ2N6mKZXL1nafpPLxQQ1ZBQ4K_46xnhQg620C3wE8HnthMM0-UhA8E89ZpWqUriJRq_VtHImNRIvkbA34BwfdzBFoUI0D0ePAV0AGtMhPX3OgtUEy4D0uzFbGdWUNLGKahWAu6Mi" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p><p><b><br /></b></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-64235356349084083082022-12-16T12:06:00.002-08:002022-12-16T12:06:24.919-08:005 for Friday: I was going to write something nice...but then I went to the grocery store.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSipnwTEAW0OhE7U_iBDPDYShv80wPVyWFAa7kH_PCc2ormrxMS5yzgEjRM4WTFmT9fCZSRndkl9aDbMP87G5uwKnVjZd6x0Jd-HIhESPgRREWLSL4ICd6yye9y8T0WIn6hoBPu20Ss6nrNtjsgRDqFwY8_Nuw_UGfVR2_6xi41q7l7MhvA2-34Dvn/s283/christmasfrezny3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="283" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSipnwTEAW0OhE7U_iBDPDYShv80wPVyWFAa7kH_PCc2ormrxMS5yzgEjRM4WTFmT9fCZSRndkl9aDbMP87G5uwKnVjZd6x0Jd-HIhESPgRREWLSL4ICd6yye9y8T0WIn6hoBPu20Ss6nrNtjsgRDqFwY8_Nuw_UGfVR2_6xi41q7l7MhvA2-34Dvn/s1600/christmasfrezny3.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Happy Holidays and welcome to December 15. That's right. You have 9 legitimate shopping days (and one day to pick up stuff at Kwik Trip) for Christmas. If you're ordering from anywhere other than Amazon, don't bother, it won't get here in time. Wrap a picture of it and put that under the tree. If you're ordering from Amazon, you MIGHT get it in time...but you should probably pay for the super-premium shipping just to be safe.</p><p>Your best hope at this point is to shop old school. Get in your car and drive someplace. (If you haven't seen the latest "5 Below" ad for their store, that's what I imagine people doing right now.) </p><p>Me? Oh, I started shopping in June. I have a chart that I keep for exactly what got everyone last year, what I got them this year. I make sure people have the same number of gifts under the tree, befitting their relationship to me. Skippy and Peaches have the same number as Hubby. Children's partners have the same number as each other. Nieces and nephews have the same number of gifts as each other. I even have a box of "just in case" gifts wrapped and ready to go in case someone I'm not aware of shows up on my doorstep Christmas morning.</p><p>Don't be jealous. I haven't baked a thing. I've got premade cookie dough out on the counter waiting for me to do something, anything with it. I doubt I'll do anything. I've already informed Hubby there will be no homemade Kringle this year. Also, I'm thinking Christmas Eve dinner is going to be Pizza. Frozen Pizza. Christmas cards are probably going to be Epiphany Cards, which we'll then push to Easter and then decide nothing's really gone on that much that people need a card from us. </p><p>So yeah. I'm still the same old mess you all know and love.</p><p>Now today I was going to write a nice 5 for Friday about 5 holiday songs you don't have on your holiday playlist, but you should. It was going to be a very nice little blog that was going to put you all in the right mood to get you to Christmas morning.</p><p>And then I went to the grocery store. My dad is sick so I offered to pick up a few things for my mom, so they won't have to go out in the snowy slushy mess that's happening in our weather right now.</p><p>And now we have a different 5 for Friday. It's FIVE THINGS THAT PISSED ME OFF AT THE GROCERY STORE THIS MORNING!</p><p>Ready?</p><p><br /></p><p><b>5) DON'T YOU PEOPLE HAVE JOBS OR SCHOOL?</b></p><p>Seriously. 9:30 on a Friday morning. Even allowing for the senior citizens (isn't Wednesday supposed to be the day we let the oldsters out to shop? What are they doing blocking my way on a Friday?) and the shopper people shopping for people who don't want to shop, there were a TON of job aged people dragging school aged children.</p><p>Yes, when my kids were small I took them and the kids I babysat to the store. Sure I did. It was an outing. I taught the kids how to make a shopping list, how to navigate the aisles in a store, and when to use a coupon and when it doesn't pay. (Not that any of those kids remember those lessons, but whatever.) That said, NOW if I'm in the supermarket on a weekday morning it's because 1) I'm in the middle of a cooking/baking project and realized I need one weird ingredient and I need it NOW or 2) I'm picking up a few things and I have a busy day so I need to MOVE.</p><p>And yet, I'm trapped behind a family of FIVE kids and every single one of them is shouting about some sugary snack or whatever and the parents, who clearly would rather be at their jobs, are ignoring the children and arguing with each other about which can of yams is a better value. (Here's a hint: NO ONE IS GOING TO LIKE THE CANNED YAMS. Stop buying them. The stores will stop trying to sell them and then they can use that shelf space for something better, like cookies.)</p><p><b>4) Could we PLEASE go back to stocking at night?</b></p><p>Oh, my lord. I know that Covid changed the landscape of retail grocery stores forever. I realize we'll probably never have our pick of 24-hour supermarkets to shop at ever again. But...for the love of all that's holy, could we PLEASE at least have the stockers go back to working when the store is closed?</p><p>When stores were opened 24 hours a day, I was okay with having to weave around flatbeds of boxed goods at 11 at night. There weren't a lot of other shoppers to contend with, so it was okay. But now, now I'm fighting traffic with shoppers AND stockers. It's like the opening five minutes of "Office Space" where the office employees are stuck in traffic. </p><p>Oh, and here's a rule: If it's something I need...either a giant pile of boxes will be in front of it, or a couple grannies in those motorized carts will be double parked in front of it. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>3) If I hear that joke one more time...</b></p><p>We've all been there: We're rolling down the big aisle of the grocery store and some jackwagon pops out from a crossing aisle and you very nearly crash and one of you says, "Oh they should put traffic lights up here." Ha ha.</p><p>To quote a wise saying from my youth, "Gag me with a spoon."</p><p>Repeating that stupid joke does not clear you of stupid cart driving. If you're crossing the main aisle, slow the bleep down and look! Don't just shove your 300-pound cart (with your fourth grader riding on the rack underneath, even though the signs on the cart say, "Don't put a child in the bottom rack.") out into traffic and then act all shocked when someone nearly sideswipes you. Hey, if your fourth grader loses his fingers in an accident like that, you're probably not going to find the joke funny. Or maybe you're a terrible parent (which one could surmise, given you're letting the kid ride under the cart) and you still think the joke is funny. </p><p>My point is, WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING. And if you're a slower shopper, MOVE OVER for those of us who have an organized list and know what we're doing. </p><p>Also, if you're comparison shopping, and that's fine, how about if you DON'T angle park your cart so it takes up the entire aisle. I'm not in the store to make chitchat. Asking you to please move so I can get by might just use up every spoon I have and then I won't have the energy to make dinner for my family and they'll wind up ordering pizza which will raise their blood pressure and blood sugars and make them fat. DO YOU WANT THAT ON YOUR CONSCIENCE? NO? Then move your cart OVER if you're slow shopping.</p><p><b>2) I bet you train your employees, right? Then why do you assume we all know how to do this?</b></p><p><b>Self-checking.</b> I've been against it from the start. First of all, stores spend time training their employees on how to be cashiers. I remember. I worked for Aldi for a brief time. The training was intense. So I make a point to use those highly trained employees whenever I can.</p><p>But somedays the line for a cashier at Woodman's is ten deep. Sure, they have like fifteen cash registers, but only two lines are open. The other fifteen checkout stands are self-check. Sometimes I don't have the time or patience for it, or I've made the mistake of wearing my coat into the store and now I'm melting because the store's thermostat is set to "SUN" and I'm already a warm person (thank you, Menopause). So I wind up in self-check.</p><p>Like I said, I've worked as a grocery cashier, but not everyone has. Case in point, the two women in front of me at Woodman's today.</p><p>Woman 1: A TON of stuff in her cart and she was picking things out in a particular order.</p><p>Woman 2: Less stuff in her cart, but she couldn't find a UPC code to save her life.</p><p>I got behind woman 2. And I struck up a conversation with the guy who got behind woman 1. </p><p>Woman 1 got her groceries scanned first. Annoying. Woman 2 had to flag down the ONE cashier in charge of the SEA OF CHECKOUTS because she got herself a big old bag of rotten bananas for 99 cents, but there was no UPC code on the bag. (I know this because believe you me, she checked every side of the bag and half the bananas in it.) I don't know what she thought she was doing, but apparently WAVING HER CREDIT CARD in the air without saying anything out loud was the move she hoped would attract the cashier's attention.</p><p>Did it?</p><p>Would I be blogging if it had?</p><p>She finally murmured something like, "Excuse me?"</p><p>I was melting, I was annoyed, and I was watching my new bestie scan his cart and leave the store and I hadn't' moved an inch. So, I yelled, "EXCUSE ME!" in my best teacher voice the same time little Miss Timid murmured. She looked shocked. Not because I was yelling, but because she honestly believed that sound came out of her.</p><p>The cashier came over, scanned the bananas and that should have been the end of it, right?</p><p>Nope. Now it was time to stick said credit card into the machine to PAY for the groceries. Little Miss Timid, and I'm not even kidding, took a deep breath and slapped her hands against her thighs like a gymnast gearing up to mount he uneven parallel bars. </p><p>Spoiler alert, I give her payment routine a 4.2. She got the card into the payment machine, but it took her a couple tries to get the right PIN.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>1) If you're going to make us use self-check, how about if you make sure ALL THE SELF-CHECK LINES WORK?</b></p><p>Every single store I go to has self-check now. And in every single one of those stores, no less than 30% of the self-check machines (and it's usually closer to 50%) are OUT OF ORDER. How is this EVEN POSSIBLE??????????? HOW?????????? </p><p>Had all the self-check lines at the grocery been operating this morning, there would have been no blog. I wouldn't have gotten stuck behind Little Miss Timid. My buddy would have been behind me, not behind Woman 2, who while she scanned faster than woman 1, bagged her groceries like she was playing Tetris and if she didn't get every bag perfectly packaged someone would skin the child she had riding on the bottom of the cart. </p><p>Instead, half the checkouts don't work. I get they can't find people who want to work as cashiers. It's not a great job. The hours blow, it's not a great paying gig, you're on your feet the whole time, standing on concrete, and you have to deal with just the worst people on earth: The check writers who don't bring ID. The people who HAVE TO PAY with EXACT CHANGE. Or, you know, me. </p><p>What was my point? Oh right.</p><p>Anyway, I get that stores are having a tough time getting cashiers. But you can't even get your self-check machines to work for you? GIVE ME A BREAK!</p><p>So there you go. I meant to write a nice blog, but then this happened.</p><p><br /></p><p>Oh, and the five songs you should have on your holiday playlist, but probably don't?</p><p><br /></p><p>5) Selah <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qln7ADh3dTA">Light of the Stable</a></p><p>4) Rick Springfield <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uHYHHEQwcE">Christmas with You </a></p><p>3) Mike Westendorf <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFve-nYamA0">Nativity Song</a></p><p>2) Ana Gasteyer <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3MN6oGRXvaU">Sugar and Booze</a></p><p>1) Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uL19eKEa3CY">Big Bulbs</a></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-67218543504188514982022-12-02T08:58:00.003-08:002022-12-02T08:58:32.980-08:00Five for Friday: My trip to the Chiropractor.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzP1otb0LtBM5RHQ0J5SDMWJ31-7jnvVFfIkK38LnxpGfftE4klisj-iqZbWgA66VxAgi74tUfnHPdNdmYeXbN28Lo-wa9raqZPLZ99ath7N0hh-8GvBWiRHL0535V-xl-7yzOnRKckGTGaISwqSsCuD5qwkHJB2qSMq0KsaAmtpysVSxd-loJTvAL/s200/holidayfrenzy2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzP1otb0LtBM5RHQ0J5SDMWJ31-7jnvVFfIkK38LnxpGfftE4klisj-iqZbWgA66VxAgi74tUfnHPdNdmYeXbN28Lo-wa9raqZPLZ99ath7N0hh-8GvBWiRHL0535V-xl-7yzOnRKckGTGaISwqSsCuD5qwkHJB2qSMq0KsaAmtpysVSxd-loJTvAL/s1600/holidayfrenzy2.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Good morning!<p></p><p>Okay, fellow Christmas folk, we are t-minus 23 to the big day. Don't get frantic. We're all going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/20kbH_LRgZc" width="320" youtube-src-id="20kbH_LRgZc"></iframe></div><br /><p>Anyway, back to the topic at hand. My visit to the chiropractor.</p><p><br /></p><p>I've haven't been to one in years. And by years, I mean...I think I was pregnant with Skippy the last time I went. Which would be...a lot of years. But, back in early November, my left hand went all weak. I couldn't grip anything, and it actually hurt to make a fist. Not that I need to make a fist in my everyday life. So, hubby suggested a trip to the chiropractor.</p><p>No surprise, I put off calling. It's not that I fear doctors or dentists or medical people in general. I just am annoyed I have to go spend time sitting in their waiting rooms when I could just as easily be watching TV, lying on my couch. Wait, I mean, I could be cleaning my house and cooking nutritious meals based on my new cookbook, now out and perfect for holiday gift giving!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgrYPcNyT8PPEeB6PfPSKkdVyQgmmMmOGUqBh763oHvwjCI7for2F591acqvFfmvd54EChskLXE9RXI4H1XUKsggNUEYCB8SM76j76dH7NAZTTvgrQWchHgLKoSVR5apEhIc3rIiNb1t6ESWMmZamMeSrbiJ7IW7Hvx_rgg5tLI_DdRRgz882crKPue" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="100" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgrYPcNyT8PPEeB6PfPSKkdVyQgmmMmOGUqBh763oHvwjCI7for2F591acqvFfmvd54EChskLXE9RXI4H1XUKsggNUEYCB8SM76j76dH7NAZTTvgrQWchHgLKoSVR5apEhIc3rIiNb1t6ESWMmZamMeSrbiJ7IW7Hvx_rgg5tLI_DdRRgz882crKPue" width="160" /></a></div><a href="Sarah’s Cookbook for Real Humans who would rather watch TV than Cook.: Bradley, Sarah J.: 9798360656487: AmazonSmile: Books">Sarah's cookbook. Click here.</a><br /><p></p><p><br />Anyway, I put off going. Then I made the appointment. And then I got a super bad cold. So, I rescheduled. And rescheduled again. And rescheduled again. By the time I managed to haul my cookies into the office, my left hand was FINE. I could grip stuff, and all was right with the world. Except hubby was still at me to get looked at.</p><p>So, I got looked at. And here are 5 things that happened.</p><p><br /></p><p><b><u>5) Apparently, I really like circling stuff.</u></b></p><p>Because I hadn't been to <a href="https://www.badgerhealth.com/">Badger Health Center</a> for Chiropractic care, I had to fill out some forms. And one of the forms was a picture of a genitalia-free human body. The point was I was supposed to circle the part of the body that hurt.</p><p>Once I started circling body parts, I couldn't stop. Left hand and elbow. Check. Neck...well, yeah. Shoulders? Both of them. Knees? Well, always. One always hurts. Feet? Like I'm going to leave out the feet. By the time I was done circling, I had a headache. So, I circled the head.</p><p><br /></p><p><b><u>4) Ma'am...please don't take that off.</u></b></p><p>Unlike every other medical professional I've ever seen, including the massage people in that building, I got to keep my clothes on. Wish I'd known that, you know, before I started disrobing. In front of the nice young front desk person. While the door was still open. </p><p><br /></p><p><b><u>3) Just Call me Boris Karloff.</u></b></p><p>If you've been to a chiropractor, you know the weird table they have. You basically walk up to the thing and lean on it while it slowly lowers you to a lying position. Fun ride, right? I think I even said something stupid like, "Whee...."</p><p> Then the doctor comes in and starts jumping on you and shoving her knee into your kidneys, and parts of the table sort of fall away, with a very loud sound. Overall, it feels and sounds like she's trying to kill you and your body is breaking into several pieces, turning to stone, and crashing to the floor.</p><p>Then I flipped onto my back (gracefully of course...) and she yanked and pulled and twisted, all while the sections of the table gave way randomly. At the end, the table slowly rose, while I was now on my back. It looked a lot like that bit from Frankenstein, where the monster is coming to life and getting off the table. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyccD4SHVVQcIu24OBmsMFR-a3rOtvh1eqqeT610rcvWZSvwQKSE59Ce3QCsjZ-Bcm3lrM8eX-5gDhplgexBAFO1ATaOwkPl4Eg-9Zgpks-RxjPDz3otExD58yZG00lba07eqcXJD_MN10roclTL3hoUAYQbyCrW2CqzhybZuFk2QwoC1MIC3QdA4e" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1900" data-original-width="1518" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhyccD4SHVVQcIu24OBmsMFR-a3rOtvh1eqqeT610rcvWZSvwQKSE59Ce3QCsjZ-Bcm3lrM8eX-5gDhplgexBAFO1ATaOwkPl4Eg-9Zgpks-RxjPDz3otExD58yZG00lba07eqcXJD_MN10roclTL3hoUAYQbyCrW2CqzhybZuFk2QwoC1MIC3QdA4e" width="192" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><b><u>2)This came back to bite me in a big way...</u></b></p><p>Since I circled everything on that form, the chiropractor was going to address...everything.</p><p>Neck and shoulders? "You're very tight. Let's just do a light adjustment..." CRACK BAM CRACK.</p><p>Knees? "Oh, your ligaments are loose and your hamstrings are hard. Let's just poke and push on them until you scream. And now...we yank!"</p><p>Lower back? "Do you have lower back problems?" (It was literally the one thing I didn't circle.) I said, "No...no...I'm good." What she heard was, "Stick your knees on both sides of my hips, find the really tender spots and then bounce on me for ten minutes yelling, 'yee ha' the whole time."</p><p>Elbows and hands? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWVIWXPlg8He4UfvNHuAgClSS1VxESWZVJ_Wj9yylIo4YUo8pVOiI6m-RQXqZQcBBHbuQTNqkZd8md1NFOMiDF3n1kmFxG7NjkfLcFJbEyOIO_HvvadK0VMqyhc5w1s3WSrNE5jDI3tHeAkdqktB8js_JsZfpJEM2a8uQhmbbzd4TZEcTAi3yqDYB-" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="500" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWVIWXPlg8He4UfvNHuAgClSS1VxESWZVJ_Wj9yylIo4YUo8pVOiI6m-RQXqZQcBBHbuQTNqkZd8md1NFOMiDF3n1kmFxG7NjkfLcFJbEyOIO_HvvadK0VMqyhc5w1s3WSrNE5jDI3tHeAkdqktB8js_JsZfpJEM2a8uQhmbbzd4TZEcTAi3yqDYB-" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>*This paragraph has been blacked out due to images of violence, torture, and foul language.</p><p><br /></p><p>Feet? I stopped her there. It was a bad day, arthritically speaking, and I can barely tolerate any pressure on my right foot on a good day. So...let's just leave that alone.</p><p>Then, after all that, she says..."Do you suffer from arthritis?"</p><p>Well, I DID, but now I suffer from YOU!</p><p><br /></p><p><b><u>1) Wait, we're not done? I'm not cured?</u></b></p><p>Finally, after it was all over, and every joint I own was screaming in agony, she helped back to the front desk and there said two things that struck me down with fear.</p><p>1) "I want to see you in the next couple days again."</p><p>2) "According to your insurance, you have twenty visits between now and the end of the year. We can really work on what's hurting you."</p><p>GOOD LORD...I'm not done? I have to come back? And you want to see me up to 20 times before the end of this month?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjm6hRPSZoVN3MjF9EQ0n9cXXc3KteEKq0FehqBXh9qjro3X7VskrvwCPZwE0elInn6Db5i2OjE02LWTxFg9PdgQkfQHMMfnW9HOjKK9gB736t2mn0Ee8ddewRqA3hLRO1ekMCCYsCd0b0lIY_SXmbsyKyy4xgCp4aPc3TNgMIvQRjM0_U7dsHxqzaG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1732" data-original-width="1155" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjm6hRPSZoVN3MjF9EQ0n9cXXc3KteEKq0FehqBXh9qjro3X7VskrvwCPZwE0elInn6Db5i2OjE02LWTxFg9PdgQkfQHMMfnW9HOjKK9gB736t2mn0Ee8ddewRqA3hLRO1ekMCCYsCd0b0lIY_SXmbsyKyy4xgCp4aPc3TNgMIvQRjM0_U7dsHxqzaG" width="160" /></a></div><br />Well, okay then. I'm going back next week. On Monday, I think. Because why wouldn't you kick off a Monday with something like that?<p></p><p><br /></p><p>Meanwhile, </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibBDwV90otXWml7V2lkFMVX1F0XvtP333lADKS6VZ0eVrnMi4201cIU_On1DwQyZg04rAucgSt1zL0E0KDXAsNMjcjjw6P_ojHD_HqPJW1S0--U25m1Pl6Cox33BTIuipfhsGiiyd7MvcShPoSX_lE6icCy4A4TAlTfpna26auo5JOYshWpBDod3pE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="474" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibBDwV90otXWml7V2lkFMVX1F0XvtP333lADKS6VZ0eVrnMi4201cIU_On1DwQyZg04rAucgSt1zL0E0KDXAsNMjcjjw6P_ojHD_HqPJW1S0--U25m1Pl6Cox33BTIuipfhsGiiyd7MvcShPoSX_lE6icCy4A4TAlTfpna26auo5JOYshWpBDod3pE" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-66602886944557024622022-11-27T13:46:00.002-08:002022-11-27T13:46:52.370-08:00A Different Kind of Holiday Letter<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDGye8iwuNlq2qck0ysKHfwkx3IK2no_0jxKaF3OgK2gfNAx1ouTSUqeuteGkLhi1bCcNzW830YHEATGZvHh_NZ4NT-e71vrlaVEp8f4nWdGel4SUoWEvfxiKna5vXzz9q5uOtQrC3HaxawydrEb924YbygmQDko6yShasF1JWAJZfYDF73U5R0g8Y" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="474" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDGye8iwuNlq2qck0ysKHfwkx3IK2no_0jxKaF3OgK2gfNAx1ouTSUqeuteGkLhi1bCcNzW830YHEATGZvHh_NZ4NT-e71vrlaVEp8f4nWdGel4SUoWEvfxiKna5vXzz9q5uOtQrC3HaxawydrEb924YbygmQDko6yShasF1JWAJZfYDF73U5R0g8Y" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Hello everyone! I'm taking a short break from decorating the house for Christmas to send you all a little bit of a holiday letter. I can't promise you it'll be entertaining, but I guarantee it's not like any other holiday letter you've gotten.</p><p><br /></p><p>We all get those letters this time of year, right? Susie's on the honor roll. Jimmy's the starting QB. Bob got promoted twice this year and to celebrate we took the whole family to Italy. And Sharon, well Sharon just wrote a song that got recorded by Blake Shelton (or insert some musician you like) so they all moved to Nashville and live next door to Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman.<br /><br /></p><p>Meanwhile, in your life...It's a shambles. One kid's failing school, one kid dropped out of college, you lost your job and thanks to Covid, your husband's restaurant closed and he hasn't left the couch since 2021.</p><p>Normally I'm able to rise above all of the Facebook Comparisons and all that. My kids are awesome, my husband is a pillar of any and all communities, and I'm perfectly happy living in the suburbs with my little job and my little writing hobby.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaDke0E6HO2wZQtej8E4ob-q7PHnZF8rn_ok8MFvrEcT1HvCpEmYLKC7bCWDHchXhVDvyKb_twNtC9UzDtmO8W9XpaVmmZYYqbEI6VM0qhq0a3FvIDXSlsajciLX89hycRp0Tr4FmG3xvIqW-N7fPIPA8pG4cGfXIwIEQypOOEbGRV2-SCD20g5m8B" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="630" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaDke0E6HO2wZQtej8E4ob-q7PHnZF8rn_ok8MFvrEcT1HvCpEmYLKC7bCWDHchXhVDvyKb_twNtC9UzDtmO8W9XpaVmmZYYqbEI6VM0qhq0a3FvIDXSlsajciLX89hycRp0Tr4FmG3xvIqW-N7fPIPA8pG4cGfXIwIEQypOOEbGRV2-SCD20g5m8B" width="240" /></a></div><br />But this year I noticed something, especially last Wednesday night as we were driving to Hubby's mom's place for Thanksgiving: I'm blue. I'm not feeling the excitement and energy and joy the holidays usually bring me. All I can feel is overwhelmed and...blue.<p></p><p>I know I'm not alone. So many of my friends experienced devastating family losses this year of a spouse, a child, or a parent. Maybe some of those losses were not shocking, because of age or illness. That doesn't matter. There's one less person sitting at the table this year. </p><p>Some of my friends and family experience the breaking of a relationship. Or divisions within the family due to politics, religion, and whatever else we humans allow to come between us and the people around us. Some of us, many of us, okay, this would be me, lost a job and hard a really, really hard time finding anything to replace it. Even now, while I like my job, it's not fulfilling our financial needs, and things are a bit tight here. We're not broke; but redoing the kitchen has been put on hold...for about the fifteenth year in a row. </p><p>I don't have to look too far, either, to see people very, very close to me battling mental illness and suffering. I look at the younger generation, my children and their friends, and I wonder if we are addressing mental illness better now than we did when my grandmother was with us and so burdened and anguished with her schizophrenia, or if there are actually so many more people out there doing battle with the noises and pains no one else can hear or see.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgz5McHAMxd0SJP63IEG-TerOgWfVOeVWrn-tNIIBRLdHRepurSgHFUvwxTtlu57EkNziH08bGWtgRPqKBKkFDfyQGYsc9HHTEOQHVvV3nKXqwDAgbuKaXGZY1fi0iOq8uj7DRTE1vnuHjCor7oVqgjCDc2spP7oNvlqDelFVCeOQiA4wDJfdPaTCA6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgz5McHAMxd0SJP63IEG-TerOgWfVOeVWrn-tNIIBRLdHRepurSgHFUvwxTtlu57EkNziH08bGWtgRPqKBKkFDfyQGYsc9HHTEOQHVvV3nKXqwDAgbuKaXGZY1fi0iOq8uj7DRTE1vnuHjCor7oVqgjCDc2spP7oNvlqDelFVCeOQiA4wDJfdPaTCA6" width="320" /></a></div><br />Even saying the words, "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays" has become a reason to be angry. Let me tell you all this, my friends: I am a Christian, and I celebrate Christmas. So if I say, "Merry Christmas" to you, I'm not making a political statement or judging you in any way. I'm saying it because, to me, even now in my state of blue-ness, Christmas is just the best, best, best thing and I want everyone to experience the bestness of it all. (And yes, that includes celebrating the birth of Jesus.) <p></p><p>Conversely, if I say, "Happy Holidays" I'm warring on Christmas or trying to cut the Savior out of the celebrations. I'm acknowledging that there are many other religions and celebrations this time of year and that I respect the right of others to celebrate what they believe how they believe. (I don't understand why on earth every single religion in the world doesn't decorate in pretty twinkle lights this time of year, but that's just my thing. I love twinkle lights.) I'm not trying to do away with Christmas. I'm wishing those around me a happy holiday, no matter what you celebrate.</p><p>But saying it here, I know it's just a drop in the bucket compared to all the yelling and shouting and unkindness out there. And friends, it's gotten to me. </p><p>It's all gotten to me. </p><p>My kids have struggles that never seem to end. And those struggles aren't public. So the outside world doesn't really know just how awesome Peaches and Skippy really are. The world sees what it sees and judges thusly. </p><p>Hubby used to love his job. Now, he still works for the same company, but he lost the position he loved thanks to Covid. Instead, it's all remote, all day. All day he sits at his desk in the house, working endless hours. The overtime is great, it almost makes up for the fact that I'm working halftime. But toll it's taking on his heart is great, and it's got me down. He spent too many years working jobs he hated when the kids were little because he had to. He shouldn't have to put up with all that.</p><p>As for me, sure, I like my new job. But it's a job. And, thanks to losing the job I loved for seven years this past spring, a move that didn't completely come out of nowhere, but really left me brokenhearted because not only did I lose a job I loved, I lost friends I loved, friends who got to keep their jobs, are still working at the same place even now, and they don't talk to me...and I have no idea why.</p><p>I had a job in the late summer that seemed possible. But it sucked the lifeforce out of me. A healthy adult shouldn't be going to bed at 6PM. I made some friends there, friends who have stayed with me even though I only worked there seven weeks. So that's a plus. Now I have this new gig, and it'll turn into something, but in the meantime I don't feel like I'm pulling my weight around the house. The house, which is always a mess. Something's always broken. But I'm overwhelmed by it all. I'm writing, because I'm afraid if I don't, people are going to look at me and say, "what is it you do all day?"</p><p><span> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh91e42JYuUcr-yWfH9udzWClwmt2kFD74U8oMvsoTlFE9c_MZZ8eCtwzGmrM9-xbPXkoLxL0YX65oJEsXyxTV843F_cuZkRk6ZmVkDJmdKwHQ495u3FgTtHJ8mnvl-2zASqT21xqGIzpqRcm6n3pVfCbPj33gIjAJtPDZkhOBvhln4IzN0MxmXXhvv" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="474" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh91e42JYuUcr-yWfH9udzWClwmt2kFD74U8oMvsoTlFE9c_MZZ8eCtwzGmrM9-xbPXkoLxL0YX65oJEsXyxTV843F_cuZkRk6ZmVkDJmdKwHQ495u3FgTtHJ8mnvl-2zASqT21xqGIzpqRcm6n3pVfCbPj33gIjAJtPDZkhOBvhln4IzN0MxmXXhvv" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span>There is excitement for the holiday season, sure. In church this morning we talked about putting lights on the tree and how beautiful it is and how, "The darker the night the more beautiful the light." Of course, we were talking about the light of Christ in a dark world, but I went hope and started stringing a crap ton of twinkle lights in my living room. They're going to be able to see my tree from space. I mean, if they drilled a hole in the roof. Oh, wait, there's already a hole in the roof.</span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMIadZQNE5v65eGlZ-nFxYrhQR0ve7CJv2o0uWZl3pFjL3iSQid9IgDD31g6StExndlk7azrRTws37jCTQZuqyQvRNYc8XuWXX-vWGwFXTiUOrQje_aMZOhI18rJID_g7UHC9UnGlNwh-19lX_Aw2irtutU1CUwVZrB_kTX8We3H7WkNYWmey-RxyF" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="1438" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMIadZQNE5v65eGlZ-nFxYrhQR0ve7CJv2o0uWZl3pFjL3iSQid9IgDD31g6StExndlk7azrRTws37jCTQZuqyQvRNYc8XuWXX-vWGwFXTiUOrQje_aMZOhI18rJID_g7UHC9UnGlNwh-19lX_Aw2irtutU1CUwVZrB_kTX8We3H7WkNYWmey-RxyF" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><span>Friends, I'm not complaining. That's not what this is about. I wanted to let you all know that everything around here isn't a laugh a minute. I try to make it so, because if I didn't laugh at myself, I'd spend more time crying, and honestly, I'm what you'd call an ugly crier. Like really ugly.</span></p><p><span>I guess what I'm saying, in this completely introspective, depressing little tome, is that if you're feeling blue right now, during the holidays, it's okay. It's normal. If you feel like your family isn't as good as all the families on Face book, hey, you're not along feeling like that. </span></p><p><span>When I was a kid, my parents got dozens of Christmas letters but one stood out in all those years. It was a teacher friend of my mom's. And one year the whole letter was about illness and surgeries and puss and snot. We called it the depressing letter. Forty years later, if mom says the woman's name, I ask, "She's the depressing letter lady, right?"</span></p><p><span>My point is, let's get real, people. You want your distant friends and family to know what's going on, be honest. Or if you can't be completely honest, at least don't lie. There was a Christmas letter one year my parents got where the mom raved on and on about her five children and their accomplishments. Not one word about the husband. Not one. My dad asked if maybe the husband died. No, he didn't. She just couldn't find anything to brag about with him. I mean...</span></p><p><span>Got nothing earth moving to say? How about telling your friends you're making it from day and to day and you're praying for better times? How far would that go toward making your friendships, your real friendships stronger? I get letters from relatives where it's, "Oh this kid was amazing and that kid cured the common cold." When we get letters like that, Hubby and I throw the letter in the middle of the room, get a walking stick, and beat the letter on the floor. I'm not even kidding. Brag too much, your letter gets beaten with a stick in our house.</span></p><p><span>Friends, it's okay to be blue. I am right now. But let's not hide it. Let's be okay not being okay. Let's lean on each other, and on our faiths. Let's find what unites us, even if it's just all of us admitting we pray for a blizzard so we don't have to go to the family gathering.</span></p><p><span><span> Above it all let's all have </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRvJFG0IxDbpcApkIGQ_yCKqv9JaMuq1-qsacPflQjOVntHuWdfedZO5OyxNZ4FAHxBBR9_ujSqHha3nMVpd8wrOQ6u8CKkn1q0MURSpXEFq7MmZbwrMr29V4zWq3Msu8-zwe5DGakWH_XxB7Ejw0G1MexYlOBAmu4M1SzOgwX4MaS_K196zx1py6T" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="535" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRvJFG0IxDbpcApkIGQ_yCKqv9JaMuq1-qsacPflQjOVntHuWdfedZO5OyxNZ4FAHxBBR9_ujSqHha3nMVpd8wrOQ6u8CKkn1q0MURSpXEFq7MmZbwrMr29V4zWq3Msu8-zwe5DGakWH_XxB7Ejw0G1MexYlOBAmu4M1SzOgwX4MaS_K196zx1py6T" width="185" /></a></div><br />AND <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUwtMxETppEwoPof_POxUkbg_n05clOzTTqIdXQYC6KcDuACi65J-2dTum6WKwn9gzQfAUpf8Sjje1N3OGOpGXmMdmI7ouUS-NTL34gHj8o4Bc_jxjLHfOQfBIcKdp1Knjk2Wu5mGWg1UJtIzQWyUBXydvRABXN723LAG2CNVwbp_VNWleojTYn4Kh" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUwtMxETppEwoPof_POxUkbg_n05clOzTTqIdXQYC6KcDuACi65J-2dTum6WKwn9gzQfAUpf8Sjje1N3OGOpGXmMdmI7ouUS-NTL34gHj8o4Bc_jxjLHfOQfBIcKdp1Knjk2Wu5mGWg1UJtIzQWyUBXydvRABXN723LAG2CNVwbp_VNWleojTYn4Kh" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-69256515580070418862022-11-22T14:25:00.006-08:002022-11-22T14:25:49.137-08:00If I have to eat Turkey, can it be this part?<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPVj3n4S0gq378oMz7VLSg0f9XLsv__QzslbOZ8TusOsTpU4AGXNYlSq9OWgCiJUt8Si_W0OhucCcZjuXogFYlhZkP6VvasMerlMydNEvuGLWhO1UlMcsYWdKYu6WxYTS9J6CHW8ji2OxxPKetFaOCFwi0BxQkHM_aULyEeUtbuTtt94bQxdc_lbwK" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="780" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPVj3n4S0gq378oMz7VLSg0f9XLsv__QzslbOZ8TusOsTpU4AGXNYlSq9OWgCiJUt8Si_W0OhucCcZjuXogFYlhZkP6VvasMerlMydNEvuGLWhO1UlMcsYWdKYu6WxYTS9J6CHW8ji2OxxPKetFaOCFwi0BxQkHM_aULyEeUtbuTtt94bQxdc_lbwK" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">Happy Thanksgiving to you all! This
year I’m thankful, again, for so many things, but one big one is that
yesterday, thanks to my commitment to the Nanowrimo challenge here in November,
I managed to finish the first draft of Abracadabra: A Max Marchino Mystery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True, it’s the most messed up first draft I’ve
ever written.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a mystery, and I was fairly
positive no less than five times during the writing who the guilty party would
be. I was wrong every time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the good
news is that I didn’t make any changes along the way so now, during the second
draft work, I get to make sure I have all my literary ducks in a row.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That should be fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and for more funsies, I also changed the
names of half the characters at least once. I put all my trust in the find and
change feature on Windows.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So that’s sure to be fun.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anywhoo, I’m not here to bemoan my
rough draft woes. It’s Thanksgiving which means it’s time for another tale from
my younger years.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> Or, as some people
like to call it: stories that make it clear why Sarah is the way she is.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We in America take a moment to pause
in November to give thanks for the blessings we’ve been given.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for football.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for shopping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, we also stuff ourselves with way
more food than anyone needs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But mostly
that thankful for blessings part.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span> <span> </span><span> I'd like to pause in all this thankfulness to lodge one tiny little complaint:</span></span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Turkey is gross. Why do we have to make turkey and pretend to like it?</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Oh come on. Turkey, 364 days a year, is the meat you eat when you're not supposed to eat meat. It's the healthy option when your cholesterol is out of whack. It's the preferred selection when you're trying to lose weight. Turkey, to put it bluntly, blows. Especially the white meat.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Who decided white meat was so great? I remember sitting in a restaurant with my one of my Tantes (that's a German word that means "aunt" and it's the word my family has always used for the sister or sister-in-law of the grandparent.) and she ordered a chicken dinner, but was very specific that she only wanted white meat. And all I could think was...WHY? </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> The white meat of any fowl is, without exception, dry, tasteless, and pointless. There's a reason boneless, skinless chicken breast is the choice of dieters everywhere. It's zero on the taste scale. In order to make white meat of a turkey or a chicken taste good, you have to inject it with stuff, rub it with stuff, and stuff it with...stuff.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> You know who doesn't have to do that? People who eat dark meat.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> How do I know dark meat is better? Because God didn't put all the much dark meat on a bird. God, well, the one I worship anyway, has always been sort of a 'you don't want too much of a good thing' sort of deity. (And before you get all up in arms, my Christian friends, I'm not talking about the general plan of salvation or Jesus. I'm talking about dark meat on birds. Calm yourselves.) Need money? Sure, but not too much. Need a house? Okay, but not too big. Need dark meat for Thanksgiving?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Oh yeah, God said, but only two legs. Maybe some on the wing, but a turkey wing is going to be such a big, bony affair, no one's going to bother with it. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Now, my favorite part of a chicken is the thigh. But do turkeys have thighs? Nope. So, on a turkey, the only source of delicious, moist, flavorful dark meat that doesn't turn into a knot of rope in your mouth while you're trying to chew it are the two legs.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> That might be enough for a normal family with a couple kids and a bunch of grown ups who all want the white meat. (I don't know who they think they're fooling. Sure, eat the white turkey meat. But when you dump 8 gallons of gravy on it so you can choke it down, guess what? The scale isn't going to give you credit for eating white meat.) But my family was a little different.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcWdD7DAU8xCG3nvcDr4xWN3rH_NNhLEOwwqYYvJbCqflVX8WSheJwt2c6xhWxX2cu5gGbHMGwiYaDZLe4o85xKCnKOYLgkQ4UgcMpLqTzWBYH6yc65r6lJydMvFF2lfhwbtjU_anHMVkuBr9_vy44bhC1ZiALatYrY3ZQChFaBFHxagrn3JMfpoEM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcWdD7DAU8xCG3nvcDr4xWN3rH_NNhLEOwwqYYvJbCqflVX8WSheJwt2c6xhWxX2cu5gGbHMGwiYaDZLe4o85xKCnKOYLgkQ4UgcMpLqTzWBYH6yc65r6lJydMvFF2lfhwbtjU_anHMVkuBr9_vy44bhC1ZiALatYrY3ZQChFaBFHxagrn3JMfpoEM" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Thanksgivings for me growing up almost always included at least one of my mom's brothers, if not both, their wives, my grandparents, and my seven cousins. When you throw in my brother, that's nine kids. Nine kids begging for dark meat. Nine kids and two legs.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Jesus could have made it work, but my mother and my aunts? Not a chance.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> one other thing: In order to save time and space on the table, my mom and aunts ALWAYS made the turkey the night before thanksgiving, then cut it up and served it on a plate, with white and dark meats segregated into little piles on the platter. And here's how we got served.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> the adults: Who took white meat.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> The babies and wee little kids the adults had to serve: who took dark meat.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> My older cousins who walked faster than I did from the kids' table to the main table: Where they got dark meat.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> My brother and younger cousins who, unrestrained by the parental admonition: "You're old enough to know better" would run to the big table where they got, yes, you guessed it, dark meat.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> And that left good old Sarah. Sarah, who lived under threat of losing TV privileges if she embarrassed her parents in front of the family. Sarah, who was, by nature, not as loud or forceful as the rest of the cousins. And Sarah, who, by the time she got to the table, wound up having to eat white meat because all the dark meat was gone.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> But, before you feel sorry for that little girl, ponder this: I might not have been as loud, or as forceful, or as amusing or smart or pretty or talented as the rest of the bunch. But I was lightyears ahead of my cousins in one area: Creative problem solving. Given enough information and time, I can solve the crap out of any problem (except for most of my own LOL) in a way that few others have thought of.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <span> </span>These days I use my power for writing. But when I was a kid, before I got serious about entertaining people with the written word, I used my powers to solve my little kid problems in creative ways. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span> </span> Which is how, the year I turned nine, the turkey NECK became my favorite part of the Thanksgiving bird. I remember that first neck even now, all these decades later. We were at my aunt's house. She'd made the bird the night before, and was finishing up the carving. The next step in the process for her was to make the gravy out of the drippings in the roasting pan. I peered over the edge of the pan and saw a long, sort of tube-shaped meat-covered thing in the pan. My nine year old brain couldn't process what I was looking at, so I asked the adults.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span> <span> "Oh that's the neck," my aunt said. "Go ahead you can have that."</span></span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span> </span><span> I don't know if you know what a cooked turkey neck looks like, but I will tell you that eating that first neck was an amazing, eye-opening moment in my culinary life. the meat on the neck takes work to get at and there's literally only one way to do it: you much gnaw on it. There's no polite way to eat the meat off a turkey neck. It's all knotted and twisted around the neckbones. But it is the loveliest, tenderest, most flavorful part of that stupid bird.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTuWuF72P0kf2obAtemxBmliAQhtzKFLdoUNqvTI7QcS4g7HmmHyngHF9Uyhf3CIZFSFaHcfw8FL5piCeeuqlwCWDhuv2lFLP2oo6B76NZlQh6ChwGviOUfxHkBTjr9SEYUNBPQRt5gdSim9GPBvexsr1XIoyoagv0AlXwD88AndtC9Bkw08_mUwMo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTuWuF72P0kf2obAtemxBmliAQhtzKFLdoUNqvTI7QcS4g7HmmHyngHF9Uyhf3CIZFSFaHcfw8FL5piCeeuqlwCWDhuv2lFLP2oo6B76NZlQh6ChwGviOUfxHkBTjr9SEYUNBPQRt5gdSim9GPBvexsr1XIoyoagv0AlXwD88AndtC9Bkw08_mUwMo" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span><span> </span><span> So there I stood in my aunt's kitchen, gnawing on the thing and ripping the juicy strips of dark meat away from those tiny bones. And then at dinner, I didn't have the sad face. I told the adults, "I do'nt need any turkey. I ate the neck!"</span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Admittedly, that first year everyone laughed at me and my parents scolded me later for being weird and embarrassing them. (I'm going to take this moment to point out that my childhood foibles, while embarrassing, couldn't hold a candle to what my brother was going to put them through in his teen years. But that's another blog for another day.) Every year after that, however, the neck made its way to the platter of carved meat and then on to my plate. And yes, my cousins mocked me for looking like a dork while eating neck meat. Please. My entire life was a string of one group or another making fun of me. At least with the neck meat I was getting something good out of it.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Even now, I'm an old lady, and I still request that I get the neck, and only the neck. Let the kids or the adults with taste buds have the legs. I'll take the neck every time.</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Of course, if we could, as a collective mind, give up the notion that turkey is the meat for Thanksgiving, and maybe we switch it out with a nice rack of lamb or a big pork shoulder roast, that would be great. But until then, as long as I'm forced to eat turkey, it's going to be the neck.</span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span>Happy Thanksgiving everyone!</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcNTaYjKtHnbqwtTuwsdgCZvbCxMsTQbHo9pYa6k-nMU0oAwK4wt_zuafBChf9UTGnXuTYu7oDB-yiaggQFjTd8GRJqrV_y0WTdqvSL6D0NVAO0DGOU_s67S7mh7eNa2dNluOaukhLrKAYLnvO46CuYg0rlkKPuE2Ua93hBdEGg6nGjAuYmMhjr9bY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="974" data-original-width="1192" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcNTaYjKtHnbqwtTuwsdgCZvbCxMsTQbHo9pYa6k-nMU0oAwK4wt_zuafBChf9UTGnXuTYu7oDB-yiaggQFjTd8GRJqrV_y0WTdqvSL6D0NVAO0DGOU_s67S7mh7eNa2dNluOaukhLrKAYLnvO46CuYg0rlkKPuE2Ua93hBdEGg6nGjAuYmMhjr9bY" width="294" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-39026813041193844032022-10-19T05:04:00.003-07:002022-10-21T05:20:25.729-07:00What Sarah Did this Summer Part Five: Goodbye Stuff Empowered, Hello Stuff Recovered.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwxGNF-lDebad9_Zo3upHhrzsWMGJY2GyU-fGtaofjPdTmQ2nfuYgqPUXojIJb9QDQi79O0GD_wMnp_g76A6n456GAJkGVaPr2XQEjSERQ9eeQg7dSldIajV7FiLJwdaFfCo8LcmwcCKJD1I0YvKsO9ZAS8XC41touA36sNxqa0YmN1UuaVvpDUNF/s641/What-I-Did-This-Summer-List.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="641" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwxGNF-lDebad9_Zo3upHhrzsWMGJY2GyU-fGtaofjPdTmQ2nfuYgqPUXojIJb9QDQi79O0GD_wMnp_g76A6n456GAJkGVaPr2XQEjSERQ9eeQg7dSldIajV7FiLJwdaFfCo8LcmwcCKJD1I0YvKsO9ZAS8XC41touA36sNxqa0YmN1UuaVvpDUNF/s320/What-I-Did-This-Summer-List.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
been a minute since I quit a job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
last two jobs I had, I was fired from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(But don’t tell anyone who’s recently read my resume.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parting from Stuff, Installed has been
downgraded to “an amicable parting based on a mutual disagreement.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, I thought I was employed, and NBM
disagreed. And it was amicable in that he was happy I was gone and I did a
little gleeful dance out the door.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Anyway, my point is, the last job I actually QUIT was back when I worked
for Horrible Bossman (remember him?) back in 2011.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So it’s been more than a decade since I
actually, you know, gave notice and went through that whole deal.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Matty
from Stuff, Recovered (the new job) assumed that Stuff, Empowered wouldn’t make
me work out a two week notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
assumption was backed up by Peaches, Skippy, Hubby, and even Gretal, Skippy’s
g-friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one thought I was going to
have to actually work those last two weeks at Stuff, Empowered.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
except for Stuff, Empowered.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I took
the coward’s way out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I typically do,
but remember, I really, really do like the people I worked with at Stuff,
Empowered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate the whole disappointed
thing. I can deal with every human emotion directed at me except
disappointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Maybe that’s why I skip
out on choir practice so often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a disappointing
singer.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, being the coward I am, I
sent an email with a resignation letter that took me several hours to put
together. I’m a writer, I like all the words to hang together in a poetic
manner.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Plus, I
sent it on a Sunday night so everyone would have the news before I got there on
Monday.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What I
didn’t count on was Stuff Empowered’s really hard-core spam filter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I
got there on Monday, I realized that no one, not one person, had gotten my
email because it was deemed spam by the system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Which meant I had to fish the thing out of my spam box and resend it.
Which delayed the reaction from the managerial team by a couple hours.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
reactions ranged from HR sending me half a dozen emails informing me that my
benefits were going to end to Red, who walked up to my cubicle and gave me a
big hug. I honestly thought they’d be angry at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, the others on the team sent me an
email wishing me well.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not one
person said I could leave early. No one sent the security guy “Ryan” to my
desk. I had this great vision of Ryan coming to my desk and handing me a
banker’s box and then watching me while I packed up before escorting me to the
door. None of that happened.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
mostly business as usual, except that once news got around, everyone stopped at
Tucker’s cubicle and gave him grief for driving yet another person away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, and
N.E.W. (New Elsie W) was all broken up because she was CONVINCED we were going
to be BFFs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile, Red wasn’t
entirely sure NEW was going to last longer than I did.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fun
fact, a couple of days after I gave notice, Molly also gave notice. Not a
surprise to me, mostly because she’d confided that working in a cubicle wasn’t
also not her bliss, but once again, Poor Tucker took a beating from the other people in the department for driving yet another person away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Also, Poor, Tucker…alone in a pod with
N.E.W.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, I
worked the first week, business as usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then I got a call from Matty who asked if I could start a little
early.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a tiny bit annoyed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew this gaggle of geniuses was going to
need an office mom to handle things, but the whole interview process lasted a
week longer than it needed too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See,
Matty thought maybe I should meet the Wizard before I got hired. The Wizard
really didn’t want to be bothered. Had Matty pulled the trigger the day I interviewed;
I would have started the exact day he wanted me to. However, since they
collectively dragged their feet, I had committed to a full two weeks’
notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Matty couldn’t believe they were
holding me to it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No one
could. Bigger surprise, I was actually putting quite a lot of effort into my
last days.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I asked
HR if I could leave two days early. The response was: “We can’t make you stay.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cool
beans.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
the last three days of my employment at Stuff, Empowered, were kind of
interesting. It seems that this giant company believes in FUN.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like, lots of FUN.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Well, except during working hours on days
ending in Y.) They deemed that week the Customer Experience Appreciation Week.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No one
was quite sure what that meant. Are we appreciating our customers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are we appreciating the Customer Experience
department?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are we just appreciating the
entirety of the customer experience?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Which,
since I was in Order Tracking and Order Payment, was NOT a great experience for
customers or me.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The way
this giant company appreciated whatever it was they were appreciating was to
have what can only be described as a high school spirit week. I’m not making
that up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Monday was crazy hat day.
Tuesday was sports jersey day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wednesday
was generations day (They should have called it “misinterpretation of 80’s day”
and been done with it.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thursday was “Stuff
Empowered spirit wear…I mean, logo clothing. Friday was, and I’m not making
this up: Flannel shirt day, so we can show everyone how cozy we are at work.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
one made me laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flannel shirts were
definitely not within the dress code guidelines. Also, “cozy” wasn’t the first
thing one thought of spending time in that building. Not even my hot flashes
could stave off the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a small
blanket (which I used the first couple days and then realized I looked like an
old woman in a nursing home, so I took that home and brough a sweater.) And
who, exactly, was going witness this coziness?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Customers rarely came to the building and never to the third floor.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On my
last Friday at Stuff, Empowered, the pod was abuzz with what kind of hat to
wear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, okay, Molly and I were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tucker, honestly, was going to do whatever we
told him to, and N.E.W. insisted she didn’t have a hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not one hat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
you live in Wisconsin. You don’t have any kind of hat?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t like hats.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t
like hats either, but come on, in my house, there are at least a couple pieces
of headgear that are “mine.” And Hubby and Skippy have dozens of hats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find it difficult that believe that anyone,
really, ANYONE, doesn’t have access to a hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Okay, maybe the kids hubby and I sponsor through Christian kids charity
whatever don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, they don’t have
food or houses, we’re told, so they probably don’t have hats.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but N.E.W. swore up and down she didn’t have
a hat. And then she looked at me with pitiful hobbit eyes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
did not take the bait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ten years ago,
working with Elsie W., I would have brought a hat for her to wear and she’d
return it months later, covered in food and bent in four different ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope, this time I didn’t offer to lend N.E.W.
a hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I call that growth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or
something.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So hat
day came and this is what I looked like:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgVem4yjXIWqYJSzgcW1V6DLkfc8SY2LWnAJO1K2Zk3kyEfKTE5e7DV4XAUlguCjbe4q7w1DFuj2WWEtuRHOGkzcio-dHX8kGQcW1REStyivM1mdIYfCQpgjUuX8Jr9J5X_wiz_kPUDr_9FBzKdrrawDYKuK8kJSCBT4hnqgOk4t0ABNfHJsHMwVqT" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgVem4yjXIWqYJSzgcW1V6DLkfc8SY2LWnAJO1K2Zk3kyEfKTE5e7DV4XAUlguCjbe4q7w1DFuj2WWEtuRHOGkzcio-dHX8kGQcW1REStyivM1mdIYfCQpgjUuX8Jr9J5X_wiz_kPUDr_9FBzKdrrawDYKuK8kJSCBT4hnqgOk4t0ABNfHJsHMwVqT" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hats
didn’t last long for our pod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
headsets were bulky.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next day was sports teams’ day. I figured everyone would wear Packers and
Brewers, so I went with my other favorite team: Detroit Redwings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So that was fun.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6AvlS1NFMyngpU_n5u-NZdmQls3Dbh_HYJ3Vn0FAiKgYNoLrSwJUuay2J2SGudg_iNlokhj3wLo5ViepGmLDKpaWOJtMJKbShY_Jhx9oL5ICROJFvU1ARwZ3DpFYJcouqVJp3kNyde-7thOl2sHue6byzzfdjCLvy93ZEb3E6NGc-4NrdXRLpbnNw/s1912/sports%20day.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1912" data-original-width="453" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6AvlS1NFMyngpU_n5u-NZdmQls3Dbh_HYJ3Vn0FAiKgYNoLrSwJUuay2J2SGudg_iNlokhj3wLo5ViepGmLDKpaWOJtMJKbShY_Jhx9oL5ICROJFvU1ARwZ3DpFYJcouqVJp3kNyde-7thOl2sHue6byzzfdjCLvy93ZEb3E6NGc-4NrdXRLpbnNw/s320/sports%20day.jpg" width="76" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(I have no idea what's going on with that foot.)</div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Day
three of spirit week…I mean Customer Experience Appreciation, we could send
appreciation notes to each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember when you could send secret messages
to people during spirit week?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girls
from the pep club set up a card table and sold carnations of different colors
and you could attach a message to the carnation and someone from the pep club
would deliver it to your beloved/BFF/secret admiree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like that, except no carnations, and
no pep club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent a couple notes, to
Red and Molly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I got a couple, from
Red and Molly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So there’s that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway,
Day three of spirit week was Generations Day. Like I said, it should have been
named, “1980’s misconception day.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
managed to cobble together a legit 80’s outfit from my wardrobe. Apparently, my
taste in clothes hasn’t changed much since 1986.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even had proper high tops. I was missing
the leg warmers, but I had tall, heavy socks which served the purpose of making
my lower legs look bulky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Why was that
a thing?)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Things
were kind of drab in my cubicle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d
taken home everything already, so I had nothing to distract me from the
job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except for my chunky looking calves
(like they need help) and my sweaty feet. At 4:30 my department manager came by
and took my badge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 5:00 I waved to
everyone and left the third floor one last time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bye,
Bye, Stuff, Empowered. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hello
Stuff, Recovered.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
Stuff, Recovered is a tiny little business that recovers data from dead hard
drives, phones, video camera, lap tops, and the like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know even less about what this company does
that what I did with Stuff, Installed or Stuff, Empowered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t even fake any kind of knowledge.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What I
can do, however, is be a great gatekeeper and coffeemaker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, I can clean an office quickly. These
are all things this places needs big time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve now been here almost two weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve learned the following:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Matty,
a former tool and die shop manager, should not talk to people in a customer
service capacity, like, ever.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Computer
geniuses don’t know how to dust, vacuum, or clean a mirror.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
Wizard of Oz doesn’t like it when I go to his office if he’s in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I must take a package upstairs, he’d
prefer it if I did it when he’s not there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact, if I could just teleport packages up there with my brain, that
would be the best.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Both
the Wizard and the Tech have the same first name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, one’s Jackson. The other one’s
“him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take a guess which one is “him.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Training
for this job was not at all intense or detailed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Matty isn’t completely sure what he’s doing
or how he’s doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So…now that I’m on
my own, I’m reteaching myself how to manage the duties they’ve given me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of which take about 18 minutes in any
given work day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest of the time…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
the rest of the time I get to write, blog, and be in my own head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, once my brain has healed from the tumult
of this summer, maybe I’ll learn something about the basic tasks of the
business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I’m a computer wizard, and I just don’t
know it!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcqeuvQVDRctBhD2IgfSepQ3AwHESxW-ZvWHN1vqTzr4QqPbRM9037Wp5L01S5sVQHumxApJh7IjMLU47SLwjF9lN9sIUJhUXsVtsS3ujt084StAqGD6VQ5dRE_avWB60QRceor70Z7qV6w50ng4mxtPGWONbbbi-cWDhEGhF9TOz1mNJcqKQjXww/s1024/wHAT%20iDID%20THIS%20SUMMER%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcqeuvQVDRctBhD2IgfSepQ3AwHESxW-ZvWHN1vqTzr4QqPbRM9037Wp5L01S5sVQHumxApJh7IjMLU47SLwjF9lN9sIUJhUXsVtsS3ujt084StAqGD6VQ5dRE_avWB60QRceor70Z7qV6w50ng4mxtPGWONbbbi-cWDhEGhF9TOz1mNJcqKQjXww/s320/wHAT%20iDID%20THIS%20SUMMER%205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-32911217297226696722022-10-18T04:46:00.001-07:002022-10-18T04:46:14.582-07:00What Sarah Did This Summer: Part 4 A divinely placed apple and the second coming of Elsie W.<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyQAL3--Lvoskz-P-TJxSWUSKq0iK0cRiLJnQfigltxz87rA23_jbq6LO9NcFdYKG7FtkPUbqeReVMzNc65y0OyiuWAE7tEEoCHolFbC2hnPB7yMhUhRSDs7Yu1FZg9G2Wx95ZTcbOP7qLCe1Q2zfwb2PygDYcKnp8M6Kb5k4YAb-PC7n0Wk9IQPPp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="640" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyQAL3--Lvoskz-P-TJxSWUSKq0iK0cRiLJnQfigltxz87rA23_jbq6LO9NcFdYKG7FtkPUbqeReVMzNc65y0OyiuWAE7tEEoCHolFbC2hnPB7yMhUhRSDs7Yu1FZg9G2Wx95ZTcbOP7qLCe1Q2zfwb2PygDYcKnp8M6Kb5k4YAb-PC7n0Wk9IQPPp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Part four:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A divinely
placed apple and the second coming of Elsie W.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Those
of you who have been reading this blog for some time know that Hubby takes a
two week break from it all and goes to Colorado to stay in the mountains with
his sister and her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, if
you’ve been paying attention, you also know that over the years, weird stuff
tends to happen when hubby goes away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some of
the highlights:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Peaches
moved to her first apartment and I had to rent a UHAUL and then a bunch of kids
to help move. I can barely drive in reverse in my own car, so my friend Sparkle
had to back the UHAUL into my driveway.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Skippy’s
car’s axle snapped in half a block from house in the middle of a torrential
downpour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
enjoying a couple adult beverages and a movie, Peaches shaved her head…and I
had to help clean of up the patches she couldn’t reach.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I gave
Skippy the task of clearing out the weeks in a large patch of the back yard.
Obviously the only smart decision was to burn the weeds down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately for us, we didn’t have any
lighter fluid, and had to try burning green weeds with lamp oil. Spoiler
alert…it doesn’t work.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyway,
so my point is that weird stuff, comical stuff, or tragic stuff tends to happen
when Hubby’s calming presence isn’t close by. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids and I would probably spin off the
globe if it weren’t for Hubby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is
why, every time he goes to Colorado, he gives the kids the “don’t do anything
that will make your mother crazy” speech.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
year was no different, except that this year I was working OUTSIDE the house,
which meant that the opportunity for crazy was far higher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, true for form, something weird did
happen:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell down.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was taking my normal morning
walk. It was one of those lovely early fall mornings when it was cool, but not
cold and not dark, but the sun was just rising.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had climbed two hills and was just about at the last turn for home
when I stepped on an apple, one that had fallen from a small tree in a front
yard, and fell down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get points for
not swearing. All I said as I fell to the concrete was “ no, no, no…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
yes, yes, yes, I fell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My left knee and
left elbow hit the concrete hard. However, like all adults my age who would
rather die than have someone see them lying helpless anyplace, I leapt to my
feet and kept walking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was too early
for even the middle school kids to be out walking, so I doubt anyone saw me. My
dignity, what little I have, was intact! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
elbow was not. I managed to tear the skin open on both my arm and my leg,
although there was no damage to my brand new jeans (thank goodness!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s very hard to find a 14W in jeans, and
honestly, the 16Ws are too big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
shout out to Noom.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was, however,
having a really hard time bending an unbending my elbow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A normal person would have stayed home and
called a doctor.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think
we all know what I did.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sitting
at my desk there at Stuff, Empowered, I had trouble doing things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like, basic things. Like resting my elbow on
the desk, or like bending my elbow. But hey, who needs to use their left elbow?
Not me!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
plowed through work on Monday and Tuesday, but by the end of the day on Tuesday
I was sort of done with it all. I was done with the pain. I was done with the
exhaustion too. By then I’d been at the job a month and I. Was. Tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I did what a good employee would do: I
burned a paid day off and slept in on Wednesday.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My plan
was to lie on the couch all day and watch movies and heal. I wasn’t going to
the doctor, I think you all know me well enough by now to know that wasn’t going
to happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, when I emerged from bed
after sleeping 12 solid hours, I felt like I had to DO something. So, I fired
my resume off to three more places, this time to jobs that were part time. Ten
minutes later I had a phone call from…let’s call him Matty from a small tech
company in town. They needed a part time office person like…yesterday. Could I
come in that day for an interview.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hadn’t planned on getting out of my jammies, but sure, why not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tarted up, put on my “first interview”
outfit and headed over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I talked to
Matty for an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wow, did they need a
person. Not so much an office person as an office mom. Two computer wizards and
Matty, who was running the office, but really just wanted to quick working
forever. I’ll go into more detail about the weirdness of that interview and the
job in another blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But here’s the
highlight: Part time, 20-24 hours a week, $18 an hour, and once I was done with
my work for the day I could read, right, watch movies, whatever. They just
needed someone to answer the phone and talk to anyone who walked through the
door.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Perfect.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Especially
since, upon returning to work the next day, I had a new pod mate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">How does one describe her?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
she brought in two large Walmart bags full of candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was carrying a Starbucks coffee taller
than she was, and half of it was whipped cream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When she got into her cubicle, she proceeded to unpack all of her candy
and snacks and whatnot, and then she proceeded to start eating.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
eating.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
eating.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>OH MY
DEAR LORD… IT’S ELSIE W!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>(for
those of you who don’t know Elsie W, you’re going to have to go back to the
early posts of this blog, or buy one of the two books I wrote about her.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
yes, friends, my new pod neighbor was the second coming of dear old Elsie.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
showed up late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t pay attention
to anything anyone said to her. She always had a better solution to whatever
someone told her to do.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, and
remember the F12 button?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, they
didn’t use F12 at Stuff, Empowered, they used a VA03, which like the most
common code used to access information there. When I last checked, she’d been
there a month and still couldn’t remember VA03.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But in
all my days, I’ve never, ever seen anyone put away more sugar than New Elsie
W.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For training, while she was supposed
to be taking notes at other people’s desks, she took big bags of candy…the
chewy kind like starburst. You know, the exact kind of candy you should NOT eat
when you’re training for a busy phone job.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, but
it gets better. (For those of you thinking this is bordering on gossip, I don’t
gossip. What I do is observe and report.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And that’s what I’m doing now.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Red had
to train New Elsie. W.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Poor Red.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not learning VA03 and the candy thing wasn’t
even the half of the problem with N.E.W.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nope, the biggest problem was the…sleeping.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>See,
once thing I learned in teacher school is that what goes up must come
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What eats candy from dawn to noon
must, MUST crash immediately before lunch.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Picture
this if you will:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stuff, Empowered keeps
the office cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, most people wear
sweaters. Some will keep a blanket at their desk for those long afternoons of
typing when you can just wrap up in a blanket at your desk and stay warm. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
there are those few…those very fun few, who wrap up in the blanket and wear it
everywhere they go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guess which group
N.E.W. belongs to?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
best part, it was a Baby Yoda blanket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Did I
mention N.E.W. was very, very short. Not like little person short, because that
would be wrong to poke at her height then. No, she was just short. The top of
her head was just barely visible over the standard cubicle divider. Basically,
she was a Hobbit, wrapped in a Baby Yoda blanket, eating candy all day and
sleeping half the time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First
weeks I was at Stuff Empowered, I was terrified to have anything on my desk,
including my phone, because, you know, rules. But not N.E.W. Nope, she had zero
terror. She brought her phone along with the big bag of candy and then scrolled
through her social media while Tucker, Jasper, Molly, and a host of other team
members were trying to train her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sleeping and scrolling and snacking while wrapped in a blanket.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hm. You
know, Elsie had a couple daughters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
should have asked NEW what her mom’s name was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They say the Starburst fruit chew doesn’t fall far from the tree.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I’m
sitting at my desk, across the way from the blanketed NEW who has all four food
groups at her desk: Sugar, chocolate, coffee, and energy drinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(How was she not having a heart attack every
day?) and I ‘m watching her scroll to her heart’s content, except when she’s
firing off giggle inducing messages to her BFF, Trixie, one of Jasper’s pod
mates. Trixie was also a non-stop eater, but her food of choice was salty
snacks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Remember
how Stuff Empowered didn’t give anyone garbage cands under their desks because
they wanted us to talk to the centrally located cans, thereby forcing us to get
up and get blood flow back into our feet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yeah, well NEW was having none of that. Upon hearing she wasn’t going to
be given a can, she took to dumping her trash in a Walmart bag handing on the
coat hook in her cube (so attractive) and periodically, as it filled during the
day, she hobbited herself over to Trixie’s cube to dump it in the can Trixie
brought from home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
centrally located can was 11 steps from NEW and my desks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trixie’s desk was three steps from the
centrally located cans. That means NEW couldn’t be bothered to walk an extra
three steps.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
minute NEW landed in the cube across from mine, my mind was made up. I didn’t
care about the giant pay cut (because fewer hours) or the lack of benefits or
the fact that I was literally going to be working for the Wizard of Oz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed to get out of there before NEW’s
sugar addiction crossed over to my cubicle and I gained back the 35 pounds I
spent the last year losing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks to a
divinely snt apple and the new girl, I’d finally realized cubicle life wasn’t
for me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">NEXT UP:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye
Stuff Empowered, Hello Stuff Recovered.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-64893287152510861562022-10-14T09:11:00.007-07:002022-10-14T09:11:38.365-07:00What Sarah did this summer Part 3: Zombie life on the restroom highway<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcAz1Ju-VjUkgaYAVUlK3xrALyunD9PdL73eRHXokRsjxFCGhsbCAJtGISbhorTwbqeDBhhhaJ3sO-9iVGaYd4w4Lq_y7hRcacns1COw0rHpdyw4tRfnaKdiTX18TxcHsykWSs105ss4EgY7zlfGlUC4k98bYX49lUHlWeQlRKR5Nq4h7bAMp7tkCA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcAz1Ju-VjUkgaYAVUlK3xrALyunD9PdL73eRHXokRsjxFCGhsbCAJtGISbhorTwbqeDBhhhaJ3sO-9iVGaYd4w4Lq_y7hRcacns1COw0rHpdyw4tRfnaKdiTX18TxcHsykWSs105ss4EgY7zlfGlUC4k98bYX49lUHlWeQlRKR5Nq4h7bAMp7tkCA" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Part three, where we get into the nitty and the gritty of my job at Stuff Empowered. Before I begin, let me state this: I LOVED THE PEOPLE I WORKED WITH. Those of you new to this blog may not know but 99% the time I make fun of myself and 1% of the time I make fun of others. (Okay, if I'm waiting in line at the pharmacy, it's more like 99% of the I'm making fun of the people in front of me, but whatever.) I especially want those new to this blog to know...any jokes I make are not at your expense. So don't take offence.</p><p><br /></p><p>And, as always, Todd...consider this your warning. LOL</p><p><br /></p><p>Part Three</p><p><br /></p><p><span> So, I took the job at Stuff, Empowered. It was, by far, the biggest company I've ever worked for, and that includes the year I spent teaching at a parochial school where I was basically working for GOD. (Yep, that's how big this company is.)</span><br /></p><p><span><span> The first day on the job at Stuff Empowered isn't actually a day at work. It's ORIENTATION. ORIENTATION is held at the CORPORATE location which is on the other side of town from where my work location was. It's worth noting that while it was no big deal for ME to go to orientation, because of the size of this company, several of the people in my class actually lived in other cities, set to work as far away as an hour. </span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> I live a charmed life, I do, I do.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> I got there on time, which for me, is 20 minutes early. As I sat and waited, a gaggle of about 30 people came in and waited in the lobby. I struck up a conversation with three women and a younger guy, even though I knew immediately I was never going to see the younger guy again. he was an engineer who was going to be stationed in another city. The women, however, were going to be working at the same building I was. FRIENDS FOR ME!</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> I won't bore you with orientation. They spent the better part of 5 hours walking us around a building 90% of us weren't going to be working at. And the other 2 hours were spent talking about the insurance benefits. I was doing great, hanging with my little circle of new friends, until they started they handed out our job locations and assignments. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> None of my new friends were going to be in my department. I was the only one going to my department. This was a surprise for me because I thought we were all going to be doing the same thing.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Clearly, I hadn't paid all that close of attention in my interview.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Then they did their insurance talk.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> This is the first time in a long time that I was going to be paying for my insurance. Hubby takes care of that. Also, remember, I was taking a GIANT pay cut in this job. So when I started looking at the weekly numbers and what my income was going to be against what my deductions would be...</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I realized I was going to owe Stuff Empower money after working full time.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> So I wasn't going to be with my new friends and I was going to be more broke at the end of a work week than I already am.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Which is why I walked through the door at my house, sobbing uncontrollably.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> One would think I wouldn't show up the next day to start work. One would think I would continue my search for a remote job.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> One would be wrong.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I showed up at the correct building the next morning. I still had no idea which department I was in, what my job title was, or where I was supposed to go in the massive office building. Good thing the receptionist was a bit more filled in. She looked at my name badge (which they made at ORIENTATION) and told me where to go.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Once I got to the third floor I saw a group of people standing near an empty cubicle. I was happy it was a group because that would seem less weird or something if I walked up and said, "hi I'm new." Or something clever like that. I'm quite the wordsmith.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> That's when I met...let's call them RED. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> (Red is non-binary and therefore I will use they/them pronouns out of respect for them.)</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Red is kind of hard to miss. They have bright red hair, like bright red. Somehow I knew, like I know my own name, that Red was 1) going to be my trainer and 2) going to be a friend, a real friend, by the end of the day. Red reminded me way too much of Skippy and that's before we started talking!</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span> "Hi I'm Red. I'll be your trainer."</span><br /></p><p><span><span> "Hi, I'm Sarah. What are your pronouns?"</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> (And that, my friends, is how you make friends and open the minds of someone who might seem very different from you. You show respect to them. Also, Peaches and Skippy have spent some time kind of explaining non-binary and how to address non-binary people. I don't fully understand it, I'll be honest, and I am not 100% perfect at getting it right. But my job, as I've always seen it, is to show kindness and respect to all people. otherwise, what, I'm going to be that cranky old woman who's yelling at kids to get out of her yard? I live on a block with a woman like that. I don't want to be her!)</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> Anyway, Red walked me around and introduced me to everyone...I of course didn't remember a single name, but it was a nice try on their part. Then Red parked me in my cubicle. The empty one they'd all been standing by when I came in.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> The empty cubicle right next to the bathrooms.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> If you've read this blog for a while, you know I have issues with public restrooms. So parking me next to the only restrooms on the third floor seemed like God was really trying to tell me something. Like, hey, dummy, coming home sobbing yesterday didn't stop you from showing up today, so today I put you next to the communal crapper. I'm trying to tell you something, would you listen?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Clearly, I wasn't listening.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I was in a pod of four cubicles. One was empty because that person next showed up for work. The other two were occupied by "Molly" a fresh-faced little blonde who reminded me of the Swiss Miss Coco girl. I found out later this newly minted 21-year-old was a badass motorcycle rider, and a really, really smart gal. Oh, and a friend, too.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> The other cubicle was "Tucker" another 20 something who had the bad luck of being the only constant employee in this pod. Every time someone in the pod quit, Tucker was blamed for it. Poor Tucker. He's a good guy...he really didn't deserve it.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Training at Stuff, Empowered is pretty intense and overwhelming. Especially since I still had NO IDEA what department I was in, what my job title was, or what I was going to be doing. I really should have paid more attention in that interview.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Red, whose whole job was to train people in the post sales department (aha! I learned something) spent the next two weeks encouraging, teaching, leading, and prodding me through the process. That first day, though, was funny. I got home from work and Hubby, who now works at home all day and is not completely unlike a golden retriever who's ready to GO OUT once the humans come home from work, wanted to go for a walk. I'd been caged in that cubicle all day, so I was up for a nice long walk. At one point, while chatting about my day, there was a squeal of tires and who should pull up next to us, but RED! Turns out they live close by (another sign that Red was going to be a friend.) So Red met Hubby and I felt like, okay, now I HAVE to go back for day 3.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>*** </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> One of the rules at Stuff Empowered that seem kind of harsh was the following: NO CELL PHONES SHALL BE VISIBLE AT YOUR DESK.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Now, when a company says that, what they mean is you're not supposed to be chatting, facebooking, instagramming, instapotting, or shopping online during work hours. Save that stuff for your breaks and lunch. Right? I interpreted that correctly, right?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Apparently, the way most of the women on my floor, especially the people on the other side of the floor in Customer Experience (We in Post Sales feel very superior to Customer Experience, although I'm not sure why), interpreted this was, "Take your phones into the bathroom and watch videos or talk on the phone or take out a home loan while you're there."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Oh yeah, you know I'm going to talk about this.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I already hated the idea of using the same restroom as roughly 100 other women. Oh, and the toilet paper? Let's talk about that for a minute: It was see-through. Not thin. My mother uses thin toilet paper and we give her all kinds of grief. Enough so, that she now has toilet paper for COMPANY. (I've heard of company hand towels...) No, this wasn't thin. It was SEE-THROUGH. And it broke apart and dissolved on contact.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> So, I'm sitting in the stall, listening to this one woman who I swear lived in the handicapped stall, talk to her friend AT FULL VOLUME ON BOTH ENDS (why did I need to hear that conversation? Or any of them?) and I'm faced with using toilet paper that basically turns into shards in my hand and will (BELIEVE ME) will induce a yeast infection.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Also: No ventilation or fan in the bathroom. Which means every sound, every word, every SMELL wrapped itself around you in the room...and immediately outside...</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> WHERE I WAS SITTING.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> After two weeks I figured out what my job was: sit, chained to a computer by a phone headset, and make endless calls every day telling small stores that they owed a lot of money to Stuff, Empowered, and they'd better pay up or the company would cancel their order. You know, the order they placed a year ago for an empowering unit that, thanks to covid and supply chain issues, and labor shortage, and I don't know some windstorm in Fiji, had been delayed several months.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> 8 hours of that. Broken up by a one-hour unpaid lunch.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I was basically, thanks to drive time and this lunch, giving this company 50 hours of my life, for the price of 40. I was already working 8 hours more a week just to try and make up for the wage difference, and then tack on another 10 hours of unpaid nonsense time...I was beyond exhausted every day after work.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> So... chained to a desk next to the restrooms. I couldn't even get up and walk a proper amount of time to get to the restrooms. It was like four steps. I found myself envying people whose desks were on the other side of the wall from us. Not only were they by windows, they had at least a fifteen step walk to the bathrooms. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> The breakup of my days came when people would stop on their way to the bathrooms to chat with me. That seems weird. "Hey, I have to pee, but first let's talk to this random person sitting by the bathrooms."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I got to know several people on the floor that way. Nice people. But all of our conversations ended with, "Wow, I really have to pee."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Meanwhile, I was a dog in a cage on a leash.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> It wasn't all terrible. Molly and Tucker and I had some laughs, mostly about how awful the job was. the pod next to us, made up of "Jasper," "Nate," "Trixie," and "Nellie," were fun too. We worked together well, I thought, and shared a number of fun little jokes and GIFS in our group online chat. So that passed the time a little bit.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Fun fact: Stuff, Empowered does not provide a garbage can under the desks. I didn't really think about it, I mean, I had a tiny little toy sand bucket I used for the three Kleenexes and one K-Cup I had every day. At some point I'd stiffly stagger the nine steps to the centrally located garbage pod and dump my stuff and then stiffly stagger the nine steps back. I did proper walks on my two breaks, and I ate lunch in my car and then went for a longer walk. Got my steps in, but really, sitting at the desk the rest of the day did a number on my joints. Red insisted I could get up and walk about, but HOW when the job expectations were high?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>So, most of the time if I did break away from the leash, the first several steps I kind of looked like a Zombie walking out of my cage and on to the restroom highway.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><br /></p><p>MONDAY: Part 4-An apple brings me a bruised elbow and a new opportunity.</p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-31572186607542916222022-10-13T07:05:00.009-07:002022-10-13T07:05:56.677-07:00What Sarah Did This Summer Part 2: Why I chose Stuff, Empowered<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzdQ_jQQ2vZ0SU_PzIkxJNdY42snPoSTO-GfXDCVhygSG5FJfSfKVbQSWCcCguyuuqvwRDKY1A6sjMv2-973nMEvOo_IihnlMJ24j-7JAqNwkMOwi13CMO-Q3jPVW7GCpdUQDy9xTToSqZ0aCz0guN3WgQvN2FbtkAxyWRehwtw-zD0pB4UjRaxt9h" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzdQ_jQQ2vZ0SU_PzIkxJNdY42snPoSTO-GfXDCVhygSG5FJfSfKVbQSWCcCguyuuqvwRDKY1A6sjMv2-973nMEvOo_IihnlMJ24j-7JAqNwkMOwi13CMO-Q3jPVW7GCpdUQDy9xTToSqZ0aCz0guN3WgQvN2FbtkAxyWRehwtw-zD0pB4UjRaxt9h" width="311" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><i>Yesterday we went over what happened right after I got laid off from my dream job. Continuing our story, here's why I picked a job that was 100% the opposite of what I was looking for:</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span> </span>By the end of July, having been out of work for more than 2 months and</p><p>really not doing well bills-wise on Unemployment, it was time to start panicking</p><p>about a job.</p><p><br /></p><p><span> </span>Start panicking? Please. Other than feeling a certain amount of rage after</p><p>getting let go in May, my primary emotion had been panic. Hubby was super</p><p>supportive, like always, but that really didn’t help and here’s why: hubby’s job</p><p>changed significantly at the same time. Instead of having a company car and</p><p>getting to drive around on company gas, his job went 100% remote and the</p><p>company took the car. Which meant we had to dip into savings to buy a car.</p><p><br /></p><p>Geez, just when we actually HAD a savings account.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now, I don’t have to tell anyone that finding a used car in 2022 is a</p><p>challenge. And finding one when you’re on a strict budget…well…</p><p>But we found one. It’s nothing glamorous, but it suits him and everything</p><p>works on it mostly. But the result is we still have to pay for gas and insurance on</p><p>this thing. Which is a big change for the negative.</p><p><br /></p><p>The other thing that changed is Hubby started working longer hours. Like,</p><p>ridiculously longer hours. Up before 5AM to get a start on emails and still working</p><p>well past 5 or 6 in the evening. He’s hourly, so the overtime is a big boost, but I</p><p>felt a significant amount of guilt not working. (One would think I’d over</p><p>compensate by keeping a super clean house and being completely organized in all</p><p>things home related. One would be wrong.)</p><p><br /></p><p>So, by the end of July, after going through dozens of interviews, I got a job</p><p>offer. It was a for a company I’m going to call Stuff, Empowered for two reasons:</p><p><br /></p><p>1) Remember Stuff, Installed, from my Elsie W books? Once again, for my</p><p>protection, I’m not going to, you know, spill the name of the company.</p><p>2) This company is one that empowers stuff. Hence…stuff empowered.</p><p><br /></p><p>The offer wasn’t anything like what I was looking for. It wasn’t remote. It</p><p>wasn’t in my pay range, and it wasn’t part time. Panic will make you do</p><p>funny things and the mere fact that they offered me a job, I felt was some</p><p>kind of miracle. When you’re 54 and you have really bad knees, you start</p><p>to feel sort of like you have to take anything offered to you.</p><p><br /></p><p>Oh, I didn’t mention the really annoying interview I went on right</p><p>before I interviewed at Stuff, Empowered. It was for a company that</p><p><br /></p><p>packages gift jars and boxes of nuts. They wanted “Someone” to do “stuff”</p><p>in the office and “maybe other departments in the company.”</p><p>They didn’t know how many hours it would be. They didn’t know</p><p>what the duties would be. They didn’t know what days the job would take.</p><p>They didn’t even know which building the work would be in.</p><p>For that one, I got all tarted up and met with two girls.</p><p>Seriously…younger than my daughter. They were clearly recent retirees</p><p>from the Texas beauty pageant circuit, and not happy about it, which</p><p>meant they seemed extra judgy about my appearance.</p><p><br /></p><p>Could have been in my head, who knows?</p><p><br /></p><p>Anyway, I thought, given what we didn’t know about the job, the</p><p>interview went well. I even thought I would at least get a call for a second</p><p>interview. I honestly believed I won those pretty little gals over with my</p><p>winning charm and my flexibility to fit into a job that had no parameters at</p><p>all.</p><p><br /></p><p>I wasn’t even out of my “first interview” outfit when I got the “thanks</p><p>but we’re going with someone who better fits our needs” emails.</p><p>Better fits our needs? What does that even mean? They didn’t know</p><p>what they needed! They told me that!</p><p><br /></p><p>So I called the woman who’d conducted the phone interview with</p><p>me. (Remember, these aren’t really interviews, they’re more like cattle</p><p>calls, making sure the person applying is actually an adult human and not</p><p>some 8 year old or a bot that just applies over and over to jobs.) Anyway, I</p><p>got her on the phone and said, since I had nothing to lose, “What’s the deal</p><p>with this?”</p><p><br /></p><p>“Oh, well, um..” insert long, uncomfortable pause here. “They</p><p>decided they’re going to put the job on hold right now.”</p><p><br /></p><p>An interview that went so bad, they gave up trying to hire for it five</p><p>minutes after I left.</p><p><br /></p><p>Thus, when I got the call from Stuff Empowered, I was…well, I was</p><p>relieved I had an option for employment. But I wasn’t super excited about</p><p>the job at all. I mean, 40 hours in a cubicle, with an hour unpaid lunch?</p><p>Huge company? Complete call center job, including the low starting wage?</p><p>It was everything I wasn’t looking for.</p><p><br /></p><p>But, beggars can’t be choosers, right? Plus, well, I’d get to decorate</p><p>my own cubicle, and that was…something.</p><p><br /></p><p>My start date was three weeks out, and I was still looking. I had a</p><p>number of phone interviews with small companies looking for an office</p><p>person for 30 hours a week, and they were possibly willing to go remote.</p><p><br /></p><p>Spoiler alert: None of them were actually willing to go remote.</p><p><br /></p><p>There was one other job offer I got, one that shocked me. It was a</p><p>customer service position for a company that made automatic doors. The</p><p>job was one I could definitely do. The guy who interviewed me was quirky</p><p>and the wage was spot on what I was looking for. They weren’t going to go</p><p>full remote, but they could offer a hybrid position, which was nice.</p><p><br /></p><p>I didn’t think I’d get that offer because, well, let’s just say I ended the</p><p>interview with a really awkward joke that I didn’t think landed.</p><p><br /></p><p>See, they make automatic doors, right? And as we were leaving the</p><p>conference room, he pushed a button and the door swung open. But it</p><p>squeaked a little.</p><p><br /></p><p>He said, “The swinger doors tend to squeak and I hate that. I’m going</p><p>to have to nail it down a bit better.”</p><p><br /></p><p>And I said, “Wow, I hate it when the swingers get nailed.”</p><p>Think about it.</p><p><br /></p><p>Nope, not nearly as funny as it was in my head.</p><p><br /></p><p>Apparently he was okay with it.</p><p><br /></p><p>Unfortunately for that gig, the drive was more than 3x that to Stuff</p><p>Empowered, and over roads that, in a Wisconsin winter, might not be a</p><p>clear as one would hope. Having not driven to work in 7 years, this was a</p><p>real concern for me. So I went with the shorter drive time and the lower</p><p>wage.</p><p><br /></p><p>Did I make the right decision? I haven’t a clue. And I certainly didn’t</p><p>know back then, at the end of July. All I knew was that I was NOT going on</p><p>another job interview. Like ever.</p><p><br /></p><p>Up next time: Zombie cubicle life on the restroom highway.</p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-19667947233148939482022-10-12T05:31:00.001-07:002022-10-12T05:31:09.779-07:00What Sarah did this Summer-Part 1: Job Searches in the New Age<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2mX8vu0aBwAxIrJH7dzqX3qW-mW28Bw7-YCC5K6qKxABmxzerOOVxkp4GlW0mj0z7c1MKvwSY6WcjdJJ2pRhUX8XvfK7gf8xpokGWVe2Nfv6WB0wzHivlAtIYXc4NgsI1gPCOgUiZl0CVBIvZbg2xnSpJjJMbfwx_j1_tk7Bpo1CsbH8Vbm1bZPgd" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="640" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2mX8vu0aBwAxIrJH7dzqX3qW-mW28Bw7-YCC5K6qKxABmxzerOOVxkp4GlW0mj0z7c1MKvwSY6WcjdJJ2pRhUX8XvfK7gf8xpokGWVe2Nfv6WB0wzHivlAtIYXc4NgsI1gPCOgUiZl0CVBIvZbg2xnSpJjJMbfwx_j1_tk7Bpo1CsbH8Vbm1bZPgd" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Good morning! We have a TON to unpack, so let's get going!</p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">So, for those of you who don’t know. I lost my job last May.
Well, I mean, lost is a<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">weird word. I know exactly where my job is. When the company
got sold in October<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of last year, the first thing the new owner did was fire the
salesperson. And<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">not hire anyone to be the salesperson. Which means, by May,
my job, and the<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">jobs of 1/3 of the company, were cut, dumped, dropped, blown
away because Ding<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ding couldn’t connect the dots between sales and the
viability of the company.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Officially, I wasn't fired, I was “laid off.” </p><p class="MsoNormal">I grew up in the
automotive world of SE Michigan. “Laid Off” was the term that indicated that,</p><p class="MsoNormal"> eventually, the person would be called back. Such was the understanding I had with
Ding Ding. Well,</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">except the first thing Ding Ding did after laying me off was
to make sure I<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">shipped the computer, printer, and all the supplies I had in
my home office back<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to him. (One wonders what he’s going with all the equipment
he collected from<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">those of us he laid off.) But I’m not one to dwell. Well,
sure I am, but we have<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to move on in the story, otherwise this blog is going to be
a thousand pages<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">long. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Getting laid off in May didn’t seem like a problem.
Everyone told me,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“everyone’s hiring, you’ll find the perfect job in NO TIME!”
Hey, you know<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">what’s not true? That statement. Because, apparently, there
is NO perfect job<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">open for a 54-year-old woman who needs 32 hours a week,
working from home,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">making $24 an hour. Oh wait, yeah, there was. And then Ding
Ding fired the sales<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">person… </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">So I spent the summer going through what I call the
beauty pageant phase<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of the job world. I applied for literally hundreds of jobs
and went on more than<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">2 dozen interviews. Let’s talk about the interview process
that is in place now<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">in 2022. It’s not about walking into a company, filing out
an application, and<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">then meeting with the manager. Not anymore. It’s about
uploading your resume to<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the job boards and applying to companies with the click of a
button. Sounds<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">super easy, right? </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Oh sure, that part is. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">But then comes the
part where your resume is then spun through third and fourth party </p><p class="MsoNormal">staffing
company metrics and</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">spit out either into a heap in an HR person’s in box or
dumped into a vast<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">wasteland of resumes that didn’t measure up. Unless you
upload your resume to<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Career Builder. <b>DO NOT UPLOAD YOUR RESUME TO CAREER BUILDER.
</b>I cannot stress<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">that enough. All that will happen there is you’ll get 10,000
phone calls and<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">texts from people who clearly do not live anywhere near your
neighborhood, and<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">by neighborhood I mean continent, who will promise you all
kinds of perfect work<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">from home jobs…as long as you cash a massive check for them
first. (don’t get me<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">started.) And don’t upload your resume to Ziprecruiter
either. You’ll get<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">assigned a “person” (mine is Phil) who will email you ten
times a day with the<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">PERFECT job…one that has NOTHING to do with ANY of the
parameters you put into<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Zip Recruiter. And you can’t just cut Ziprecruiter off by
calling it spam. Nope.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m going to be getting notices from Phil until the day I
die, and 90% of those<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“perfect jobs” will be warehouse work for Amazon. That leaves
Indeed. Indeed’s<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">process is the most user friendly. If you’re on
Unemployment, it’s helpful to<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">apply through indeed, because indeed keeps track of your
weekly applications.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Indeed doesn’t email or text you. The legitimate interviews
I got were through<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Indeed. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Which brings us to the different types of interviews. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The first type of
interview is the<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">one way video interview. This. Is. Horrible. Exactly as the
name implies, the<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">one-way video interview is you…logged into some website,
answering prerecorded<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">questions while on camera. Ever try to be charming, witty,
and collected while<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">talking to a computer screen? Yeah. That. To no one’s
surprise, I did NOT get<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">either of the two jobs that required that kind of interview.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> The next method of<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">interviewing is the ever so popular ZOOM meeting. This is
slightly better than<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the one-way video…but only slightly. I had one such
interview, and it was for a<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">job that the phone screener assured me was PERFECT FOR ME.
So the interview was<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">a mere formality, right?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> That interview consisted of me facing a
split screen with two<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">women, one of whom asked me questions that ranged from the
normal, “Tell me what<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">you liked about your last job.” To the ridiculous, “Was
there ever a time you<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">had trouble working with a manager and if so, what did you
do?” (Um, DUH.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Everyone has had a hard time working with a manager from one
time to another.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And we DEAL WITH IT.) Anyway, there was one woman who asked
the questions and<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">another who said zero, nada, nothing. For half an hour I’m
talking to both women<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and one is just staring at me with dead eyes. She didn’t say
hello or goodbye.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just stared at me. I finished with that “formality” and
guess what? NEVER HEARD<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">FROM THEM AGAIN. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Which brings me to phone screeners. You
think is a phone<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">interview. They call it a phone interview. But what it
really is an appointment<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">during which you set an appointment for another interview.
The phone screener<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">ACTS like an HR manager. Some even call themselves that.
But, and this is<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">important, these people have ZERO power to hire you. In most
cases, they aren’t<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">even in the same building as the people who do have that
power. So, lest you<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">think you’re getting somewhere because Kimmy from HR at
Company XYZ says you’re<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">a perfect fit for the job, you’re not. I just had to get
that in there. I was<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">burned way too many times. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Finally, the third kind of
interview, the good, old<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">fashioned meat market that is the in person interview. While
this is the most<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">tried and true method of meeting potential bosses, this is
also the most<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">annoying. At least with the first two methods you didn’t
have to put on pants or<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">get in the car. The in person interview involves getting
tarted up, and it’s the<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">full deal. Hair, clothes, make up. I’ve been working at home
for the past seven<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">years. I’ve also lost 35 pounds in the last year. Any office
worthy clothes I<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">may have had are 1) too big, 2) too wrinkled from being
crushed on the floor in<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">my closet or 3) way too out of style. Like not even close.
While one doesn’t<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">need to have up to the minute fashion, one would like to
look like one’s been to<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">a store in the last decade. So, realizing I was going to
need some formal<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">adjacent clothing, I went to the one place a broke, out of
work office gal can:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">St. Vincent de Paul. And there, thank goodness for those 99
cent tag deals, I<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">was able to cobble together two appropriate head to two
looks. I call them<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“first interview” and “second interview.” I won’t bore you
with the details of<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">all of my interviews. There are too many to put in any
number of blog chapters.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I will give you the highlights. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Tomorrows chapter: The in person interviews and why I chose Stuff, Empowered.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4025359095618464087.post-1951004561504907792022-07-28T11:13:00.001-07:002022-07-28T11:13:11.344-07:00Sarah almost dies. But then doesn't. And it's funny.<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9qc_3SOH86PcDmPcJbpFNBk8aSEK6x-RR1k-rlJNlaJqkMQJS0nr0ULNjQy9QG8FwBQoVmKfBsSqLJteQsC0E14gVzhvpp_yiiJJoiWzGu-JE-wgr6-VrO-C8KJd9Xr8ae_cnAWA0cWB7s9ggHc9BGLUdtrft55gMdnoCg60KObmF2bgYfHtPcVEU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="284" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9qc_3SOH86PcDmPcJbpFNBk8aSEK6x-RR1k-rlJNlaJqkMQJS0nr0ULNjQy9QG8FwBQoVmKfBsSqLJteQsC0E14gVzhvpp_yiiJJoiWzGu-JE-wgr6-VrO-C8KJd9Xr8ae_cnAWA0cWB7s9ggHc9BGLUdtrft55gMdnoCg60KObmF2bgYfHtPcVEU" width="171" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Hello everyone!</p><p>Guess what? Now that I'm unemployed, my life is funny again because I have to leave my happy little cave in my house and go out and see things and do stuff.</p><p>Having a funny life, after what happened to me last night, is way overrated. I like to call this story: The time I also died on my Wedding Anniversary.</p><p><br /></p><p>Hubby and I have a new favorite show on Netflix. It's "Somebody Feed Phil." Phil is Phil Rosenthal, the former writer and producer for "Everybody Loves Raymond." Nowadays Phil takes a camera crew out into the world, headed by his brother Richard, and he eats things and talks to people while the cameras roll. Phil is awkward and goofy and we just love him, and the show.</p><p><br /></p><p>Here's the thing: Whenever we see something in a movie or on TV, we want it. Well, we do have the money to really travel, and we don't have the money, time, or kitchen tools to cook half the stuff we see Phil eating on the show. However, we DO have the money and access for a very large emporium of spirts and whatnot. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmcAcIYHKfiY9lw0KNIbAejmkwSqTNht_gDAL_Zhm45nNQZxfa1ExsJVOkWuvVNF1fbgUWwL4xl9GEgMc2ayHIu-CRnhnOKxtMOAL8-4pd0I0dD22NgtZqyE6bOczNxZZ5BhWG5BHhybug8J9vQnAqhORvxGc1OnU36AjrFeiWdO68m9Uz0fX9Qb54" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="474" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmcAcIYHKfiY9lw0KNIbAejmkwSqTNht_gDAL_Zhm45nNQZxfa1ExsJVOkWuvVNF1fbgUWwL4xl9GEgMc2ayHIu-CRnhnOKxtMOAL8-4pd0I0dD22NgtZqyE6bOczNxZZ5BhWG5BHhybug8J9vQnAqhORvxGc1OnU36AjrFeiWdO68m9Uz0fX9Qb54" width="257" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(And more will now mean "near death" for me.)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Total Wine is generally the place we go after we've watched any cooking or travel show that features local spirits or brew. This is why we have a couple dozen bottles of some very strange stuff in our cabinet.</p><p>So on the last episode of Phil, he went to Oaxaca, Mexico. And he ate amazing food made by amazing chefs and saw amazing sites. Blah, blah, blah. What caught our eyes, is that Oaxaca is the home for Mezcal, Tequila's smokier cousin. </p><p>We at the Bradley house like tequila. We really do. And, I recall having mezcal many years ago, and not hating it, so there's that. Thus it was that while out and about and doing things, we stopped at Total Wine and picked up a bottle of mezcal produced in Oaxaca. </p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwp0Fou1hJx6r_7oQo7FEgKlc5iRWKaPJigieKA74nQSNi4Mms0oaAa2aNAfGDwyxcikV1LgkrfOjrn1hICrvEC0wa7zl9Ec1_8r-YR_omI54vTRdnVDVDN4u3_xYK9lGKP5EwcnRRMCEXrCVubvIrSI408ETEVChKPqQ6CpXqttYkVR5UVPZQDpQ8" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="735" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwp0Fou1hJx6r_7oQo7FEgKlc5iRWKaPJigieKA74nQSNi4Mms0oaAa2aNAfGDwyxcikV1LgkrfOjrn1hICrvEC0wa7zl9Ec1_8r-YR_omI54vTRdnVDVDN4u3_xYK9lGKP5EwcnRRMCEXrCVubvIrSI408ETEVChKPqQ6CpXqttYkVR5UVPZQDpQ8" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making mezcal...getting ready to kill me.<br /><br /><br />That was Sunday we picked it up. Yesterday, Wednesday, was our anniversary. 32 years. Thank you.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsIOhW_adENXxAHLnjA70mibIk_zgxH-8FzYf7kkczI502Vv83FdooZOdRoEWJKJlnMJXhcvsZvUB5RNYrW8bFHUY67mm8J4lq5btFV7Dq0dpn8LrGEDNNjtckLIRvIcLXbRQldiyQmdHtuZcb1-Pn2nleADbsM4-16B3TbA4TI3ua9rsEd61DyLWQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1269" data-original-width="2048" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsIOhW_adENXxAHLnjA70mibIk_zgxH-8FzYf7kkczI502Vv83FdooZOdRoEWJKJlnMJXhcvsZvUB5RNYrW8bFHUY67mm8J4lq5btFV7Dq0dpn8LrGEDNNjtckLIRvIcLXbRQldiyQmdHtuZcb1-Pn2nleADbsM4-16B3TbA4TI3ua9rsEd61DyLWQ" width="320" /></a></div>Here's our wedding party. That's me in the middle in the white dress. It was 1990, don't judge.<br /><br />So last night we went out to Bonefish Grill. It's where we go to celebrate our anniversaries, generally, and my birthday. They have a cosmo there that's amazing and they only serve it in Winter, starting on my birthday, and, apparently, in July (because Christmas in July or whatever.) So we had our dinner, and it was a weird dinner because I'm 100% positive our waiter, Todd, was stoned. The tip offs were subtle: He moved at half the speed everyone in the building did. He told us it was his first night, which it absolutely wasn't. He said "That's my favorite" to everything we ordered. Oh, and he brought us our bill before he brought us our food. And he brought the other table their food before their appetizer. And he was going to be the star of this blog...until we got home and I nearly died.<br /><br />We got home, fired up the latest episode of "Better Call Saul" (Because what else would you watch on your 32nd anniversary?) and we decided to toast each other with a shot of our new mezcal. Hubby opened the bottle and poured two shots in our special Tequila shot glasses (which, if you don't know, are about double the size of a regular shot glass) and we saluted each other.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1qthGdXoZlQUvCoXbf3feO8Qa7CcEzNxzx-RuyhvXpYIBF4jyWJjhStR0E6WndL6ZTEKR9I5pszKPYh-7NZHVb9s-WswFNtREPWAOYf5RNf46f24U0CF7FSXOfvAYHeF1Rz80xFfMlrNuEHK9_OsEPUBCVG08yjIkI8wDleIXrRblRn54KQSHuONm" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3454" data-original-width="5200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1qthGdXoZlQUvCoXbf3feO8Qa7CcEzNxzx-RuyhvXpYIBF4jyWJjhStR0E6WndL6ZTEKR9I5pszKPYh-7NZHVb9s-WswFNtREPWAOYf5RNf46f24U0CF7FSXOfvAYHeF1Rz80xFfMlrNuEHK9_OsEPUBCVG08yjIkI8wDleIXrRblRn54KQSHuONm" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>I snapped my wrist to fire the mezcal down my throat, a move I've done once or twice, and something...happened. I don't know if I missed my mouth completely and just poured 1.5 ounces of real Mexican mezcal up my nostrils or if I simply doused my face with it or if I hit my mouth and my taste buds rose up as one and revolted, but suddenly my face was on fire and I was spewing about ten times the amount of mezcal that was in the glass all over the kitchen.</p><p><br /></p><p>By the time I turned the 90 degrees from the counter to the sink, all of the orifices of my face had swollen and filled with fluid. My eyes were puffy and running with tears. I had great wads of phlegm in my throat. My lips were numb. And my nose...my poor, poor nose...was filled to swelling with snot. My throat and nostrils and lips were also on fire. Like jumping off the diving board at the local pool and hitting the water without plugging you nose and inhaling all the chlorine. Except the chlorine in this case was ON FIRE and I couldn't get away from it because it was trapped and entombed in my head with gallons and gallons of bodily goo.</p><p>I blew my nose to get relief, but when I did that, I'd cough and my nose would fill up again.</p><p>Fun fact: I'm claustrophobic to the point that I don't like wearing masks or hoods. And if I can't breathe through my nose, I tend to panic. So, I walked up and down the hall gagging out "I can't BREATHE!"</p><p>So, there I was, my eyes puffy and red and runny. My face all red. I'm coughing up gobs of phlegm and every time I cough my nasal passages close up 100% and that makes me panic which makes me pant which stirs up the gunk in my throat which makes me cough which closes up my nasal passages which makes me panic...oh yeah, and my throat is burning with the heat of a 1000 flames and that's making me nauseous which is making me cough which is...you get where I'm going with this.</p><p>This went on for over an hour.</p><p>OVER AN HOUR.</p><p>I caught a look at myself in the mirror at one point and thought, "Wow...this is sexy at its best."</p><p>To his credit, Hubby did not laugh, although he told me later it all started out funny when I was initially spewing mezcal out, because it looked funny. And also to his credit, he mopped up much of whatever viscousness came out of me that didn't hit the sink. So that was nice.</p><p>The hellacious burning in my throat and nostrils didn't go away for more than 3 hours. And, honestly, I still have flaming snot (band name?) clogging my nose and throat now, more than 12 hours later. My throat is scalded, my nose burns, my eyes are bugged out and painful and I have a raging headache. Oh, and I'm fairly certain my snot is corrosive.</p><p>AND I DIDN'T SWALLOW ONE DROP OF THE STUFF!</p><p>There's no wisdom anyone can glean from this, except maybe, if you're doing shots of anything...DON'T MISS!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVb8UcfxzCDUahUlfjCqV4KEVA93YNS-q7Gp_Slj5_4sLb542L2AmUYUjjYvJi23vj3Xio5uFeaKvT8R0h6qT89RDxZtnGJkqzpRjvwq42Am83SCoNd7sRzWG3nUNcGWeNN8DFMaPTG2NZdumxvH3qyrYOZTqieQlv225Pn2lBCznBrFfKVNZ3-RFF" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="459" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVb8UcfxzCDUahUlfjCqV4KEVA93YNS-q7Gp_Slj5_4sLb542L2AmUYUjjYvJi23vj3Xio5uFeaKvT8R0h6qT89RDxZtnGJkqzpRjvwq42Am83SCoNd7sRzWG3nUNcGWeNN8DFMaPTG2NZdumxvH3qyrYOZTqieQlv225Pn2lBCznBrFfKVNZ3-RFF" width="261" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarah the Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06406741644108533794noreply@blogger.com0