#ThursdayDoors — Nashville, Indiana

When I wasn’t too busy smiling and laughing, or stuffing my face, I did find some interesting doors in Nashville.


ooh texture



ooh color



ooh contrast



mmm, fudge — but there are doors back there…



the front has that bison for the bison-tennial, but the side has TWO doors AND stairs!



dig that reflection



i was also established in 1973 — all the whimsy!


#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To see other doors of interest, or to share your own, click the link.


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One-Liner Wednesday — Scaredy Cat

“If you wanna go to haunted houses, Daddy will hafta take you. That stuff scares me. I got scared at the children’s museum haunted house, and that’s for kids! The Snow White ride at Disney World scared Mama. That witch is scary! I don’t care how old you are, she’s scary!”



One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill


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When I Finally Could Even

Okay, so fuck those motherfuckers, today I rant. This rant could take all day. I have hours.


I’M WITH HER. She’s a choice I’m proud to make, because she is competent and qualified and I feel she represents my interests. She’s going my direction, (forward) so I’m with her.


There are Republicans I like, and even some I love. I don’t understand them, but then, they probably don’t understand me.
However, in recent months, I have come to understand some people in ways I did not want.
I had no idea I was friends with so many hateful people. Being a Compassionate Conservative must be so passé. From what I’ve gathered, I am a ‘Libtard’ and I am not to take any of it personally, so in turn, what’s good for the donkey is good for the elephant, and they shouldn’t take any of my thoughts and opinions personally. I’m sure none of this pertains to them, or anyone you know.

First of all…

First of all, the level of cognitive dissonance is baffling.

Where I’m from, this is established. Hoosiers like their gay neighbors, because they’re polite. They don’t like other gay people, but these gay people, they seem nice enough. They don’t want them to get married or buy their pizza or adopt children, and they certainly do not want to see them engaged in any public displays of affection — the mere thought of that makes them sick! But these gay people, they’re okay.
Also okay are the Mexicans who run local, delicious businesses, black athletes, the Pakistani co-worker, their adopted biracial child, the Muslim man who married their cousin, and the dirty fuckin hippie who sells them weed. Other than that, the rest of them are unworthy of rights, let alone care.
Don’t dare mention hypocrisy.

(It’s really best to use small words whenever possible. Huge is not a bad word. Huge is a great small word. Huge might be the best of the small words to use.)

From what I can tell, there’s a section of America that feels like the nation has gone to pot.
I blame the internet.
Before the internet, all these people got to live in special little worlds where everyone’s just like them. Or so they thought.
In an effort to comfort themselves from the onslaught of progressive ideas, they consume only stuff that provides daily righteousness. They do not seek further knowledge, they do not question the source — they like it, and gosh darn it, it just makes them feel good!

Initially, I tired to argue with these people, to expose them to truth. Then I tried to explain satire. Then I tried writing a simple, “That’s not true,” to see if they would explore it further. They don’t. They surely think The Onion is a news outlet.

Daily, I am subjected to the poorly-spelled, salty outcry of people who think they’re better than other people.



I prefer to live in a world of diversity. I believe in bizarre things like beneficence. I like the salad bowl theory more than the melting pot theory.
I found this out early in life. When the Packards were explaining we don’t vote for Democrats, I was asking them why we didn’t have better Republicans to choose from, then?
My condition worsened at university, where I studied humanities in the teacher’s college. Where my boyfriend, in the school of business, read a book about some Narcissistic icon of greenliness being next to godliness, and I read it, too, and it solidified my opinion that greedy people are trolls and was he a FUCKIN TROLL?!? He then accused me of attending Marxist meetings behind his back and it only got uglier from there.

Still, all my emergent liberal years failed to prepare me for the insanity that is today’s political realm. Unprecedented comes to mind.
Y’all, most days I cannot even.
Lordamercy, prior to this, I’d never felt true fear from a political movement or its people.

My face. All the time.


I know you want me to tell you that the people spewing hate and ignorance are some people I don’t know well, some fringe people, but they’re not. They’re largely uneducated —  I’m no elitist, I’m just as much of a pleb, educated or not. They’re white, the lot of them — I’m white, I’m like lightest shade of foundation white. The difference seems to be in whether one feels one’s suffering is superior to all others’ suffering and whether one feels entitled to hoard privilege.

When my children ask me, “How can anyone think like that?” I have to pull out the notes from my secret Marxist meetings and tell them that life is very hard and some people believe the measure of their worth is determined by how much they have. Having more than other people makes them feel better. More stuff, more money, more power, more control.


The hateful don’t want anything handed to anyone because goddammit, they’ve worked hard to get what they have and everyone should have to work hard, too. If you try to tell them most of the people receiving aid are working, they pull out the story of the person they know who’s playin the system. I have a theory that no one actually knows these people, that they’re a kinda urban legend, but still, there are stories.
I suppose these stories must be true, and people must be playin the system, but it’s then that you must ask yourself why you are angry. Are you hungry? Is feeding someone else taking food away from you? How much food can you eat? The average taxpayer pays roughly $36 annually to feed their fellow Americans. Are you certain you want to be angry about that? I can afford to pay more.

I don’t understand it. If I hafta pay $36 a year so some woman can sofa surf and stay drunk, but I know her kid’s eating every day, I’m okay with that. That woman isn’t my business, I don’t know her life. Why would I be angry? Should I be angry I’m not drunk sofa surfin? Cause that’s how it sounds. It sounds like people are mad they aren’t livin in poverty, gettin handouts. It sounds like some sorta sick twisted jealousy.

“Boo-hoo, I had to buy my own sofa! Boo-hoo, I had to work for this gin!”

Whenever people go on a tirade about entitlements, I launch into a tirade of my own. I’ve been on food stamps — me, my husband, two kids, and one on the way. I’ve been the expectant mother in the free clinic, and I’ve been thrilled to find fresh bread and bags of apples in the WIC office. Those angry, greedy people then tell me that’s different. Why? Why is it different? Why was my need different? Cause I’m white? Cause I’m married? Cause he’s a veteran? Cause you like us personally? No, they say, “Cause you didn’t make it your way of life.” I fucking did. I didn’t choose it, but I certainly embraced it and made it a way of life for the better part of a year. People gave us virtually everything we had at the time, and we took it. Eventually, my husband found another good job. But let me tell you, he was workin mighty fuckin hard on a night shift at the goddamned box factory and it still wasn’t enough to feed a family and keep the lights on.

The hateful people tell you I should have worked, too. And I ask them if they wanted to buy me a car, pay my daycare costs, or take care of two kids and an infant while I did that. No, they did not want to help out with any of that. You know who helped me work? Family, ie, other poor people.

The hateful people say I shouldn’t have had kids I couldn’t afford, which is where the argument gets deeper and stranger and we quickly descend into a rabbit hole of epic proportions, where the sky may as well be purple and under our feet. Don’t have children you can’t afford and don’t use birth control and don’t abort, so don’t have sex, I suppose, because sex is a pleasure and we all know that poor people don’t deserve pleasures, be it a tin of smoked oysters, the taste of beer, a state-provided iPhone, or the love of a child.


Do you think the people who need help want to need help? Do you think they enjoy havin such little control over their own lives? Remember that time you wanted to buy your kid something, but it wasn’t in the budget? Imagine that’s an everyday, everything occurrence.
When you drive by signs that advertise fast food managers are bein hired for $14 an hour, do you think that sounds good? Do you think the people who manage fast food restaurants are entitled to have families? pets? parties?

Then those people should have better jobs, the hateful shout. What? Food service isn’t valuable? That’s not a good job? You don’t eat fast food? Managing a business should be a good job. This is America. You should be able to work your way from sweepin floors to ownin a franchise, if you work hard enough. The responsibilities don’t match the pay. The manager of a fast food restaurant should never qualify for aid. The manager should live in a modest, but nice, home with 2.5 kids and a dog, obviously.


I’m still not certain I can afford children. They’re rather expensive, even when I feel I can afford them, which is never in August, and very few Decembers. Two are cheaper than four…

Certain groups of people are allowed to have children, and they’re ‘allowed’ to take government money. Veterans for example.
There are veterans on food stamps too — and I don’t mean only the retired or homeless vets. (Why is that even a thing? Look that shit up.) Most enlisted military qualify for aid of some sort. Almost all qualify for WIC. Did you know at commissaries have bags of groceries for purchase to help a needy military family? What does that tell you about how much we truly respect, value, and admire our armed forces members?

I’ll tell you what, ain’t no rich people shoppin at the commissary, buyin bags of groceries for needy military families. Same as everywhere else, the poor help the poor. For takers, we sure are a generous lot.

There are some people who, when you are cold, will give you their coat because they can’t bear to see you shiver. There are other people who will tell you, “You shoulda brought your own goddamned coat!”
Every year when we have a drive, Coats for Kids, I shake my head at the people who say, “These people knew that cold weather was coming, why didn’t they save up? So irresponsible! Now they expect me to buy their kids a coat!”

Nobody EXPECTS you to donate a fucking coat, Asshole, but thanks for that wondrous display of generosity of spirit. *thumbs up*

The same people who bitch about welfare moms who go to school for free, and get daycare for free, and get housing and food for free (You know, to get those better jobs!) — the same people bitchin about all that are quick to brag to you about how the VA put a new knee in them, and with Medicare chipping in, they didn’t pay a dime!

That’s entitlement for ya, puttin new knees in when people shoulda saved up for their own new knees, or taken better care of the ones they already had!
They earned it by serving the country and then gettin old and lazy. Some old people never get lazy and stop workin ya know. SOME people work til the day they die and they don’t complain about their bad knees or have the gall to expect me to buy them new ones!

Do you know what Medicare is? Government healthcare. Do you know what the VA is? Government healthcare. Do you know what Armed Services receive? Government healthcare. I have a bad Army hospital story, but they let me live for free. Our family of six paid less than $100 a paycheck for insurance, so listen to your Joey, there’s power in numbers.

But Oh, how the hateful people love their veterans. MORE FLAGS! And then they let some orange-faced fucktard insult a pile of veterans?!?
Cognitive dissonance!


We gotta take care of our old people, y’all. My heart breaks watchin some lil ol woman puttin her pills on two different credit cards and then writin a check for the balance. That’s some fucked-up shit. You think that orange-faced fucktard gives a crap about your grandma?


Not all, but most of these hateful people claim to be followers of Christ, which is an altogether nother matter I cannot line up. Remove the planks from yer eyes and do a little introspection: You know how Christ was, you know how you are — how parallel are ya there?!?



I went to a lady’s blog the other day…Y’all I liked this lady’s posts for about a year, cause recipes and fleurs and nature photos — you know, the kinda Nice Lady Blog I remind you I ain’t runnin here? I hadda unfollow her. Cause hate speech. I’ll take my hummingbird photos without hate speech, thanks.

People on Facebook be like, “Here’s a picture of a beautiful red flower” and Facebook responds with hate speech. Nobody can have proper discourse because some asshat has to interject some apropos to nothing politics at every fuckin turn.

A longtime friend of mine tried to tell me the orange-faced fucktard had a great plan to help working parents with daycare costs. She hadn’t read the whole thing, she said, but she’d seen it and he was right. I had to tell her, “We can’t talk about this.”


Now, that’s more than 2000 words on just social issues. Being a true blue bleeding heart liberal, I am most concerned with the social issues. I am concerned about the 1 in 7 children who are food insecure right here in my own community, but I believe in the land of plenty, there’s more than enough to share with an influx of immigrants, IF PEOPLE WOULD JUST STOP SKIMMIN FROM THE TOP!

Hand to Horus, I only have time to address praise for this rant. No objections will be acknowledged, and it is entirely possible anyone leaving hate speech will have their Gravatar cut out and affixed to the side of a Miraculous candle, lit for mercy, upon my pagan heathen Unitarian Universalist altar.

Is your blood pressure up? Here, look at the pretty trees.


I fucking love trees. I hug them all the time.

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Share Your World #43

What are you really glad you did yesterday?
I’m glad I spent the day outdoors!


I’m also glad I came home and fried chicken and made mash and gravy and all that, because I really love me and I wanted big Sunday dinner, even if it meant eating at 10pm!


Would you prefer a one floor house or multiple levels?
I like our little bungalow. I think at this point in my life, smaller spaces are where it’s at. I don’t care how many levels, really. The Mister has the bad knees, so I think the bungalow suits us, especially long-term. This is our first one-story since our lil apartment the year we married, and we do so enjoy it. I always think two-stories have more curb appeal, but I’m too practical to care, and who among us enjoys sweeping or vacuuming steps?

Have you done something you truly want to do today?
Well no, but I did sleep late, so I hope that counts as doing!

What plans did you have as a teenager that didn’t happen? Are you happy it didn’t work out that way?
Uh, not too many actually. I was awfully self-aware as a kid, never really felt like a kid, I think that was helpful. I obviously didn’t live happily ever after with any high school boyfriends, and that’s nice. My BFF is still my BFF, even if I made more BFFs along the way. I always wanted a little yellow car, but I don’t now. I accomplished a lot of my ‘must do’ list when I was in my twenties. Went to the college I always thought I would. I didn’t have any grandiose ideas about what I wanted to do or be or have, so you know, still thrivin in my mediocrity.


Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
So pleased with the weather and the landscape. Grateful for central Indiana’s state parks. So grateful to have been out and about all weekend. It’s absolutely the best time of the year!
I found spring bulbs on sale, 8 for $1.99!
The Mister brought me flowers!
I didn’t need NyQuil all week!
The week coming up should feature more exploits into autumnal glory.


Cee’s Share Your World is a weekly feature and all are welcome to join in and play along.

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What’s going on in your world?

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Mentor speaks at least three languages fluently, and English is not her mother tongue. She has no accent, which means her accent is close enough to my own that I don’t hear one.

Y’all know I’m language friendly, and I like fun with language. Mentor and I communicate very well with one another, but now and again when she twists a turn of phrase, I cannot find her meaning.

For instance, yesterday.

She sent me a message, basically, Please call to determine the status of Jane Doe’s paperwork. See if we can pick it up. She is having kittens.

I replied, Sure.

I must have read that sentence three times. “She is having kittens.”

awww. why is she telling me this?!?


Mentor and I share relevant information. By this I mean we don’t talk about extraneous stuff. Whatever we tell one another includes specific directives, inquiries — you know, like Cut The Crap and Just The Facts Ma’am.
Now, I knew Mentor didn’t mean it literally, but I knew it had to be important, or relevant, otherwise, she wouldn’t mention it. Our business decidedly does not deal with kittens. There are no kitten conundrums to solve, no kittens to consult with, no kittens to ship. I love kittens, but that’s not what we do there.

This bit of information was a bit like your pharmacist saying, “Take these three times a day and with plenty of water,” and then adding, “The new moon is April 7th.”


The relevance of the kittens did not fit the directive and I am too curious to let kittens lie.


I called to determine the status of Jane Doe’s paperwork. I called Mentor with the results of my call. After that, I asked her, “What did you mean, she’s having kittens? Like, is her cat birthing today?”
“Nooo. Did I not use it right?”
“I guess not. What does that mean to you?”
“She’s upset.”


think, think, think…


“She’s having a cow?”

Then there was howling laughter on both ends of the phone. I laughed so hard I cried.

I’m so glad she gave the update to Jane Doe, because me being me, I would’ve thoughtfully added, “By the by, Congratulations on your kittens! How sweet!”

Happy Friday Everyone! I hope nothing makes you have kittens this weekend!

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#ThursdayDoors — Scottish Rite Tour

Per my invitation, Benson agreed to meet us at the Scottish Rite Cathedral last Thursday morning. It was incredible, and given the opportunity, you should take a tour.

Hello doors.


Hello, floor.


Let’s start with the basics. The guide said the cathedral is not a church, and never was. It has always been a Masonic building. You may recall I wrote it was built in 1927-1929 for $2.5 million? The guide added that if such a building were constructed now, it would cost about $100 million.
Its exterior is Indiana Limestone, of course. The floors, Tennessee Marble. The walls, travertine. The wood is from the Carpathian forest. I made the guide repeat that, “Did you say Carpathian?”
“Yes. I did. Carpathian. Does that mean something to you?”
I waved around at my company and said, “Yes, we are literature people.”
Benson said, “Sure. Dracula!” and I don’t think the tour guide ‘got’ us.

I tried to get the guide to join us all in a mirror selfie, but he didn’t get that either, so I got this instead.

Great guy, very polite and personable.

Anyway, that Carpathian Mountain wood, when they were done cutting and carving it, they used the sawdust to create pressed wood features, like the frequent grapevine and the rosettes. The woodwork is amazing. The details are amazing.
I had to resist touching everything. It was hard.


I could have written an entire post about the magnificent furniture. I say WOW.


While the cathedral is said to be an excellent example of Neo-Gothic architecture, the guide said it’s actually Tudor. He mentioned that because it’s not Gothic, there are no gargoyles, but there are grotesques — which I had not noticed, even though they’re ubiquitous and I had photographed the exterior of the building TWICE. Once we were outside, I looked for them, and I found them, but I failed to photograph them, because I am a deeply flawed.

The glass is not stained glass, it’s art glass. It’s everywhere, too, and it’s absolutely beautiful.


The window panels open, and are handled, so they’re also kinda doors. I love the hardware on the windows.


I had to turn the lighting up in all of my pictures, because the light in the cathedral is low. Even still, my eyes caught details at every turn.

Behold, the elevator doors. There are four sets of these beauties.


The guide did remember we were literature people when he took us to the library and we all gasped. Again, the details.


The library is large, and within it, my iPhone camera barely knew where to look. Benson said he’s going to go back again with his Canon.

Have you noticed all the lighting is gorgeous? Looking up, the ceilings are magnificent as well.



I really loved the ceilings.

Here’s the ballroom, in all its splendor.

Y’all, my vertigo had me spinnin in there. I preferred the lower level. With its floating floor, you could dance all night…

After that, our guide showed us to the auditorium.
Door to the auditorium, with flash, because otherwise, you no see door no good at all.


Yeah, I didn’t get a great photo of it, cause dark, but I did try.


In case of fire door:


Pretty fancy hardware compared to modern day versions.

Then we saw some less fancy, backstage sorta things — mailbox doors —

And a peek into the commissary, which we all noticed smelled like French fries. How did we know? our guide inquired. Easy enough — we are literature people, and food people.

And so, we went to lunch.

But before that, one last door.


I hope you enjoyed our tour, and I’m very glad to share it.

#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To see other doors of interest, or to share your own, click the link.

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One-Liner Wednesday — I Could Live in a Snow Globe…

During one of the frequent family protests about the temperature of the house, Moo shouted at me, “You live like a polar bear!”


One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill


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GPS Does Not Know The Way To Grandmother’s House

I like to make an annual pilgrimage to my grandparents’ house on the lake this time of year. It’s a thing I do, like a craving I can’t let lie. It comforts me. It does my heart good, even though my grandparents are long gone and the house belongs to strangers now.

Customarily, The Mister drives until we see Smokey the Bear and then I take over. The roads at the lake wind up and down and all around. I know the roads. I know the roads and I do not know their names.

This last Friday, I put the address into Google maps on my phone and off we went.

That was stupid. Do not do that. GPS does not know the way to grandmother’s house. I mean, it kinda does, because we got there, but how we got there, I don’t even know. I had a bad feeling when we were on 135 instead of 31 and later, when the GPS said we were 12 minutes from the house and I still hadn’t seen a single thing that looked familiar, I realized that I should have listened to that feeling and headed to 31. Then I realized we were at the lake, although where, I had no idea.

“We must be on the other side of the dam,” I reasoned. (We weren’t.)

The windy-dindy part was THE WHOLE WAY. We did not know the roads. We all cried out in blasphemy as we made hairpin turns and almost died halfa dozen times.

When we finally reached the house, only then did I know, the drive is half my joy. I must see the corn, the old Edwardian house, the leaning tree, Ed’s Trading Post, the bait n’ tackle shop, Smokey the Bear, The Church of the Lakes. It’s all part of the experience.
GPS has no sense of propriety.



Doesn’t look like much to other people, I know, but I still want it. Only about five-years-and-three-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollars-to-go…

Oh! And it needs to be for sale.
A girl can dream.

We’re a bit shy of Brown County’s fall foliage peak. Still gorgeous. Sun filtering through the trees, the warm, golden color of it all.


Crisp leaves underfoot, hell, even soggy leaves underfoot.

I LOVE the smell of leaf mold and burning leaves and there was plenty of that.

Pardon my repeats.

We went to Nashville, Indiana to walk around and gawk at things.


Open air dining a la barbecue. Lil slaw, lil chips, lil pickle. The experience was better than the pork. The pork was sorely lacking flavor. Do not recommend.

But there at the counter on the street, my husband wrapped his arms around me and proclaimed it was good to be out, which was akin to me enjoyin the sunshine on my face.
We were so happy, if a bit overexposed.


So we happily walked around and shopped the shops and saw all the people and Marian, we even saw one of them there Bicentennial bison (Bison-tennial? Oh never mind.)


…and communed with the squirrels and we were happily happy. Until we found the candy shop. Then we knew we could be happier.

Fudge has a way of transcending GPS woes and enhancing the euphoria of being in love.

The sunset was glorious, the perfect ending to a beautiful day.

On the way home, we saw most of the things we were supposed to see on the way there. I feel like the leaning tree and I understand one another. I believe it missed me. One day, I’ll do all the driving and stop and take pictures of all the things. The Mister hates that, but if I tell him it’s for you, maybe he’ll endure it. Such precious things should be documented for posterity.

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Share Your World #42

If you wanted to de-clutter where you live, what room / space would you start with?  (And why, if you’re feel like admitting to it.)
Haha, the kids’ rooms! I did de-clutter their rooms when they were younger, but I wouldn’t now. They’re at an age where I merely say things like, “Clean your room,” or “Perhaps it’s a good time to get rid of some things.” They won’t live here forever, so I just insist they keep the common spaces tidy.


If you want to remember something important, how do you do it (sticky note on the fridge, string around your finger, etc.), and does it work?
At home, I’m my own boss, so I just obsess about things until they’re done. Lists are helpful if I need to purge my memory. I insist my kids take responsibility for their own activities. I’ll have them pin scheduled events on the bulletin board, and issue reminders to me. For my own appointments, I sometimes put a reminder in my phone, but usually I just keep the appointment cards in my purse and the date in my brain.
At work, we have software to input our tasks, but I also use sticky notes for pressing matters, absolutely.


If you could create a one room retreat just for yourself, what would be the most important sense to emphasize:  sight (bright natural light, dim light, etc.), hearing (silence, music, fountain, etc.), smell (candles, incense, etc), touch (wood, stone, soft fabrics, etc.), or taste (herbal tea, fresh fruit, etc.)?
This sounds like such a treat, I don’t know where to begin. A silent room, lots of long, narrow windows, but with heavy curtains, cotton, cotton, cotton — overstuffed chaise, no electronics, smell of old books and lavender, plates of fresh fruit and cheese, orange tea, please.


If you could interview one of your great-great-great grandparents, who would it be (if you know their name) and what would you ask?
I think I’d go for the Seminole, Concha, and seek her lost wisdom, but only if she’d come here. I am not going to Florida in the fall.


Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
This last week was a good one. I’m most grateful for Friday, because it was especially cool and lovely and I got to drive through the forest and play outside with my family. It was just a fantastic day. This week coming up has temps in the 80s again and I’m not pleased, but good things may still happen.



Cee’s Share Your World is a weekly feature and all are welcome to play along.

What’s going on in your world?

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SoCS — Screening

Yes, of course I screen my calls, and my texts, and any messages, really. I do it for the benefit of others, I promise. I’m not a phone person.

I love my friends, even the morning people, but I am incapable of polite response until a certain amount of wakefulness has developed and it would be bad to start the day with, “Why the fuck are you callin me at 8am? What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s like you don’t even know me!”

My mother does not call me anymore.
My mother has been on the wrong end of too many sleepy conversations.

Sometimes I get text messages that I don’t know what to do with. They seem intense and complicated and I need more coffee and time or I’m liable to reply, with stuff like, “Sucks to be you,” or “Told you so” or “I really don’t know what the fuck you’re goin on about but I’ll talk to you later.”

(I actually have lovely phone presence, but I reserve that Fake Bitch for less personal circumstances. For instance, The Mister asks me call teachers and parents, or to renegotiate charges. At work, Mentor often asks me to make the unpleasant phone calls because it’s pretty hard to get mad at the soft-spoken girl on the phone, and if you do, she’ll get haughty and snippy and you’ll realize how rude you’ve been.)

It’s not always a morning thing, or a grumpy thing, sometimes it’s a busy thing.

I am, in fact, sometimes too busy to deal with my phone.

I am one of those people who ignore my phone when I’m out and about. I need to save my battery for photos, of course.

On the weekends, I’m terrible about looking at my phone, because generally, my family is here.

If I’m busy and my phone is blowing up, I actually reply with, “I have company right now” or “I’ll call you when I leave here,” and if it continues, I’ll turn my phone off. I feel like the people in front of me deserve my attention.

I have friends that think it’s rude not to answer or reply immediately. I can tell, because when they’re with me, they do immediately respond to the sounds on their phones. I could write a much longer post on how rude I think that is. Rather at an impasse there.


Overall, I’m conserving energy, waiting for a better frame of mind. Are you a solid screener, or are you more easily accessible?


SoCS ‘screen’ is brought to you by LindaGHill

Posted in Personally | Tagged | 45 Comments

Friday, Fall Break

While you’re reading this, I’m out exploring our natural world.

I’m probably wearing sneakers and being glad it’s not hot.

I’m probably eating food at some picnic table type place.

I’m probably watching the sun shine on my babies.

I’m probably holding my husband’s hand and laughing.

The point is, right now, I’m probably happy.

Happy Friday TO YOU!

Posted in Personally, Random Musings | 20 Comments

#ThursdayDoors — Woodruff Place Town Hall

Last winter three of my #ThursdayDoors posts were from Woodruff Place (Link 1, Link 2, Link 3). Historic Woodruff Place is one of Indianapolis’s lil neighborhoods. This summer, I captured its town hall.



I love the doors, but as ever, I find Woodruff Place charming.

#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To see other doors of interest, or to share your own, click the link.

I may be late getting to your #ThursdayDoors posts today. The girls and I will be touring the cathedral (doorscursion perhaps) and lunching with fellow blogger Benson. And the high is sixty-freakin-two, Woooooot!

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One-Liner Wednesday — Good God

“Y’all, someone on Freecycle is givin away ‘God clothes’. They’re mostly large shirts and 32/34 pants from Old Navy. You know, in case you wondered.”


One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill


Posted in Random Musings | Tagged | 32 Comments

In Which Joey Is Given The Day Off

Mentor rang me at nine-somethin in the mornin. I answered, “You are aware it is morning, yes?”
“I am. But I am calling to tell you you don’t need to come in today.”
“Really! Enjoy your day off!” She cackled as she hung up the phone.

A day off.
I had like, ten years off, so you’d think I’d know what to do, but for about five minutes, I just sat on my sofa and smiled at my trees. And then I sneezed one of those sneezes that rattles the windows and snot flies — somewhere…

I’ve had a cold, well, I have a cold, but like, the worst of it is over. I thought (for about fifteen seconds) about painting the back hallway before I remembered that in my current condition, hangin clean clothes in my closet causes my arms to shake with fatigue.


So I read. I drank coffee and read things and contemplated stuff. It was pretty fuckin wow.

I should have been workin on my 13 Stories piece, but nah, I had the day off. Spent it with my brain.
And after the long mulling, I realized two important things.

One, going to work is a GOOD thing. I realize that I have been working in my home forevah, but more manual labor than applying my brain to things that don’t concern me. It is GOOD for my brain to deal with someone else’s business. There is no room for neurotic brain at work. Okay, there’s room for OCD, maybe it’s even a playground for OCD, but there’s no room for anxiety there.

Two, I don’t know how much longer I can chew on my political outrage. I turned to The Mister last night and said, “You haven’t written anything in a long, long time.”
“I know.”
“Bout time for a good political rant, ain’t it?” I asked sweetly.
His eyes widened, “YOU HAVE NO IDEA!”
“I can feel it! I don’t know how much longer I can keep it in!”
Sassy started laughin.
I tried to show her how the words try to escape, and how I have to shove em back in.

Y’all know how it is, you like people, but they say the damnedest things, and you start to twitch, and then you hear your mother, “If you can’t say anything nice…” and you’re like, “BUT MAMAN!”
And that’s when it’s good to be Daddy’s Little Girl and Mommy’s Little Basketcase because Fuck Those Mother Fuckers, it’s not like they give a fuck about sparing MY FUCKING FEELINGS!
Of course, “the best way to protect yourself from other people’s bad manners is by a conspicuous display of your own good ones” or someshit. That’s how I’ll be remembered you know, as ever-polite and oh-so considerate of other people’s feelings.

I just don’t know how much longer I can go without flailing and word-spasming in all my liberal glory. I really don’t. My chest might burst. It’s probably how I got this fucking cold. Last time I had a cold, President Bush had just taken office.


What say you, virus or repression?

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Share Your World #41

Do you believe in love at first sight?
I don’t know. Just because it hasn’t happened to me doesn’t mean it’s impossible. I sure think people know what they want when they see it.

Your first car?
Plymouth Horizon — If you’re too young to know, it was a four-door hatchback. Mine was baby blue and I appreciated it for five years. The extent of my true weirdness emerged around the time I started driving. I know this because I was afraid my parents would buy me the red Firebird. I’m not kidding.

Who taught you to ride a bike? How did it go?
I do not remember. I had learned to ride at someone else’s house and when my father picked me up, I showed him I could ride a bike and then he bought me one of my very own — The Prairie Flower, Ooh!


Ugly and rich or beautiful and poor?
Haha, how ugly, how poor? Flash to me livin in a bell tower! My happiness would probably still depend on the capacity of my mind and the quality of my soul.

What was the first dish you could cook?
Toast? Bacon? Biscuits? Grilled cheese? Apple bread? I don’t know, I could cook quite a bit in elementary school. How about something more interesting, like when I got to college, I had no idea how to work my coffee pot, and when I got my own apartment I had to call and ask my dad how to boil eggs, and I was 30-somethin before I figured out how to properly cook rice.

vintage joey

drew made this for me



Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
This last week, I am grateful The Mister has taken such good care of me while I’ve had this stupid cold. He’s been really, really helpful and super nice, which if you know my husband…well, I’m just grateful.
This week coming up has Sassy playing 80s tunes in concert, the girls and I meeting up with Benson, and hopefully our family will take a trip to the countryside for fall foliage-viewing rituals and whatnot.



Cee’s Share Your World is a weekly feature and all are welcome to play along.

What’s going on in your world?

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Baby Food

For as long as Moo has been eating table food, I’ve admonished the other children, “Don’t take food from the baby!”
Little Moo was underweight, so this “Don’t take food from the baby!” phrase had been well, crucial.
I had enough trouble with the criticism of pediatric nurses, I didn’t wanna hafta say things like, “Her sisters steal her food.”
“No, we’re not food insecure.”
“No, I don’t need a home visit.”
“My children eat all the time.”
“Do you even have children?!”

Moo barely spoke until she was three. There was nothing wrong with her, she could say the perfunctory amount of words, she just wasn’t particularly fond of it. She preferred to scream and cry and grunt. Mostly her sisters spoke for her. Sometimes we still need Sassy’s translation. Y’all probably think Moo words better than I give her credit for, but I present to you, messages from Moo.


Even Sassy couldn’t make heads or tails outta that. Considering Moo had worn pantyhose, not leggings, to school that day.

There were times that Sassy decidedly abused this situation. Like the time Sassy ate all of Moo’s cottage cheese in addition to her own and told me it was because, “My Moomy no likey chottage cheese.”


As I told you, this had been advantageous for the others as well. Say for instance I gave them all two cookies… Some children, I’m not naming names, might would steal the baby’s cookies, because well, she’d just run to me in a total cookie loss meltdown. It’s not like she’d use her words. No one would ever know her cookies had been stolen. Besides, we all know the baby is the spoiledest of spoiled. Just ask them, she gets everything. Why should she get cookies on top of all the love and affection her parents provide?


There may have been other things I’ve had to say along with “Don’t take food from the baby!”

Such as…

“I realize your sister is not eating at a rapid pace, but let’s give her some time before we hijack the ravioli from her highchair, okay?”

“You may clean up her ice cream cone, but no, you may not have it.”

“She’s eating peas! She likes peas! Give the baby all your peas!”

You can really only understand this if you’ve had an underweight child. Don’t be petty.


“Don’t take food from the baby!” is a thing I still say, although less often.

So last week, as Sassy nibbled her precious potato chips and Moo stuck her hand in the bag, Sassy cried out, “Mama! She’s eating my chips!”
I looked over, and I saw the chips were orange and loaded with fat.
I said, “Let the baby eat!”


And we all laughed and laughed.
Except Sassy.

Happy Friday Everyone!

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#ThursdayDoors — Black & White & Brick Sometimes






005 191


#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To see other doors of interest, or to share your own, click the link.

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One-Liner Wednesday — Moo Says It Right, And How

“You need to have your ears flushed,” Moo told her father.
“You smell the hibachi,” he replied.
“What?!?” we all asked.


One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill

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Manja inspired me. If you didn’t read her post last week, well, that’s sad, but it’s not too late.

I’ve been home for three years, six months, and twenty-one days and I still thank God for that every single day. Notably every time I take the dog out. I like to stand in my back yard and marvel over the clouds or the stars or the trees or the flowers or the fireflies — you get it — and say aloud, “God it’s good to be home.” This time of year is particularly easy to be grateful, because it’s cool and pretty, but even in the dread heat of August, I still do it. In Georgia, it was never so green.

Home is decidedly green.
I could likely make a home anywhere green.
Were I ever to leave this place, which I cannot imagine, green would still be my number one criteria. Four seasons. Hard freeze, cause tulips. If tulips can’t grow there, then neither can I.


Home is where you know all the places in time frames. All the places mean something, contain a memory. The neighborhoods that were once yours, schools you attended, places your parents took you. Home is full of nostalgia.
You can learn all a place’s places and make a home and still never find home. Trust me, I know.

I spent seven years homesick, every autumn a misery.

For me, I was a stranger in a strange land.
Would I have felt such a stranger in New England or in other parts of the Midwest? Probably not. But in bleak, flat, brown landscapes, I know I don’t belong. Where palm trees grow beside stucco homes, I do not belong. In places where scheffleras grow out of doors and pansies are winter plants, I do not belong.

I have always known this. I need grass and trees, and most importantly, I need the snow and ice.

There were times I prayed I wouldn’t die in Georgia. Beggar’s Prayers. please god don’t let me die here.
Did I long to return to my roots? No. Did I need nostalgia? No.
I longed for those four seasons. Familiar landscapes that make my heart sing.

But as a parent, I had other yearnings as well. I said to Beefy once, “Imagine your kid has never built a snowman, or found a buckeye, or held a woolly worm.” Unfathomable to those of us who live in this region.
As a parent, I felt insufficient about teaching them their natural environment, because that environment was unnatural to me. I had to call my mother, the southerner…

“What the hell are these trees with the yellow pods?”
“How big do horseshoe crabs GET?”
“A dragonfly took my baby!”

We actually didn’t choose to return to Indy. Not that we don’t love it, it’s a part of us, and we do love it, but we’d planned to settle elsewhere in the region, not that the job market cared.

Now and again, a friend of mine says she can’t understand why people stay where they are. She’ll ponder over how some people never left her hometown, while she herself has lived all over the country.
I counter her by saying some people belong to places. Those people who never leave, they’re the backbones of their communities. It’s always been this way. Natives, formal and otherwise, are essential.

I don’t know that I belong here, but I know I don’t not belong here, and that’s a reason enough to count my blessings.

prayer gratitude

Have you found or made a home? What’s home for you?

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Share Your World #40

Why did you start blogging?
Initially, I blogged as a way to inform a small audience of friends and family about the ongoing events in our lives after we moved to Georgia. I started this particular blog to avoid teaching.


A piece of clothing you still remember?
Plenty of them. Specifically, White Pajamas III. White Pajamas The Third were my favorite.


Who are you trying to reach with your blog?
Genuine, well-rounded people who enjoy thinking and laughing.


Is there a stuffed animal in your bedroom?


The best birthday present ever?
My birthdays are always such blah because Thanksgiving interferes. I really like the package my mother sent a few years ago — crocheted afghan, Rockwell book, my old Gumby and Pokey.


What would surprise me about you?
I should think nothing would surprise you. The online friends I’ve met in person tell me I am exactly as I seemed. I might be louder and meaner than you think; online people make terrible proclamations about me being sweet. But I done told you my face and my voice don’t match what comes out.


Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
I had a great week and NOW IT’S OCTOBER! It’s been cool and we had the windows open for at least a short time every day, but always at night. I have painted my toenails a deep raspberry and I have baked monkey bread. I got black suede booties on sale. We had chocolate ganache cake from Taylor’s Bakery, and we’re having more today, cause Sassy’s celebrating fourteen years. FIL let me borrow all his M*A*S*H dvds, and we spent time examining coins together. The boy one was with us most of the weekend and good things are happening with him. We got more stuff done around the house. Mentor gave me a box of paperclips and my boss bought a shiny speedy new printer for my office.
This week coming up, well, I don’t know. I’m chuffed about having done the big shopping Friday night, so we’re well-stocked. There’s a pot roast in the oven, first of the season, and I cannot wait to eat those savory potatoes, carrots and onions! I LOVE FALL!



Cee’s Share Your World is a weekly feature and all are welcome to play along.

What’s going on in your world?

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SoCS — Slug Love

I keep the slugs off the hydrangeas, but otherwise, I let them roam and munch. Plenty of green for them to fill their bellies.
Now and again I find a slug in the house, usually because the animals all gather round to gawk.
Sadie, “Is it food?” *sniff-sniff* “Is it?”
Cletus, “It’s a toy,” *sniff-sniff* “Isn’t it?”
Catticus, “I’m scared, Clara. What if it eats kibble? Kill it, Clara, please.”
Clara, “It’s too slow to be dangerous. Let’s see if the dog eats it.”

Anyway, I’m slug-friendly.

This time of year, the slugs are…amorous.


First I wondered if the one slug was in hot pursuit of the other slug, and then I thought maybe the slug at the top was in hot pursuit of the cord above it. You know, like maybe Top Slug actually thought the cord was a super foxy long and skinny slug and it wanted to get some of that.

This is what it’s like in my brain. I am the kind of person who questions the sexual motives of slugs. If that’s not awkward, I don’t know what is.

If you don’t know anything about the mating habits of slugs, I encourage you to Google that, because it is unlikely you would enjoy reading my explanation about gooey blue penises protruding, spinnin round like a twisty cone, and fallin off, which I think is a benefit to you reading me instead of listening to me, because I am so totally the kind of person who would talka you about gooey blue slug penises.



SoCS ‘awkward’ is brought to you by, well, today, me. And always LindaGHill



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If a Tree Fell in His Yard, Would a Man Even See It?

You may recall we had some inclement weather about a month ago? Well, if you don’t, lemme tell you, IT WAS A TORNADO. I heard the tornado and so did my neighbors and one of them even saw it. Unfortunately, no one ‘official’ enough reported it, so it doesn’t count.

But it was a tornado.
All evening they talked about storms. Well, psh. IT WAS A TORNADO.
I’m sorta sensitive about this, because I don’t feel that I’ve been adequately validated about my recent tornado experience. This has led me to be more sensitive to other people’s tornado experiences, but other than that, I’m just pissy that The National Weather Service won’t back me up.

I take comfort in the fact that MIL, Benson, and my neighbors all believe IT WAS A TORNADO. The rest of the people, well, I reckon they think I’m bein dramatic.


On the day it happened, I asked The Mister, “You see that big ol limb on the side of our house?”
“Of course I saw it.”
“I can’t lift it. Might take both of us. Maybe even three of us.”


About a week later, the boy one cut the grass and he said, “I couldn’t move that big limb on the side of the yard, so I mowed around it as well as I could.”
I said, “Thank you,” and looking at my husband I added, “We really gotta get it out before the weather turns.”

I am the long-term worrier. It goes with anxiety disorder.
He is a procrastinator. It goes with the ADD.

While I’m thinkin bout how the limb will provide shelter for critters, how I don’t want critters burrowing beside the house, particularly next to Moo’s room, oh how the dog would bark, how awful it would be to have a family of vicious possum freaking out, or how traumatizing it might be for a family of bunnies to lose their warren, The Mister thinks things more like, “Meh. It’s 90 degrees. I got plenty of time before the weather turns.”

Somewhere on my husband’s calendar is a section called When Hell Freezes Over, and I presume he’s got quite a bit to do then.

That same bastard turned to me in bed just the other night and asked me, “Did you see the size of that branch on the side of the house?”
After I plucked my eyeballs from the ceiling and put them back in my head, I replied.
“Yes I saw it! I asked you that the day it happened!”
“I didn’t know you meant that. Do you know which tree it came from?”
“I assume it came from the one back here. Nearest maple. Not our tree, so we can toss it over instead of carrying it to the back forty.”
“Yeah, but look how far it traveled.”
“Baby, why do you keep sayin that? I believe you, okay? It was a tornado.”
“Well it might be because I suspect you’re not really listening to me.”

Like, especially the part where I’d said I heard the roar of the tornado, seen nothin but sideways rain and sticks out the window, put on pants and climbed into Moo’s closet and held my dog while the house rattled, and I heard things hitting the house, and it was the antenna and the tree limbs and the hammock and all the chairs…I said all that. I did. I said how lucky we were none of it broke through the windows or tore the siding. I said he should go up and look at the roof. I did say all these things.

Y’all know he hasn’t been up on that roof. Y’all know if there’s a shingle issue, it’s bound to lead to a leak right over my head in bed, drippin on my precious fuckin pillows.

Happy Friday Everyone!

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#ThursdayDoors — The Scottish Rite Cathedral


Sometimes when you’re trying to get the entire facade of a building, it’s difficult. The advice has been to stand on the other side of the street.


I stood on the other side of the street.


But still, no.

I walked to the corner opposing the Cathedral.


I was committed to getting it all, but um, no.

Maybe it’s better in the daylight? From the other corner?


Maybe a little better, but still no.

It’s a gigantic church, okay?
The Scottish Rite Cathedral was built between 1927 and 1929 for 2.5 million dollars. It is a Freemasonry building and each section can be divided precisely by measures of three, many by thirty-three.
It seats 1200, has a pipe organ, a carillon, its own orchestra, and it’s said to be one of the best examples of Neo-Gothic architecture in the United States, receiving more than 10,000 visitors a year.

All that, and I’ve never even been inside it!
They do events on a level of floating ballroom anyone? And also, OMAWORDSOMUCHSHINYPRETTYWHOATHECHANDELIERSYALL!
There’s a link to take a virtual tour. I won’t lie, it’s a stunning peek, but all that spinning played hell with my vertigo.
For $3 one can tour it in person. I think I should go. Perhaps Benson would like to accompany me?

It has beautiful doors. Oh the stained glass!


#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To see other doors of interest, or to share your own, click the link.



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One-Liner Wednesday — Beansprouts Bring the Noise

“In the middle of the night, I thought a train whistle woke me, but it was the sound of my bottom!”


One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill

Posted in Personally | Tagged | 21 Comments

Truth is Golden? No, Wait, That’s Silence.

Per my promotion of Craig Boyack’s latest work, when I wrote that I was a bad person for not writing about what I read, I thought I’d offer you my explanation. You can call it an excuse, but I’d call it a reason — These words merely illustrate perspective.

I don’t read reviews on books.
I’m not sayin never, but as a rule, I don’t. Last year when I finished The Goldfinch, I went to Goodreads and read reviews from people who hated it, because I hated it too, and I wanted the sorta satisfaction one gleans from other haters. It made me feel better. After spending five nights reading that long, drawn-out, overly descriptive piece of crap, I needed the giddy refreshment of vindication.
I know, a lot of people liked The Goldfinch.

A lot of people liking something has never been good advertising for me.

As I, and Ted Mosby, and the Coat Check Wench, know, a lot of stuff that everybody likes doesn’t live up to the hype.


I’m no hipster. I kinda like living under my rock.

I do not Fangirl. Ever.

I take my own preferences seriously, and I don’t recommend things freely. When something rocks my world, I do go on about it. I read a lot of good books, but I don’t encounter a lot of books that rock my world. Just because a book rocked your world doesn’t mean it will rock mine, and I presume that goes both ways.

It takes a certain kind of person, who gets me, who knows what I already like, to know what I might like to read, listen to, watch, what have you. There are a handful of people who influence my reading selection. They’re none of them bloggers, none of them experts or critics, certainly not strangers on Goodreads.

It’s too personal.
It’s too personal to tell someone you don’t like their creation.
Have you never dated an artist of any kind? Have you never had to say “I really like you personally. You’re a good and interesting person, but I would rather drive all the way to Iowa in a series of roundabouts than to spend another minute of my life suffering the experience of your art.”
It’s an effective way to end a relationship.

Along those same lines, it’s amazing how many creations we love, but are appalled by the artist as a person.
You know it’s true.

And the stuff I like? Well I like it for obscure personal reasons. Connecting with some brilliant sentence on page 46…

All my life people have praised me for my honesty and my candor and that’s all fine and good, I like that in people, too. If you’re like that, then you know, people value your honest opinion unless it is about them.


The Mister said he missed an update on a relative’s health, didn’t know what was goin on. Heavens to Murgatroyd, he almost had to call his mama!

Our friend Dee said, “If you wanna share important updates on Facebook, you should private message people first, so they know what the hell is goin on.”

I said, “No, see, I don’t agree with that. I think if I post some shit and you dunno what the fuck I’m talkin about then you’re not in the know cause you didn’t care that much in the first place and you should prolly just mind your own goddamn business.”

They all laughed.
“Y’all know that’s how I do.”
“And that’s why we love you.”

Truth telling about other people is best limited to those who tell the truth. Those people are rare. I’m married to one. We both have the same policy, “Don’t ask me for my opinion, cause I’ll give it to you.”

If I had to sit in front of Donna Tartt, I wouldn’t mention her book. If she mentioned it, I’d say, “Yes, Congratulations on your Pulitzer, you must be so pleased!”  Y’all, she could be a good and interesting person, I don’t know. But I’d put money on her having at least one friend who didn’t like her book.


I realize that as a person who writes fiction, it may be construed as rude not to write reviews for other authors, especially friends…Still…It is my right to be such a bad person.

I have the right to decline being a beta reader, the right to charge you for editing, and the right to buy your work and never read it.

After having written all that, how could anyone possibly want my honest opinion?

Posted in Personally | 31 Comments

Share Your World #39

A class you wish you would have taken?
I wish I’d had the math to keep going in genetics. I’d still like to take a pastry class.

Favorite comic figure and why?
Comics aren’t my thing, but I do love Deadpool. His snark is irreverent and hilarious.

Something you wish you could like?
So many things. Warm weather, for one. Like, what would it be like to enjoy the summer? Or trips to tropical places? What must it be like? People seem to truly enjoy that stuff. Unfathomable.

First crush/ first date/ first kiss?
My first crush was Kermit the Frog and I’m not sure about the other two.

Who was your best friend when you were 10?

What sign are you? Do you believe in astrology?
I’m born with my sun in Sagittarius, which is said to make me curious, energetic, brutally honest, with a hunger for learning, love for change, and a need for freedom that is non-negotiable. So YES, I believe in astrology. I don’t understand why people believe the moon works the tides, while at the same time believing the entire universe has no effect on them. I was eight when I picked up my first astrology book. You could say I never put it down.
The Mister’s Sagittarius too. Do people even draw cute pictures of you and your spouse?



Moo is also Sag, and Bubba and Sissy are Aries. Lotta fire at our house. Poor Sassy, she’s air.

Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
We got a lot of things done this weekend, which I suppose could sound like work, and I suppose it was work, but I do so love to get things done. Exciting for me is probably not exciting to you, but I am the sort of person who gets excited about sheers without kitten snags, clean baseboards, a freshly bleached sink, and those crossing vees The Mister makes in the carpet when he vacuums.
In a more romantic vein, The Mister brought me flowers —  dark red mums and yellow Peruvian lilies, a sunflower, dried rose hips, and a creamy white hydrangea — very End of Summer, very Fall is Coming. I realize Autumn has technically arrived, but here, it’s been a bit shy. Today started out gray and rainy and cool and it feels spectacular. This week promises to be substantially cooler. There aren’t any 80s to be seen.


Cee’s Share Your World is a weekly feature and all are welcome to play along.

What’s going on in your world?

Posted in Personally | Tagged , , , , , , , | 25 Comments

SoCS — And Now This?!

Moo recently discovered that the local elementary school, the girls’ former elementary school, no longer allows walkers. Even the kids whose homes are literally across the street. No matter how close, no walking!

I imagine this has to do with safety, but how, I’m not exactly sure. I can tell you in Georgia, every year that Sassy finally got old enough to do anything independently, they changed it, like a cruel joke. She’d get old enough to walk to school by their former standards and they’d raise the minimum on the ‘appropriate’ age. Then they raised the age she had to be to walk Moo with her. At some point, their 15-year-old sister wasn’t even old enough to walk them home. They raised the age required to get off the bus without an adult present, and then they made it so that 18-year-old Bubba couldn’t collect them from the bus stop because he wasn’t a parent. He had to run back to the house to get me.

I find this new walking situation particularly humorous considering the bus driver shortage and therefore, bus shortage they’ve had since we’ve lived here, but like so many other things, why should this make any sense?


If we had a damned pedestrian bridge over the crazy busy street, we’da walked there plenty of days. So many days it would have been faster to walk as opposed to hoping a bus would show up. There were days I could have walked them there and walked home before the bus arrived.
They certainly could’ve walked home all the time.

Here I am, wishing for a more pedestrian-friendly city and the school is forbidding students to walk.

There are surely close to a hundred family homes surrounding the school. I imagine at least a dozen of those people bought their houses thinking, “Oh this’ll be great, so close to the school, the kids can walk!” I bet not even once did they wonder if they were on the bus route to the elementary school.

I seriously considered this when we bought our house. They can walk to middle school and high school. They may not need to often, but if they miss the bus, if they have afters and no one is available to collect them, they can walk.

I hope they don’t change that for the older kids. I will be all up in the school in raving lunatic mode.

I wonder if the church and charter schools within walking distance have the same policy now?

I saw walkers every single morning I drove in.
But now, some kids are walking away from the school to a corner where they can catch the bus to school. Absurdity.

I’m getting too old to have kids in school. I can tell because I’ve become critical of everything. Like, the sheer hypocrisy of pamphlets they sent home about proper nutrition and exercise! They say they want to fight the childhood obesity epidemic. That’s why they’ve banned the rolling bookbag, they say. Yet, have you seen what they feed the children for breakfast and lunch?!? Gone are the days of lunch ladies who cook nutritious food for an army. Now, it’s all prepackaged crap.

Breakfast could be any number of things you’d expect, but it could also be a Hostess-variety Honeybun, Dolly Madison danish, Donut Stix, or lunch leftovers. For lunch, they serve children food loaded with excess fat and carbs, consider pizza and corn vegetables, and sometimes the only fruit offered is a six-ounce juice. An entree might be one skimpy loaded potato skin, referred to as a baked potato, but it may be served with 1% milk and a cookie bigger than their heads.

Sometimes testing eliminates recess altogether for weeks. They sometimes take away the entire recess when students misbehave. They’ve made gym an elective.

Meanwhile, they pass out candy as reward.

Instead of encouraging me to give my kids more water and take up cycling as a family, they may as well write, “Due to the fact that we load your kids up on empty calories all day  and deprive them of activity, we’re going to need you to become a health nut.”

But yeah, let’s have kids who could walk get on a bus instead. Bravo.


SoCS ‘bus’ is brought to you by LindaGHill

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Dutiful Wife

This is the story of how my day was ruined by the mysterious disappearance of my navy blue pants.
Nothing quite so tragic had befallen me since The Pillow Incident of 2015.

We were about to go away for our annual Labor Day trip and therefore, I had a lot to do. The Mister, because he’s The Original Man Without A Plan, (we’ll do that post sometime when I’m mad at him or he’s in a super good mood) gave me additional duties. No, I don’t know what the fuck he was thinkin. Prolly some reasonable shit like I work fewer hours than he does and I don’t take a full course load on top of that or whatever.

Additional duties:

1. Drop battered Old Glory at the VFW.
Well, I tried, but what I thought was the nearest VFW turned out to be The American Legion and I’ve got to look that up. There has GOT to be one on the fort. Imma look it up, I really am.

2. Pay water bill.
Yes, in person, because the dumbass water company can’t bill properly to save their lives and they still haven’t hired a deposit specialist to cash the fucking checks. I went in there, slid my statement and my $100 bill through the slot in the glass and the lady said somethin about One-fifty-two-somethin and I said, “Pardon me?” as indignantly as I possibly could. She said a new bill was due on the 15th. I said, “That’s nice, I don’t have a new bill yet. I’m just paying the bill we do have.” Maybe I said it a little bit through my teeth.

3. Mail insurance dooji.
I don’t know what the fuck it’s called. It’s that thing that plugs into your car and magically records your driving. I often drop our office’s residual mail at the Castleton post office on the way home. I’ve cultivated relationships at the post office. I’ve become That Lady Who Always Asks If We’re Sure.
“And you’re sure it will be postmarked today?”
“I just want to be sure.”
“We’re sure.”
I don’t have to tell them I have anxiety disorder and trust issues. They know.
*makes note to take baked goods to post office ladies*

4. Get Bonnie Blue serviced.
This is a total Man Job, am I right? The Mister always does the car things. Good golly, I don’t wanna deal with oil changes and tire rotations and men who call me Little Lady. But then The Mister started talkin about the utterly complex agenda he had formulated, somethin about him takin the car in early and then bringin it home at lunch and it started to sound like one of those story problems with the trains so I said, “I’ll take it.”

I had planned to wear my navy blue pants and a sleeveless floral blouse and my red granny sandals which are quite comfortable. I have little control over my life, I just like knowing what the fuck I’m going to wear, okay? It comforts me.
So I straightened my hair and put my face on and I was sorta la-ti-da-ing and tra-la-la-ing around in my underwear, pleased as pie about how it was a Navy Blue Day only two days til we’d leave and I sang a lil tune about the lovers the dreamers and meeeeee….and MY NAVY BLUE PANTS WERE NOT IN MY PANTS SECTION!

Do you fuckin believe that shit?


So I checked in the blue section. Non et non et non. My frenzy heightened….

(At our house, it’s customary I do the washing machine bit. Generally Moo rotates the laundry. Usually Sassy puts the dry clothes on our bed and everyone takes care of their own putting away. Except The Mister went to bed early the night before and so he put away my things too, that asshole.)

So I did what most women do in a fashion crisis — I put on all black. I wore my black pencil skirt and my black summer sweater and my black espadrilles.

I sent an urgent email to my family:

my navy blue pants? anyone?

*cries in black skirt*


The Mister, he sent me back:

Sorry, I wore them today



Later he text me that he’d hung them up and he didn’t remember where. I couldn’t even.



I was driving to work when I realized I had chosen the absolute worst thing to wear. You see, I work so close to the car dealership, I can literally walk there, which may or may not be why it makes sense that I should be the one to drop Bonnie Blue off, so just shut up with your logic and shit.
I could envision myself walking from the dealership to my office in my navy blue pants and my sensible granny sandals, lookin all mom-like, but I didn’t want to walk DOWN THE STREET in my skirt and my heels, lookin all woman-like because well, we covered that Tuesday.

They offer shuttle service The Mister text me.
oh good, cause i really wanna hike my ass into a fucking shuttle in this skirt.

FYI: Even in a fashion crisis, black summer sweater not the best choice for temperatures close to 100.

I asked Mentor if she minded picking me up. She did not mind.

I drove over to the dealership and it was all very complicated with the men and the lack of signage or any indication of procedure and automatic doors and the removal of the key from my ring, but I managed.


That man asked for my odometer reading and because I am me, I stared blankly at him and said, “My what?! Oh miles. I dunno. Not many.” Is that a normal question? Who the fuck knows how many miles are on their car on a random Wednesday in August?  Shut up, I wasn’t askin you.


I arranged for the shuttle driver to pick me up after work. She was a little late, but she took me to the dealership in her lovely air-conditioned van upon which she had just installed running boards. She understood my navy blue pants problem.

It turns out Sassy had put my navy blue pants in Moo’s room BECAUSE SHE HATES ME as all children secretly hate their mothers.


In exchange for these extra duties, The Mister said he’d help me pack. He packed his own clothes.
He simply forgot every single one of his toiletry items.

Happy Friday Everyone! May you have all that you need for the weekend!

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#ThursdayDoors — Update on The Big Blue House

For those of you who are regular visitors, you should be familiar with The Big Blue House. For those of you who don’t know, The Big Blue House is a house that belonged in The Mister’s family for a long, long time.

For most of the year, someone’s been workin lil by lil on it. In June, I shared how The Big Blue House got a new door.


Most of us liked it, and almost all of us agreed that it’s great someone is putting effort into the house again.

Well, this week, The Mister was on his way to the DQ when he called to tell me Big News on The Big Blue House — The Big Blue House is no more. Now, it’s the Big Orange House!


I stopped over there last night to take a photo. The boy one, he asked me, “Why is this house so familiar?”
“It was Mamaw’s house. Usta be blue.”
“Oh, wow. It seemed so much bigger when I was a kid.”

Yeah, growing up does that to us all, hm?

Some of us love it, because orange is Moo’s favorite color. Other people, like Sassy, are orange haters, whether because orange or because sister, I do not know. Some of us just wanted it to stay the way it was.
I am a fan. I’m so frickin glad it’s not beige or tan or khaki, I revel in its orangeness. I’m thrilled for that house, I am. Happy as can be!

I’m sure at some point I’ll re-update you on its fixins.

For Old Time’s Sake, I’ll also share with you the door of another big blue house I spent a lot of time in.


#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To see other doors of interest, or to share your own, click the link.

What say you about The Big Orange House?


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One-Liner Wednesday — Cute Sex Story


51o4z1zjjrl-_sx258_bo1204203200_  1linerwedsbadgewes

At age five, Little Moo pointed to the word sex in her animal Eyewitness book and proclaimed, “I know about sex!”
I said, “Oh yeah?”
She shouted out proudly, “My sex is female!”

One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill

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The Presence of a Man

On Saturday, I dropped Sassy off at the American Legion Mall, “Are those your people?”
“Get out, vite! vite!”
I put the hazards on and double parked to let her out, and then I drove around to find a parking space.

The Universe was kind, offering me a spot on a corner, so I didn’t even have to officially parallel park, just pull over and back up. So nice.
I never use parking meters anymore. I took quarters, but the meters all indicated free parking. Has it always been like that? I dunno, my husband usually feeds the meter.
I’d parked two blocks west and three blocks south of Sassy.

It wasn’t too crowded by downtown standards, not for a Saturday with events. But guess how many times I was — whatever the phrase for that is — Verbally accosted? Sexually harassed? Made fearful by the behavior of lascivious men?
Go ahead and guess.

Y’all, I am not all that. I was dressed modestly. These things shouldn’t matter, by the by.

The first time, I thought, that’s weird.
The second time, I thought, fuckin really?!?
The third time, it hit me; i am never alone downtown.

I am always with The Mister, or a gaggle of kids and a dog, or a pack of men, never a solitary woman on the street.

The only thing to do is to ignore it and keep moving. When you ignore them, the praise for what yer mama gave you turns into hate and threats. “Smile, Sugar!” becomes “Oh you ain’t got no smile for me? Fuckin bitch. Better watch out.”

What kinda fuckin lunatic walks from here to there with a smile plastered on his face?!? If I see anyone that happy, walkin alone, I will cross the goddamn street!

Men don’t know this unless they do it. The Mister had no idea for most of his life, but I informed him as I am informing you now. I once told him not to lead me through the crowd, but to walk behind me. He thought that was not strong and chivalrous. Well it is. It keeps not so honorable men from pawing and groping and pressing into me. He had no idea such things happened.

Well they do.


So when my inner rage and my “sweet ass” finally got to the grassy area and some asshole offered me some blow for a blow, I found it harder to ignore, but still I walked on.

Just when I’d settled in for the concert, some other asshole approached me asking me to make a call for him.
Y’all, I have let other stranger men use my phone, but either somethin about that guy wasn’t right, or prior events had unsettled me past the point of politesse, but I said no. I didn’t even look up.
“Miss, I —-”
He was otherwise polite, I don’t know what he was goin on about, “local and” … still an asshole.
“I’m not makin a call for you. I don’t want to. There are plenty of other people with phones here. Go ask a man!”

On the way back to the car, as I kept right on the walk, a man approached. I kept my head up and made eye contact and he kept comin. He was 50-ish, handsome, well-dressed, but still he kept comin. He had a kinda walk, like prior military, assertive, confident. If I were a man, I’da been thinkin he wanted to kick my ass. what the fuck? why is this man not movin over? what kinda dick move is it to make a lady clear the way? He crossed to a car in front of me.
Then I saw a familiar face, as one is wont to do where one has lived so long. I couldn’t place the face beyond familiar…
He said, “Hello, how’s it goin?”
I said, “Good, thanks.”
oh my god that’s the mayor!
So we exchanged pleasantries how strangers do.
That other guy was his security detail.

I could benefit from security detail.
Lemme tell you, I am all about ‘I do not need a man.’
I love this one who’s got me, and I LIKE to have a man around.

I don’t owe anyone a fucking smile, or the use of my phone, and I shouldn’t need the presence of a man to enforce that.



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Share Your World #38

Are you a hugger or a non-hugger?
I am a hugger.  I’m a kisser, too.


What is your least favorite Candy?
Those surprise jelly beans that taste like vomit and rotten melons fed to me by Beauty Queen’s oldest. I only eat black jelly beans now. Sense of jelly bean adventure all gone. I don’t like the crazy, atrociously sour candies that are popular these days either, none of that for me. Warheads and sour worms and NO.


What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word “fun”?
“I doubt it.”


List of Favorite Smells: What smells do you love? Whether it’s vanilla scented candles or the smell of coffee in the morning or the smell of a fresh spring rain…make a list of all the things you love for a little aromatherapy.
Oh my. It will rain smell, it’s raining smell, it has rained smell. A study in the verb tenses of rain smell…
Lilac — there is a time in the spring here on my block, lilacs fill the air with an almost tangible pungency. You get used to it and have to leave and return to smell it again. I have considered jarring it.
Lavender, honeysuckle — and tomato stems, basil, rosemary.
Clover, fresh cut grass, wild onion, real pine trees.
Smell of freshwater and saltwater.
Leaf mold and the smell of burning leaves, C’mon Autumn!


Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
I can scarcely begin. You know, for the first time in quite a while, I did not have a stressful week? I worked more hours, and peopled way more than usual, but touch wood, I was a happy sorta busy for a change. I have to say I am living a life of abundance and at present, I feel that deeply. I am grateful for everything.
Those soft, quiet minutes The Mister and I have between when the alarm goes off and when we get out of bed.
The funny things Moo says and texts to me.
A conversation with my mother that kept me sitting in front of the market laughing and had me smiling all night.
My pride as Sassy sat in the middle of the American Legion Mall, barefoot and straddling a cello in the rain. She was playin with the high school kids, and I spose I was proud for that, but more proud of some anti-shoe genes that run deeply through my mother’s side of the family. Shoes? Love em. Shoes? Don’t wanna wear em.
Hangin out with someone who knew me when I was a kid. Is there anything like the company of an old friend? What I love about that is how much you don’t have to say. The unspoken and yet understood — it’s powerful, isn’t it?
And did you see the moon this weekend? Wowza!
Also, on Friday, after the storms, a certain quality of air snuck in for a bit. Yes, of course it was cooler, but there was a lightness, a crispness in the air not unlike autumn.
My week came with lobster ravioli, Pad Thai, buttery, salty ears of corn, ice cream, and too much fountain Coke. It was a GOOD week.
The worst thing that happened to me was my perfectly smooth and straightened and hair and I got caught in the rain and made friends with a tree. First, my hair grew, then it curled. Randomly. I had to walk around all day lookin like I had a fight with a hairbrush. I always say I can make it rain — just gimme a hair straightener and some mascara!


where ya goin, hairs?

I suppose it’s too much to hope I can have another week like that. This week, I am looking forward to family night at the Los Rancheros — quesoeverything and a margarita, please!

Cee’s Share Your World is a weekly feature and all are welcome to play along.

What’s going on in your world?

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I Read Stuff, I Really Do

Many of you know that I am a terrible reader. No, no, that came out wrong. I’m an avid reader, and I read super fast, but I’m total crap when it comes to writing about reading. Most of the time I don’t note it in my Goodreads or review it on Amazon or even mention I’ve read it. Much as I’d like to say I’m sorry, I’m really not, because I am a bad person. We can discuss that another time. Maybe Tuesday.

Today I’m hosting my blogging buddy Boyack, with his newest release The Experimental Notebook II. I enjoyed being a beta reader on the first one, and so far, I’ve liked the first two stories in the new book as well. When Boyack said he’d like to get some more exposure and asked if any of us would be willing to help out, I thought I might could redeem myself by posting a promotional page.

And now, Craig Boyack:


Thanks for inviting me to your blog to introduce my newest book, this is the second collection of short stories and micro-fiction, cleverly called The Experimental Notebook of C. S. Boyack II.




This book covers several speculative genres I write in, including paranormal, science fiction, and one that might pass for fantasy. There are also two tales with no speculative element at all. I shoved them in as extras, the book is still only 99¢.


Short fiction nearly died out, along with the newspapers and magazines that published it. Amazon gave it a new lease on life, and I’ve seen quite a few solo stories at 99¢. I think consumers deserve a better deal than that, so this book contains fifteen such stories.


These are perfect for long carpool trips, coffee breaks, or lunch breaks. I’d appreciate you taking a chance on them.


It was sorta the least I could do for such a devoted reader, hm?
I cannot guarantee you’ll enjoy Boyack’s short stories, because I don’t know that you’ll like what I like. I mean, for all I know, maybe you like ketchup on your spaghetti marinara.

To purchase The Experimental Notebook of C. S. Boyack II:

To see all his books:

To stalk Boyack all over the internet:





I will now return to reading things I probably won’t write about.


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SoCS — Not the Shopping-est

I’m driving west today, but not past Meridian street. Gonna watch Sassy perform in the Fiesta. Then I’m going to see my oldest friend, Kiwi.
(Not older than me, 12 days younger than me, in fact, but friends since 1981.)

We’re going to go shopping.
I don’t like shopping. I don’t enjoy it the way other women seem to, or the way I’m supposed to, or whatever. BUT! Shopping is a necessary evil, and trying on pants is essential when you’re shaped like me, so may as well do it in good company!

I asked her, “Shopping. Wow. When do you think we last went shopping together?”
“When your father dropped us off at Lafayette Square Mall. Do you remember that?”
I do. I do remember. Parachute pants and neon pantyhose and jelly shoes. Who could forget?


SoCS ‘est’ is brought to by LindaGHill

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I met a hot guy at the Tomo Japanese restaurant. Yummy dinner. Tried a new soup, some spicy onion concoction we both loved.

His seduction game was strong. He told me I was beautiful and fed me all his mushrooms.

I enjoyed our conversation. He explained how he puts the chlorine tabs in the toilet tank without touching them with his hands, and I recounted a story about how I managed to get bleach in my eyes. We laughed a lot.

I’d hoped he’d take me someplace sexy, like the nearby Staples, to smell the bleached paper  to buy me paperclips   to test pens   to push my easy button but I guess he wasn’t into that sorta thing.


He walked me to my car, kissed me.

I told him I’d had a really good time, felt like I’d known him forever, felt like we had a real connection.

He kissed me again.
We lingered briefly in the closeness.

I asked him if he wanted to go home with me, meet my kids…

He asked, “How old are they?”
“Twelve and thirteen.”
The Mister said, “No thanks, I’ll pass.”

And then we laughed and laughed.

Happy Friday Everyone!

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#ThursdayDoors — Yep, Mostly Doors

Some of the doors from my outings over Labor Day weekend:


You know what’s funny? When you’re like, “Ooh, a fountain!” and your friend photobombs it.



You know what else is funny? When you’re lookin for doors to take pictures of, and you walk past a picture of doors.


Here are s’more doors and pretty buildings and stuff, churches and schoolhouses, that sorta thing.

Not a door or a pretty thing, but neat, right?


I think upkeep of old things is neat. But then, I enjoy photographing doors.

#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To see other doors of interest, or to share your own, click the link.

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One-Liner Wednesday — Technical Difficulties

“Someone’s faxing a phone number.”
“Oh no, that’s me!” I rushed over and asked, “Could you tell from the sound it made?”
“I heard someone try to answer it, so yes, technically, I could tell by the sound it made.”


fax-machine-meme-300x300  1linerwedsbadgewes

One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by User Error and LindaGHill

Posted in Random Musings | Tagged | 19 Comments

In Which Joey Drives to the West Side, Drinks an iced caramel macchiato, Picks up Master Boombastic, and Rambles On about Social Issues while Freebird Plays

If you think the title’s too long, you may not enjoy this post.

Over the weekend, I drove to the west side of town to pick up Sassy’s friend, Master Boombastic. I hadn’t wanted to. Drive west. In the rain. I’m tellin you, somethin happens to me when I cross Meridian Street, may as well be in the Bermuda Triangle. But I managed, even with a stupid weather headache.
Previously, Master Boombastic had been dropped off by his mother, and then collected by his mother. He’d spent his birthday with us here last month, and we’d enjoyed him. Great kid. For a kid, he knows a lot about movies and music and I am endeared.
I was aware he lived out of the district, but when I Googled his address and saw Fox Hill, my brain groaned.

Fox Hill is on the other side of Meridian Street.



One of my oldest friends, we’ll call him Anderson, lived by Fox Hill. We met at college, out of the city, so we didn’t have much of a rivalry. When I went to college, I was quite pleased to encounter anyone from the cities, because well, as HME pointed out, city kids never said things like, “You guys, there were black people in my class,” because they didn’t come from places where they only saw black people on television.

So yeah, in Indy, Anderson lived around Fox Hill, and at Ball State, he lived in my building, and we took French together, and we have been friends for…I’m not sure exactly, but more than 20 years.


When The Mister and I were looking to buy our home, more than anything, we needed to be in a good school district. Concepts of good school districts vary, but for us, it meant big, and diverse — schools we remember as good competitors in our various activities. When it came down to it, we agreed on two, our own, and Anderson’s.

Well, in the midst of house shopping, I realized pretty much nothing in Anderson’s district came close to our budget. I recall the white house in the woods, not a bad house, per se, but in the flood plain. What really galled me though, was that whatever idiot took the real estate photos swooped everything from the counters, literally leaving a visible pile of garbage on the floor. This is the house we could afford over there, the garbage floor house in the flood plain. I did not schedule a showing.

I called Anderson, “Did you even have poor kids at your high school?”
His reply remains a timeless treasure here with the Motterns, “Yes, we had some less fortunate students.”

*rolled eyes to the sky*

“Could you please advise your less fortunate friend as to where the hell they may have lived?”

I don’t know what he said, somethin about somethin, but per my own experience, they lived in the flood plain, or in apartments.
I picked Master Boombastic up and asked him how he liked livin over there.
Master Boombastic told me about how before this particular place, he lived in a small town in Illinois, where he was surrounded by cornfields. I reminded him he’s still surrounded by cornfields. He further illustrated his previous town by tellin me that straw hats were the norm, he’d had to learn to square dance, and listened to quite a lot of Lynyrd Skynyrd.


For the sake of disclosure I will tell you Master Boombastic is a self-proclaimed nerd. Like everyone else, he defies labels. He likes comic books and laughing at dank memes. He’s super smart and words goodly. He is also part Mexican, which you could tell by his names if I’d given them to you.


On the way home we passed our church, where I said, “That’s our church. We don’t much go to church, because we chose a church where the church doesn’t care if you go to church. They also don’t care if you’re a transgender atheist, so you know, not too churchy for a church.”
Master Boombastic told me he’d been religious before his move. I said, “I reckon you’d have to be. That’d be par for the course, what with all the Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

He told me of how he’d taken his brother to church a few times and it hadn’t gone over well. Said his brother is part African-American. Said the small town church people weren’t too receptive to that.
I explained that we usta live on an Army base. Said our kids had always known diversity. Everyone was from somewhere else, everyone intermingled and intermarried and made babies of this and that, and most people never thought a thing of it.
Then we moved here, and Sassy was forced to consider her whiteness in a way she never had before. Before we moved here, Sassy never knew exactly how white she was. Before we moved here, no one ever told her she couldn’t kiss the black boys or spend so much time with her Spanish-speaking friends.

I told Master Boombastic that when we first moved back, we’d lived with my in-laws, and at school, Sassy was befriended by ‘Other White Girl’ who lived on a horse farm. That’s when her soul was crushed by prejudice. We sat in a restaurant booth as Sassy recounted the horrors of being labeled at first sight.
“They think I’m country, with mah accent and mah white skin and mah prey blonde hair!” (You have to read that sentence aloud, with wide eyes, and with the accent, to fully understand her hysteria.)
We laughed, but with compassion for her situation.


My kids live in an environment where color and background and gender and sexuality and ownership are all much more fluid. Their schools have had a lot less hostility over differences than mine or The Mister’s did, and we knew we had it better than our parents.

Sometimes I sit on my porch and watch the kids play basketball. I doubt my kids think about how they’re the only white ones. I do. I see. I look and I think, we’ve come so far. i’m so proud of this, as a mom, as an american…

But still I see it. I notice. I still see.

We’ve got a long way to go.

Do my kids see it? Will their kids see it? Will the kids of their kids see it? How many generations does it take?
I realize humans have been asking these questions, questioning not just labels and prejudices, but actual injustice, for eons, and then I don’t feel quite so proud.

Do you have anything to add to my unstructured thoughts on these topics? Did you at least enjoy the trip?


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Share Your World #37

Have you ever owned a rock, pet rock, or gem that is not jewelry?
I feel like I’ve answered this before. Never had a pet rock. I’ve had plenty of polished stones and whatnot, but Moo has pilfered most of them. There’s an amethyst egg in the bathroom and I’ve got a trio of lil Buddhas, two of which are jade.


What is your greatest strength or weakness?
I think everyone’s strength is their weakness and their weakness is their strength. Mine is probably intuition which might translate to assumptions and paranoia. I’ll remind you that just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean I’m wrong. *wink*


What makes you feel grounded?
Green grass or snow underfoot. Or even the squishy sand my feet sink into at the shore.


Would you rather never be able to eat warm food or never be able to eat cold food?
I’d give up warm food. I prefer my food is never hot. I dislike hot food. I feel like I cannot taste hot food, all I sense is HOT! It keeps me from being a chef. Chefs don’t have time to let the spoon cool.


Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
In this last week, I’m grateful for cool summer nights, Asian pears, iced coffee, and of course, the people who enrich my life.
I can’t say I’m looking forward to anything in particular, but I appreciate that this week won’t be crazy hot.


recent grounding space


Cee’s Share Your World is a weekly feature and all are welcome to play along.

What’s going on in your world?

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SoCs — West Side Story

I want to tell you about my hibiscus. They’re all over the west side of my yard. They’re hardy hibiscus, not to be confused with tropical hibiscus. They start blooming in July and they continue until the frost.

They make pretty, even in the winter.


But right now, they’re in their full glory.






They’re lush and green half the year, which is lovely, because the abandoned house behind them is not lovely at all.

The view from my bedroom window is gorgeous. I have nothing to do with it, so surely I’m not braggin.


They’re so wow this time of year.
They burst with color.


You can’t really see in the photos, but they’re pink, hot pink, purple, lavender, and white.

Midday, they’re swarming with busy, busy bees.

They self-seed. I presume. There are more of them every year and I’m not planting or propagating them. I don’t do anything with them, and yet they spread.

I’m guessing the birds help, because today I found one blooming along the east side of house with the morning glory…


Sometimes I like things about summer. But only a few things.

SoCS ‘view’ is brought to you by LindaGHill

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Kitchen Crimes and Trash Talk


Once this tweet was posted, a follower felt the need to tell me about how his mother taught her sons to cook and clean and how men should do this and children should do that and yadda yadda — three whole @s he gave me about how fabulously he’d been raised. Of course, I wished his mother had spent a bit more time teaching him manners, but because my mother did a good job at that, I let it lie and quietly unfollowed him instead of telling him to go @ himself.
The man who wrote those comments has since deleted them.

It really pissed me off. Beneath my crick of anger, there’s an ocean of resentment.

FIRST OF ALL, that dude dunno my life. Twelve people know my life and he ain’t one of em.

Second, it’s a tweet. It’s fewer than 140 characters of a story. A blip into my psyche at any given moment. There are many, many parents who relate to that tweet. It’s not like my family will beat me black and blue if I don’t kitchen.

Third, my kids can make brownies. All four of them can make brownies. Not all four of them can successfully melt chocolate in a double broiler, which is why I’d said I’d bake the brownies to begin with. Have you ever smelled burnt chocolate? Have you cleaned burnt chocolate from a pan? Have you any idea how much baking chocolate costs?
While Sassy and Moo are not candidates for Master Chef Junior, they do cook and bake things.

I don’t know if The Mister can bake brownies. This does not bother me, because I bake awesome brownies, and I truly enjoy baking them more than eating them.
The Mister can cook basic foods. He can sustain life with his kitchen skills.
For a short time, he wanted to learn to cook more, and that was a bad experience for both of us and I do not ask him to prepare edibles and he is glad.

Fourth, my kids can, and do, wash dishes plenty. If you asked Sassy and Moo who does the dishes in the house, they’d climb up on a Fiestaware cross and tell you a sob story of how “I’m literally the only person who ever does dishes.” Both of them would tell you that.


I prefer eating from clean dishes so Sassy does the bulk of the dishes. There are times that I suspect Sadie licking the dishes would get dishes cleaner than when Moo washes them, and woe to anyone who doesn’t inspect their dishes before use, and Moo spends a considerable amount of time redoing dishes, but still, she does dishes.
Sometimes The Mister does dishes. Usually, he does this when we have house guests, so that all the women think he’s a swell guy, but I’d say twice a year or so, he does them when no one’s even lookin.

He does the dishes more than I take out the trash. Last time I took the trash out, there was snow on the ground and I’m not sure it was this last winter…
I take recyclables, but I almost never take out the trash. My husband teases me about how much trash I make and it’s become a joke between us. I’ll say, “Baby! Come look at all this trash I’ve made for you!” and then he’ll either grumble about how I could get a job making trash or he’ll high-five me and say, “Good job, Baby!”

Do you think if The Mister tweeted about how much trash I make and how he’s always taking out the trash, some woman would @ him about how her father taught all his daughters to take out the trash and it’s a real shame his wife and kids don’t do that for him?!?
(Honestly, on Twitter, any @ is possible. Most of the time, the @s don’t even make sense.)

Do you know that when I tell people my husband goes to the store for me, loads and unloads the car for me, etc, etc, etc — virtually anything my husband helps me with — people think I’ve won some sorta prize?
Additionally, if I bring my husband a plate of food or iron his shirts, people think I’m livin in 1956 and declare it sexist.
These things make me sad.

I mean, if it’s all supposed to be so goddamned equal, why does anyone make the whole bed instead of just their side?
I know, I’m a Bad Feminist.

If you’re partnered with someone, they should be doin nice things for you. What, I cannot say. I can tell you that any healthy relationship exists because of care, and care should be a constant. Happily married people are all about the little things.
Happily married people do not sit around measuring out tit for tat, makin tick marks over how many times they’ve changed the toilet paper roll or whatever.

Have you even lived with anyone else?
People are awful to live with. All of us.
I have lived with me for 42 years and it has not been easy. I am moody and bitchy and fault-finding, I hate to be woken up, I need a lot of personal space, my tongue is quick and sharp, and worst of all, I like everything a certain way.
To make up for this, I’m an excellent cook.
I have lived with The Mister for 17 years. He is grumpy and easily angered, and he procrastinates, and he’s always losing things, he doesn’t listen, and worst of all he forgets everything.
To make up for this, he’s charming as fuck.

If you want to be treated like royalty, stay single and hire out.

It is my own personal experience that we all want what we do not have, so I’m sure my husband is wondering why I never get laryngitis, and I am wondering why he doesn’t go get his ears flushed, and you’re all wondering if we see the irony of that situation.

Blah blah blah blah blah.
Blah blah blah blah blah.
Oh never fucking mind.

Anyway, if you think there’s something wrong with a person who makes dinner, cleans the kitchen, and then bakes brownies, then you are definitely not invited to dinner here and I do not wish you a happy Friday.*

*Certain Restrictions May Apply

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#ThursdayDoors — Gates & Arches & Things


florida fort


i wonder what it looked like when it was built


indianapolis law firm harboring pokemon, apparently


park pretty


empty space leaves room for imagination


pretty stuff


enchanting, hm?


Thursday Doors is an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To see other doors of interest, or to share your own, click the link.

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One-Liner Wednesday — Morning Comes Early

“I’m awake. I can tell because I just yawned and squeaked. In a minute, I’ll stretch and pop.”


One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill


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That Rain Song…

John’s post about rain songs reminded me of how one day my MIL asked me if I could use my computer to help her find a rain song.
That’s what she said.
“A song about rain,” she said.
She didn’t mean any ol song about rain, but rather, a particular song she’d liked, in which rain was mentioned.


I did have the advantage of knowing MIL’s taste in music, but still, quite a lot of songs about rain. Why not songs about night? or dancing? or love? Haha.

After playing about 30 song blips for her, it turned out to be Phil Collins “I Wish It Would Rain Down.” MIL was so happy.

I mentioned this craziness on my Facebook, and for days, people commented on that post with their suggested songs about rain.
This bout killed me.

I suppose it’s important to realize that not all your friends read well. Also, apparently, everyone likes at least one song about rain. And they want to tell you about it.
“Was it this?”
“How about this one?”



I still haven’t quite gotten over it.
Whenever I hear a song about rain, I think of the time my MIL asked me to find her that particular song about rain.
So yeah, I think about it a lot.

If you’d like to share or write about rain songs you love, please go over to John’s post.  If you want to complain about that time no one understood you, I’m here to read you well.


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Share Your World #36

If you were given a boat or yacht today, what would you name it?  (You can always sell the yacht later)
The Mr. Beaumont. All Friends fans know Joey’s boat is called The Mr. Beaumont.  I would let The Mister drive me around the lake, but otherwise, I’d totally use my boat as a place to eat sammiches.



Which of Snow White’s 7 dwarfs describes you best?  (Doc, Happy, Bashful, Sleepy, Sneezy, Grumpy, Dopey) Plus what would the 8th dwarf’s name be?
I should think it’s obvious I’m Snow White. If not, I guess I’m often Sneezy. The 8th dwarf could be Sleazy.


Name a song or two which are included on the soundtrack to your life?
A song or two? How about a song or two a day?
Okay, fine.
How about Tori Amos “Cornflake Girl”?


Complete this sentence:  I like watching…
Lately, The Good Wife. I never saw the first season or the last season, and along the way my dvr cropped a lot of endings due to friggin sports runnin over, so while some of it is memorable, I’m enjoying it all over again.


Bonus question:  What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
I am so grateful for our weekend away. Grateful for friendships that span decades of time and hundreds of miles. Also, amazing husband take me on road trip to see said friends.


And views, and photos, and food, and drinks. All good stuff all weekend. Whatta wonderful weekend!


Also, last week, I saw this tree on 56th Street and I said, “Hey Lil Tree, whatcha doin there? Turnin colors?” He waved and nodded, so that means fall really will come and destroy this infernal heat crap.


This next week, the only scheduled highlight of my week is an early morning trip to Dunkin Donuts, but hey, ya never know what might happen the rest of the time!

Cee’s Share Your World is a weekly feature and all are welcome to play along.

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What’s going on in your world?


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Goodness, It’s Good

People be like, “I’m going to Disney World!” and I be like, “I’m going to HME’s!”

Well, I am later today. First I’ll get caught up with my online stuffs. Then I have to wrap up packing, which is basically me walking around the house in panic mode, clutching my list and tsking anything we may have overlooked. Then I’ll tidy things, because I am loath to arrive home to any disarray. Then I’ll go to work. But after that, definitely, goin to HME’s!

The last month has been long, has it not? For me it’s been about 90% chaos and toil and trouble. Altogether too much schedule and peopling. Finally, Labor Day Weekend is upon us and I shall escape.
Shouldn’t there be MORE long weekends?

Y’ever go someplace that’s always good? I have several of those places and HME’s is one of My Top Five All-Time Good Places To Go.

It’s always a good time and that’s why we love it so much. Good people with the good talk and the good food.
We go without expectation. Sometimes we go places and do stuff, and sometimes we simply be, but it’s always a good time with the HMEs.

The boy one, he’s coming to sit the house. He’ll care for the house and the pets and the alarm. He might mow the grass and he’ll surely make sure no milk expires in our absence, but he won’t update my blog while I’m gone. Thinking about that makes me laugh…

Anyway, while I’ll miss WordPress Peoples, I’ll be enjoying the disconnect from the norm. (Not Our Norm, just the norm.) It’s gonna be GOOD!

Oh yeah, thanks Tony, this is perfect today!



Happy Friday Everyone!

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#ThursdayDoors — The Sanctuary on Penn

I thought I’d go with another one of those churches that isn’t a church, since I’ve found so many this summer.

On Pennsylvania Avenue, The Sanctuary on Penn is not a church that operates as a wedding venue.
I love that. What a clever business-minded way to keep old churches beautiful.

IMG_0070 (1)IMG_0072

My up-close shot is even worse, so we’ll stop here. I suppose I could have tried to get it when the sun was up, but then, it didn’t even invite me in for cake or cocktails or anything.

#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm Frampton. To view other interesting doors, click the link and see what others are posting today.

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Uh Oh

Comments are disappearing for some of us in some places. Check your spam for some comments you may have missed.

John brought this up and I told him I’d check my spam, where I did in fact, have comments from John, and my comment to him about it disappeared. Twice.

Anyway, check yer spam🙂

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One-Liner Wednesday — Sock Mates

Sassy likes to wear mismatched socks so I don’t match hers anymore. The other day when I asked Sassy to take her non-matching socks, she made a sad face and said, “Intersocks couples have rights, too.”


One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill


Posted in Random Musings | Tagged , | 56 Comments