#ThursdayDoors — Doors For Sale

Finally, out on a long overdue doorscursion, I found this place right off the bat. I reckon they knew I was comin.

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Ah. Sweet door relief!

#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 and find the frog.

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One-Liner Wednesday — Moo Words Again

I asked Moo, “Did Daddy bring home the good milk?”
She said, “It’s not organic, but it’s vitamin D and homogenocide.”

Well, ya don’t hear that every day!

 

One-Liner Wednesday is brought to you by LindaGHill

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Those Days, That Night

Those Saturdays when you barely drag your tired ass outta bed to take a shower and put on your pants and bra and shoes and instead of logging onto the interweb, you visit the outerweb to do all the things.

At night when you come home from all that, you make a beeline for the bedroom, strippin as you go. You click on the light, and see your pajamas on your *gasp* unmade bed, exactly as you left the scene of the crime.

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You’re upset your bed isn’t made. why isn’t my bed made? you wonder. oh yeah, cause that bastard was still in it. HE gets ready in five minutes, the bastard.

Oh well, let’s make the bed to get in it and then oh, how we’ll sleep.

You slide your aching feet across the cold sheets and stick your earplugs in. Your narrator brain lulls you to sleep — that’s a blog post, you think.

It was a great long weekend, let’s make it a great day! (Even if it is a Tuesday.)

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SoCS — Grill

Down the way, there was a barbecue joint. It was terrible how we had to smell barbecue all day and all night for years. Just terrible. Seven in the mornin, droolin for pulled pork, Lawd. If I wanna eat a mammal, there’s a 100% chance I’d like to eat pulled pork. I’d put it right up there with MIL’s corned beef and sweet gravy. Lower than her corned beef and sweet gravy, but up there. At those kinda places, I never choose chicken or brisket or ribs. I ain’t orderin a hamburger or some fried catfish. Nope. Always, always the pulled pork.

I hated how inconsistent their mac n’ cheese was, though. I wanted to see the mac n’ cheese and know who made it… Sometimes it was heaven, creamy and peppery and sometimes it was just mac n’ cheese, meh.
Like the potato salad memes. If you don’t know, you should Google potato salad memes. That’s how I do at the reunions. Walk down the line with MIL all, “Who made these noodles? Whose beans are these? What did Aunt Bee make?” I don’t care about the meat, I want the siiiiiides!

Back to my story now — A new name appeared above the place down the way and I wondered if they reorganized, but no, is whole new joint. Oh they got pulled pork.

They also have all the sides.

This is a real problem for me.

I want all the sides, okay?

It is so hard, too hard, to decide on the sides. You only get two. I die.

They got mac n’ cheese and fried okra and green beans and cole slaw and hush puppies and greens and baked beans and y’all, I wanna eat all those things.

So we were in the car today and the radio was all, blah blah stuff “pulled pork sliders” blah blah and I told The Mister that’s what I need. See, I need a lil pulled pork slider and then all the sides. Yes, all the sides. Maybe three bites of each. If you open a barbecue joint, you do that? Maybe you even get more business by offerin people like me a sides entree. Like two big sides and four little sides. Lotsa greens and slaw, and then a lil of this and that and a hush puppy. Okay, two hush puppies. I could a la carte my way to a big check and tighter pants, I really could.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday — SoCS ‘grill’ is brought to you by LindaGHill

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Text From Joey

I’m typing this on my phone. Can you imagine my horror? I know some of you do this all the time and you are not me. I hate the phone keyboard. I have tiny hands and itty bitty fingers and still I’m not good at it.

Last week I was texting and it changed “Such a problem” to “Suck it Pepe” and that is not okay, cause I am not all about turnin a polite conversation into a pile o drama. That is to say, I pretty much hate texting so if I text you, I really care about you, but also, will likely be brief and not try to engage you in sucking convo of any sort.

Anyway, my keyboard is massively fucked up. I cannot word on it at all. No wording allowed. If I were super committed I could type and delete away all the extra letters, alas, I have less patience for that than I do for typing this post via text.

*Siiiiiiiigh*

I tried many Google suggestions and asked my brilliant son and drove my family to the edge of exasperation before attempting a failed recovery and as I type this, I’m resetting. This lappy is only three years old. I will be upset if I have to buy a new lappy.

My road has been bumpy lately. Mind you, all the things that are truly important are fine and I am oh so grateful. However, it’s gettin … it’s kind of … I could write me a lil country music tune.

Someone wrote me a big bad check. I’ll be bloggin the fuck out of that when it’s all set right. Who knows when that will be. They’re sending a new check and second chances are good, right? Why, it’s prolly in the mail right now!

I tried to get sick. I had the swollen glands and I couldn’t brain and I kept lookin at the same papers over and over but my brain didn’t care to take in any more info so I hadda go home and sleep for 30 hours and pop Lysine and NSAIDS like candy so I didn’t get the fever and my face didn’t explode, but it was a rough coupla days there.

My yellow handbag broke. I wrote about that, but haven’t thrust it upon you yet.

I got a serious paper cut, but I made it through somehow. I’m okay as long as they don’t bleed. There aren’t always the right Band-Aids around — the ones I’m NOT allergic to. (I’m extra special, okay?)

The riding mower broke and the replacement part came but…

Our old red van died. We dunno why she died. She’s sittin there waitin for The Mister to do stuff. I dunno the stuff. I do know that prayer healed my in-laws’ old red van. It sat dead there on the street for years and one day she started and ran for another two years. I reckon she needed a rest.

It’s new car time, but no one has time to go get a new car or heal the old red van or deal with banks or get sick or fix the mower or find a new handbag because the kids are doin all the things. All the things. Tonight was the last of the night things and then there are trip things until the summer things start with the away things and camp things — simply all the things. I was gonna write you a funny about that, but I can’t cause this phone format doesn’t meet my needs.

So anyway, again, bumpy road lately.

In the midst of my bumpy road journey I have encountered some inspiring support and generosity. Small kindnesses. Big kindnesses.

But of course my keyboard is jacked. Otherwise it wouldn’t blend into this shitshow I’m workin on over here.

It can’t last forever. Nothing does. Not even old red vans.

*Siiiiiiiigh*

It’s at times like these I appreciate every single thing that goes right. Like the other night I got some spicy chili chicken on my white tee shirt but it was okay, cause spicy chili chicken in my mouth.

Found out my dog has allergies which is better than findin out she’s got anything else. Like her people, she can take pills and still live a full and happy life.

Resetting a computer takes a long time. It’s only at 40%. I’m at about 20% and think I should stop rambling and go to bed.

HappyFridayEveryone!

Cheers to the long weekend!

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Feet Up Sundays

I am not as anxious as I was.
Work means I have less time for anxiety. In quiet moments, I suspect being home enhanced my anxiety. My anxiety lessened at part-time job and I have even less at full-time job.

There was a period of time when I was too anxious to work. I was too anxious even to volunteer at my customary rate. I was so anxious for a while, if it had not been for my children, I may not have been able to rise and put my feet on the floor every day. People said it sounded like depression, but I assure you, the only depressions I’ve ever had were causal and mild, never deep. I have felt the pang of despair a handful of times, and I do mean moments, fleeting. Something inside me rejects despair like an automatic response for “I am a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars” but also, a child of God, (my god, prolly not yours) and in that, I could feel my shame in having ever despaired, as I know good things are always coming and that I am here for reasons outside myself.

Hope has been bestowed upon me with such a heavy hand, I wonder if I didn’t get the hope other people were supposed to be given. Some glitch in the hope dispenser, maybe.

I seem to have received plenty of fret and melancholy to balance the hope, or vice versa.

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dorky mom made this. see her if you need some hope, or a laugh

 

Every time someone new comes to read this blog when I’m not at my glorious best, or when I’m crabby, I inevitably get maybe-well-meaning but definitely-rude commentary about how I should not put this out into the world, or how selfish I am, or how I’m not feeling the right thing — whatever. If you’ve stumbled upon me today as a new reader, I want you to go insert some rude shit here.  I sure don’t believe you only feel the good feelings and no matter what happens, you’re always cheerful and positive and uplifting and giving, because if you were, then you wouldn’t leave maybe-well-meaning but definitely-rude comments on a stranger’s blog. Duh.
If that’s your brand of blogging, no thank you, I’m already on Twitter.

I’m keepin it real. I do try to spin the happy, I do. I measure my gratitude to offset the anxiety, but silver linings are found, not given.

Alas:

“Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.”

“I’m not gonna come home and cook big every night. And none of you are, either, so…”

“You know what? You’re fourteen. You can find the number to the pharmacy, call and ask them if your cream is in, then ask the cost. You can do that. Cause fourteen.”

“If I can’t get you there and me back before sundown, it ain’t happenin. Ask Daddy.”

“I need a fuckin day. I need one fuckin day. A day with no work, no laundry, no cooking, no shopping, no peopling, no surprise shit sprung on me.”

I acted like this had to be gifted to me, like it was out of my control. Careful with that.

I’m just a default setting, not a martyr. My family DOES do things to help. Now and again, my kids truly go out of their way to reset the default “Mama Does That” setting, and I am grateful.
I’m even more grateful that my husband actively seeks ways to lighten my load.

I am a person. A real person. A whole person. And if I am to stay whole, sane, well, I have to take care of me, too.

 
And that’s why Sundays are down days for me.

I work my ass off to make and keep my Sundays free of obligation. If I have to, I will shop every other day of the week, instead. If need be, I will run all the errands on Saturday. Sometimes, I’ll cook two dinners in one night, so someone else can reheat one on Sunday. There are Saturday nights where I do all the laundry so on Sunday, I don’t even have to do that.

I am a mature, generous, responsible person who makes as many commitments and meets as many expectations as I can, and I owe it to myself to find time for my pleasures, my comfort, my rest.

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You know who gets that? My mother.

Behold the socks she sent me:

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FEET UP, Amy!

Yesterday, I walked the dog and me, went to the vet, the McD’s drive-thru, the library, two grocery stores, and four retail shops. I cooked cod, rice pilaf, and asparagus. I tidied and vacuumed the entire house. I rotated laundry and put away clothes. I gave myself a pedicure. And at one o’clock this morning, I drove to school to collect my kid. Then I came home, took a shower, and went to bed.

Today, I get to sit here not doing things of the obligatory sort, all while wearing my favorite pajamas and my fabulous new socks!

I can be myself and still take good care of myself. For this, I only need my own permission. Give yourself permission to _________. Make it happen.

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It’s Friday, and Somehow, Mid-May

I’m down to 59 posts left to read. Course, you’ll all write more while I’m at work…

It’s all good.

I’ve got a moon pie for breakfast. A moon pie and half-caff — the breakfast of people who talk a good game about sleep, but actual sleeping? Not so muches.

The Mister has lovingly offered to take the 5am parenting shift tomorrow, and by lovingly offered, I mean, “Oh Daddy really wants you to do it? Good, see if he’ll take you.”

Obviously if I knew what this week would be like I would never have made a 10am Saturday appointment with the veterinarian.

I cannot believe it’s May 18 already.

I gotta go to the grocery store or the weekend will be rather canned food-oriented. Canned salmon with black olives, diced green chiles, topped with cream corn. Orange peaches floating in condensed milk for dessert. Mmm, NO.

It’s a good day anyway, cause it’s Friday! It’s also only gonna be a high of 73 today!

Maybe I’ll get through my to-be-filed pile!
Hahahahahahaha!
AHAHAHAHA!

Happy Friday Everyone!

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#ThursdayDoors — Door Dregs

I am writing this while I’m 84 blog posts behind in my reading.
The life. It goes on. And on and on, and oh my goodness am I glad it’s Door and Kitten Day! I love Thursday!

mothers work
Writing this while my family sleeps. I take my hours when I can get em.

The quality of doors here chez ma blog has been a skosh bit lacking lately.
Now, the spirit of #ThursdayDoors is more about lifestyle than goal, and lemme tell you, I’m committed to the dooring lifestyle. Let me show you. From a Desktop file labeled DREGS.

I take pictures of doors when I’m up too early.

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the sun does not care about me or my photos.

I take pictures of doors when I’m out too late.

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you didn’t think i was gonna get outta the car, didja?

I take pictures when doors disappoint me on a Saturday afternoon.

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cannot pick up glasses with hme

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can’t pick up pizza, either.

(Both of these are at 75th and Shadeland. Thank heavens there’s a Starbucks over there. No one should be so sad on a Saturday afternoon.)

 

I take pictures of non-traditional doors.

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yes, do.

 

I take pictures of doors while The Mister chats to everyone and his brother.

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introverts, we’ll do anything to avoid the talking

 

 

 

I take pictures of doors I will never walk through again…

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i worked here

… and of doors I wish I saw more often.

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that’s oberweis and indy doesn’t have one

I’ve actually got two related doors in DREGS, should a doormergency occur, or like, if something inspires me to share them.
Still, can we all just hope I get some doorscursion time soon?!?

#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 and find the frog.

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Our New Neighbor

Like many people, we don’t know all our neighbors’ names. We know some.

Tony moved in when Don and Deb moved out.
I know Justin, cause he has a dog, and although I always wave to his dad and have spoken to his mom a few times, I don’t know their names. They are Mr and Mrs Justin’s Parents. Mrs Justin’s Parents works nights. Mr Justin’s Parents loves to mow grass and mows half the lawns on our street. They usta live across the street without Justin, but now they all live together in Jim’s house because it’s bigger. Yes, I know Jim is no longer with us, but it’s still Jim’s house, ya know?
Rob and Holly have boys and they are soccer fanatics.
We know the other parents of four — Kate and HER FINE ASS HUSBAND. At least for three of us. Maybe The Mister knows his name.
We met Boy Mommy right after we moved in. Not seen her since. There’s a large tree between us.
Then there are the antisocial people with the dogs.
Hermit Lady. I had a lively conversation with Hermit Lady about four years ago, but I don’t remember her name. I liked her. At least for 20 minutes.
Dementia Lady moved out. Dementia Lady apparently kept a lot of not-her-mail when accidentally delivered to her home. That’s how we found out she had dementia. A family moved into Dementia Lady’s house and they have a black lab.

Why is it that I’m okay with the black lab runnin all over our yard, but I don’t like their kids doin that?
I thought it was like time flipped my old people switch but it wasn’t age-related at all, because Sassy bug-eyed the window one day and shouted, “Where the hell did all these kids come from and why are they runnin through my yard?”

What is that? It’s not like they’re hurting anything.

Y’all, I don’t really believe in land ownership or corporations owning all the corn or whatever. Not like I don’t believe these things exist, but rather, I’m more communal or socialist or hippie dippy trippy — but not with my last soda… So, you know, technically, legally, these kids were trespassing, but they also weren’t hurting anything.

Do people not teach their kids to stay outta other people’s yards anymore?!?

When I was a kid, we knew whose yard we could cut through. Where all the yards met, we played in an L-shaped space because there was one neighbor who hated kids in his lawn.
We could walk through Gordon’s cornfield all but when he’d just planted.
The guy on the corner of Young and Oyler would come out and yell about his shotgun if we even walked too close to his honeysuckle bushes.
(On Sundays when he went to church, we walked through the alley and sucked that side of his bushes dry. Heathens, the lot of us.)

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OLD MAN MOTTERN AND OLD LADY MOTTERN AND YOUNG MOTTERN 3 DON’T WANT YOU RUNNIN THROUGH THEIR YARD, but they dunno why.

Anyway, that black lab. That dog’s name is Cooper and we’re fans. We dunno his humans’ names.

Not too long ago, Sadie and Cooper had a nice meet cute with leashes and butt sniffing and a bit of tangle, then this week, he came a callin, right to the front door. He stood there, tail waggin, like, “Can Sadie come out and play?” I let him in and we all walked through the house to the back yard for the playin.

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They had the bestest blurriest furriest time, and we enjoyed watching them.

Happy Friday Everyone! 

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#ThursdayDoors — Yellow Gold

Truth: I never knew there was a golden hour before Norm Frampton wrote about it. I should clarify — I didn’t know ‘golden hour’ was a phrase, because what with having eyes and all, I had occasionally noticed that certain sunsets cast a gold hue.

I was driving home on one of those cold wintery evenings when you wonder if you’ll make it home before the sun sets. I saw some glorious windows all aglow in sunset light, and I thought where there are pretty windows there are often pretty doors.

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So I parked and checked it out.

Meh. The doors are meh. The framing is nice. It’s an attractive building.

The light was much better as seen with my own human lenses.

However, I did not take umpteen photographs of this building so we could all go Meh.

Does it have an interesting history? Um, I couldn’t find one.

Disappointed a bit in the doors, and the history, but further intrigued cause Yellow and Art and Language.

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That’s some good modern religious art, right there. (It’s not blurry at all in person.) The Soma Church is an interfaith community comprised of several protestant sects. It’s a thoughtful title. I am impressed with the name they’ve given themselves.

Soma — Body — ORRR, if you’re a reader, a perfect drug one may use to cope with A Brave New World.

I took a moment of pause out there in the cold, pondering the richly layered metaphors, images, and quotes that ran through my head.

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#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 and find the frog.

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