Scientia Et Pietas

17 May

Tonight I had dinner with my friend, Tara, who writes “I Might Need a Nap.”   There ain’t nothing in this world that two fishbowl margaritas (both mine!) and a three-hour talk can’t fix.  Well, maybe not full on fix but at least make a far sight better.

Pardon me, gentle readers–it seems that tequila makes me talk like Ellie Mae Clampett.  I shall clutch my pearls at myself forthwith.

We have known each other since Governor’s Honors in 1985 and we both ended up at Wesleyan College.  We talked about raising kids, the fish tacos in Hawaii, ICU waiting room chairs, Jesus, cheer moms, first husbands, high grass snakes, The Young and the Restless, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, and churches that rely on PowerPoint.  We talked until my voice gave out.

I wrote this haiku once when I lost my voice:

I croak, squeak then try to speak.
My little one asks,
“Mom, are you leaving your voice?”
 

Word were new to Vivi at the time and she got “losing” and “leaving” mixed up…but dang if she didn’t hit on something.  I don’t mind the periodic losing of my voice–I’ve usually run it into the ground through excessive use, not neglect.  Losing my voice gives me a reason to hush, to rest, to listen.

But leaving my voice?  Oh, I’ve done that too.  Those are the times that make me sad when I look back.  The times I didn’t speak up for myself.  The times I didn’t ask for what I needed.  The times I left a question unasked.  The times I witnessed injustice and didn’t say anything.  Or the times I saw injustice and ONLY said something about how wrong it was but didn’t do anything to fix it.  Those are times when I left my voice.

Bare Bulb Coffee and the Women of Wesleyan...two groups that are changing the world for the better

Bare Bulb Coffee and the Women of Wesleyan…two groups that are changing the world for the better

As we were saying goodbye in the parking lot, Tara pressed a small gift into my hand.  She said, “We’re both red clay girls and I thought of you because this is made from red clay.”  I looked at the small medallion under the street light and thought at first that it was an alien head (might have been the two margaritas talking…and just for the record, I was walking back to my hotel on the other side of the parking lot).   Tara works with an organization called Bare Bulb Coffee.  It’s a coffee shop/community center/art gallery/church/social service organization with a Quiche of the Day and an actual plan for righting some of the wrongs in the world.  Nikki Collins McMillan is the Ministry Director and Head Percolator…and another Wesleyan Woman.

The shape on the medallion and the name of Bare Bulb Coffee both hearken back to the coffee farmers who grow the fair-trade beans used by Bare Bulb.  Tara told me, “In the homes in that region, you walk into their houses and there’ll be a string with a bare light bulb hanging down.”  I croaked, “Oh yeah!  My Grandmama Eunice had one of those over the dining room table!”  Tara replied, “No…that’s the thing.  There’s no electricity wired to the houses.  It’s just a string.  The bare bulb is a symbol of hope.”

On the Wesleyan College seal, the official motto of the college reads Scientia Et Pietas–”knowledge and responsibility.”  Tara and Nikki have taken their knowledge and translated it into service to those among us who are underserved.  I can’t think of two better examples of Wesleyan alumnae who are making a difference in this world.  They’re using their voices and that gives me hope.

Also on the Wesleyan College seal, the seated figure of Wisdom holds forth a laurel crown.  Above her, a ribbon bears the words “Niminum ne crede colori.”  The phrase is from Virgil and I was told back then that it meant “put not your faith in outward appearances.”  I’ve always interpreted this as “don’t judge a book by its cover,” but tonight when I looked up the translation again, it turns out that Virgil addressed this line to a lovely youth.  The words in their full context mean:  ”Oh, handsome child, trust not too much in your youthful color.”  So I guess that’s more of a “pretty is as pretty does” or “looks won’t last, honey.”

These women?  Nikki and Tara?  They are women I first met when we were all handsome children glowing with youthful color.  They’ve grown older and wiser.  They give me hope.  They make me proud.  They make me want to do more with my voice.

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In Another Life, 46.

16 May

A few months ago, I wrote a piece about the circular nature of grief (A Tuesday Kind of Miracle).  When we lose someone, the path through grief is a looping line, not a straight one.  As the years pass, the loops become smaller and spaced further apart.  I ran headlong into one of those loops today and that’s how I found myself sitting at my desk sobbing into a Kleenex…all because of a typo on some paperwork.  Or maybe it wasn’t a typo.  In some world, it might be true.

It’s been eight years since Richard died.  I’ve slogged through the months and months of estate paperwork and had it all settled.  I hadn’t looked at that brown accordion file in years.  Nevertheless, at the end of 2012, I got a big envelope from the university where he had taught.  I inherited one of his retirement accounts, but I didn’t bother to open the envelope because all that was SETTLED.  I got another envelope…put it in same dusty stack.  (I know, I know, I know)  He ended his career as a professor of finance, so both of us had great retirement plans and aggressive commitments to our savings.  So I already had and have “My Own Money.”  When this account came to me after his death, I kept it separate for tax purposes and viewed it as my super duper safety net, a sad windfall.  Whenever the financial news got me scared, or I had a bad day at work, I would pull up that account online and take a deep breath.  That money was an extra egg in the nest.

(TAKE HEED:  If you ever inherit a retirement account, DO NOT roll it in with your own funds.  If you ever have to take money out in the event of an emergency, you can withdraw from the inherited account at a much lower penalty rate.)  (This message brought to you by the ghost of Richard A. Grayson, MBA, PhD.)  ’

Well, one day after the beginning of this year, I was feeling kind of blue so I logged in to the account to cheer myself up.  The balance was $0.00.  GACK.  The image of those big white envelopes from the university came racing back to mind  Might have been a good idea to look in there!  I’ve had other estate related glitches (like the letter from the IRS that said I owed $86,543.78…that was a sphincter release notification).  I calmed myself down pretty quickly and opened the damn envelopes.  Yep, the university had switched investment management companies and I was going to have to do the paperwork ALL OVER AGAIN.

Damn it.

It took me a month to call Investor Relations.  Another month to fill out the Beneficiary forms.  Another month before I made it to the bank for the fancy Medallion certification stamp (who knew?).  Seriously, I haaaaaaate this kind of paperwork, even if it puts me back in my safety net.  ARGH.  Hate it.  Hate it hate it hatey hatecakes.

Now it’s been a couple of weeks since I mailed all that stamped and certified stuff in…and I get another white envelope in the mail.  I took it out today and opened it up to read that they need a copy of his death certificate.  Sigh.  While I was bracing myself to open up the big brown accordion file to find a copy of that clinical green document with Dr. Marrano’s signature and all those dates and codes and finality, I skimmed over the letter from the investment company.  I was listed as the primary account holder, with all my information as I had entered it on the forms.  Richard was listed as the secondary account holder.  And for some unknown reason, the form listed his age:  46.

He died at 38.  He’s never going to be 46.  Not in this world.

My late husband is growing older.

My late husband is growing older.

Thus the sobbing.  46.

For the first few months, maybe years after he died, I sometimes thought I caught a glimpse of him in crowds.  He was distinctive looking–5′ 4″ tall with reddish hair, an Irish tan, broad shoulders and a narrow skier’s butt.  His body was  beautifully proportioned and compact.  When we hugged, he fit right under my chin.  So if I was in a crowd and saw out of the corner of my eye a body shaped like that or a russet haired man with a bouncy step…I kept looking, out of the corner of my eye, and I pretended that it was him.  It was a way of hanging on to the notion that he wasn’t really dead, just NOT HERE.  I don’t believe in a heaven where this that is “I” and that that is “you” remain.  I believe more in the conservation of energy and the way our selves remain part of the great equation of the universe but not in any distinct being…but it will never be mine to know.  I do know that when you have to wake up one day into a world that no longer is home to your beloved, it’s easy to pick out pieces of them in a crowd and let your brain relax into the fantasy that they are still somewhere nearby.

But to think of him as 46?  Right there, in black and white on a form.  Stomach punch.

I once found myself on a train across Canada with the Cowboy Junkies and some of their favorite singers and songwriters.  One of them was Fred Eaglesmith–his song “Crowds” speaks to me when I think about Richard being 46, somewhere:

So I look for you in crowds
In train stations and bus stops
On sidewalks in the middle of the night
When I go driving by
Little churchyards on Saturdays
I check to see if you might be the bride
Hope you’re happy now
I still look for you in crowds
 

Forty six.  In another place, maybe, another life.  In a parallel universe, he is 46.  And maybe now and then, he misses me too.

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It’s All One Life

15 May
paddlewheel boat Baltimore

Black Eyed Susan in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor

One sunny Sunday afternoon in November of 2004, Richard and I took a walk down to Fell’s Point in Baltimore.  We sat on a bench by the harbor and watched the gulls dip and dive around the trash cans.  A bright white paddlewheel boat–The Black Eyed Susan–rocked against the dock.  I told him how the flower, black eyed Susan, always made me think of Van Morisson’s “Brown Eyed Girl.” I sang the chorus.

A pack of Cub Scouts climbed up to the bridge to ring the brass bell.  The sun was warm but weak.  I was glad for my jacket.   The boys rang the bell then chased each other down the ladder to the deck then the dock then across the brick courtyard behind us.  The sunlight sparkled off the diamond engagement ring that Richard had given me a few months before.  His grandfather Jack had given it to his grandmother Sadie in 1927 and she had worn it for 75 years.  Now he had given it to me as a sign of his trust in our commitment to each other.  We held hands and I remember thinking, “I’m really happy, right now.  Right here.”

Then a phrase entered my mind and it stayed with me for years:  ”It’s all one life.”  It’s all one life.

Here’s the detail that’s missing from the scene I’ve described above.  Richard was feeling pretty good that day after his third round of chemo, but it hadn’t put him into remission.  He told me a half-truth that week, so as not to break my heart with disappointment and fear.  He said his doctors were calling it a “partial remission.”  It didn’t take.

We left the safe confines of the guest house on Johns Hopkins campus to walk down the hill to the harbor on a sunny day.  It was the first walk we had taken together outside in months.  I worried most of the way that his energy wouldn’t hold out or that we might need to find a cab to bring us back up the hill.  For years I had chased him all over Europe on our adventures together but now I was shortening my steps and slowing my pace so he didn’t tire too quickly.

Sitting there in the sun that day, I had a sense of wholeness about the whole situation.  For once, I wasn’t piecing it apart into the parts I accepted–the love we felt for each other, the joy of rambunctious kids, the autumn sun, the promise of a boat–and the parts I fought against–leukemia, chemo, guest houses, unknowing, weakness, change.  I had space in my heart and my mind in that moment for all of it.  It’s all one life.

Before that day, the mantra “it is what it is” had been helpful, but I could only use it as an antidote for each piece of information, each separate challenge that came our way.  It was a one thing at a time kind of mantra.  ”It’s all one life” was a rare expression of wholeness and acceptance in that chaotic time, when every day, hour or minute might bring with it some blow to our life together.

After he died, I wondered, “If you could do it all over again, would you?”  My answer was yes.  Even with the horror of that year and the emptiness after he was gone, I wouldn’t have traded the good times in exchange for missing the bad.  To quote Garth Brooks, “I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance.”  Or with Fartbuster, after our divorce….I asked myself if I would have been better off never having married him?  These are impossible questions because changing one thread of my life would have put me somewhere else and I wouldn’t have heard the Cub Scouts ringing the bell aboard the Black Eyed Susan as Sadie’s diamond sparkled in the sun.  Even if my beloved was dying beside me.  

Domino Sugar Fell's Point

“Domino Sugar Love” by Andreas Kollegger via Creative Commons license

It’s all one life.  I couldn’t have been the mother who looked into my first born’s blinking eyes and whispered, “Hey!  I’ve waited my whole life to meet you!” if I hadn’t been the woman who brushed his eyes closed after they had left this world to look upon some other.   It’s all one life.  And I’m glad it’s mine.   

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Erh. Mah. GOOGLE. Srsly.

14 May

Yesterday’s post drew back the curtain on the exotic and intoxicating world of spam.  Today, we will delve into the other “post all new bloggers write at about this point in their blogging career”–the strange vagaries of search engine terms.

Yikes.

That’s all I have to say about that.

JUST KIDDING!  As if.

A common website metric is “search engine terms.”  That is a list of the terms, words and phrases that people typed into a search engine (like Google, Yahoo, or Bing) that eventually led them to my blog.   A blogger needs to optimize content and tagging so that her page will be “noticed” by the powerhouse search engines.  This is called SEO or Search Engine Optimization.  

The two main lessons I’ve learned from monitoring my search engine terms statistics:

  1. There are a lot of freaks out there looking for panties.  And remember that post I wrote about panties?  
  2. They cannot spell.

Some of the “panty searches” that have landed freaks on my page make me wish that the internet had *69 service so that I could click back to them and say, “WHAT ARE YOU THINKING???” then forward their IP address to the cops.  {{shudder}}

Second most common search term that leads folks to Baddest Mother Ever?  Fart.  Yep, it’s like another Algonquin Round Table up in here, folks.  And it’s all because of Fartbuster.  And maybe a little because of me.  I’ve seen searches for “fart,” “I’ve farted,” “car fart” and my favorite “grandma fart panty gases.”  Okeydoke, Captain Specific.

A lot of teenagers who are angry with their mothers end up here.  They search for stuff like “baddest mum,” “worst mother ever in history of mothers,” or “my mother is baddest mother.”   If you’re in so much trouble with your mum, why are you on the internet, young lady?

I love it when people type “baddest mother blog” or “baddest mother ever” because that means you intended to end up here!  I’ve even seen a couple for “who writes baddest mother ever blog” and that makes me feel like it’s probably the Peabody Awards vetting committee or an assistant producer for The Daily Show lining up a gig.  

Today’s snapshot of search terms read like a poem to me, and I think that it captures the very essence of Baddest Mother Ever.  Here you go:

google search terms

You looking for a bunny?  How about the Country Bunny?  You had enough with leukemia?  Me, too.  Pajama pants to school?  Of course!  Ball gown dress for mommy and baby?  That’s on my life list as well!  Looking for some discount panties?  Have I got the pair for YOU!  And if you find out who invented Valium, erhmahgerd, LET ME KNOW! 

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come further formerly again

13 May

junk mail return to sender

Yeah, yeah, I know that all newbie bloggers like myself write a post about the goofy comments that they get in spam.  But a blog of this caliber attracts a poetic class of spammer, with a certain je ne sais quoi.  I’m attracting European spammers, y’all, and not just those little weird countries.   This morning as I was checking my spam queue, I stumbled upon a couple of insightful messages that probably have more useful advice in them than anything I was planning to write today.  So here’s my newbie post about spiced ham.

I have one VERY dedicated admirador.  Here are 13 of his (I don’t know why I assume it’s a man) messages, all sent over a 36 hour period.  The spammer is from Spain, so read these in a “Most Interesting Man in the World” accent:

  1. yeah, i totally agree with you.  [music to my ears, guapo!]
  2. you helped me a lot indeed and reading this your article i have found many new and useful information about this subject.  [I work hard to write this stuff y’all, so it’s good to be appreciated]
  3. information was very great to read.
  4. very nice.
  5. this site is very nice thank you. [Your well come]
  6. incredibly good.  [Pelt me with the adverbs, mi amor!]
  7. thanks for sharing this information. great, keep it up. [He encourages me]
  8. a friend recommended this website to me, he said that your posts are the best so i came to read your post and realized he was right. congratulations for writing so well.  [Oh, so we have a mutual friend, do we?]
  9. congratulations my friend, your website is awesome, i really appreciate coming here to see what you have.  [Now WE’RE friends!]
  10. this website makes the difference, not all bloggers have the gift to explain in some worlds something so perplexing.  [I’m making a difference…sniff]
  11. this post shows the information which is close to standard. Hope next you will again post a nice article.  [Wait, WHAT?  You’re saying I’m ALMOST standard and need to get back to nice articles?  Screw you, Senor.]
  12. could you tell me when you’re going to update your posts? [Oh, now I don’t call you enough?  N-E-E-D-Y]
  13. All the best.  [I think we just broke up]

When I go through a spammer breakup like that, I’m going to stress eat.  Which is OK, because sometimes I get cooking tips like this missive on ipods, spanking and feeding your loved ones:

“lifespan of a pre-owned ipod is about 1.5 a number of most consumed iPods may be presented or swapped for brand spanking new ipods shopping around. as well as some feed them inside their loved ones and near friends.” [huh.  maybe I can find a crock pot recipe for ipods on Pinterest]

Other spammers can tell that this breakup has been hard on me.  One sent some beauty advice:

“Your teeth whitening in Illinois is important so that people provide that perfect smile. In addition, you will gain your current old confidence back. No more tight- lipped look”  [I would love to get my current old confidence back...now how do I get to Illinois?]

That was followed with either fashion advice or some kind of technical writing erotica…or maybe a commentary on the recent papal election:

The actual outfit quantities ended up gone on the right breasts. The shorts used to be khaki in order to duplicate the color as well as material used where technology. That Cardinals.

Anywho.  Spammers are people too and they’re just trying to make connections in this wide world.  These are two comments I got from spammers on a post about the death of my husband:

  • It’s nearly impossible to find experienced people for this topic!  Thanks!  [Then they offered me a knockoff Michael Kors handbag at Kuala Lumpur prices as a sympathy gift.]
  • Inspiring story there. What occurred after? Thanks!  [Um…he was still dead?]

And finally, I think ee Cummings is following my blog:

I loved as much as you will receive carried out right here.
The sketch is attractive, your authored material stylish.
nonetheless, you command get got an impatience over that
you wish be delivering the following. unwell unquestionably come further formerly again as exactly the same nearly very often inside
case you shield this increase.

I hope you enjoyed this post and didn’t get got an impatience over that.  If you did, simply come further formerly again.  Shield this increase.  Namaste.

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Number One

12 May
carlos asleep

M’boy when he was just a few months old. Nothing more peaceful than a sleeping baby.

All those years ago when I made my life list, Number One without any hesitation was “Be someone’s mother.”  I made that wish–”be a mom”–on every birthday candle, every stray eyelash and every shooting star for 10 years.  It took me a long time, but I’m so glad to get there.

So today was a good day.  

I hope yours was, too.  I know people who gritted their teeth through Mother’s Day this year because this was the first one without their mother, or the first one without their baby. Peace to you.  As my friend Tara at “I Might Need A Nap” said, “Monday is coming.”  

There are others out there who treasured every moment because it was their first Mother’s Day as a mother.  Peace to you as well.  Monday is coming for all of us and it will be filled with treasures and surprises.  

Whenever you ask my friend, Annelle, “How are you today?” she answers, “It’s the best day of my life.”  No matter what.  No matter the weather, the bank balance, the number of smiles or tears.  It’s the best day of her life.  And she’s right.  It really is the only one we have so what could be better?

Happy Monday.  I’m glad you’re here.  

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Are You SURE Your Doctor Wrote This?

11 May

morpheus meme

Another Tale From the Pharmacy.  This one did NOT involve any of my family members!

A guy who was looking to score some narcotics came through the Emergency Department at a major downtown hospital.  He managed to snag an unguarded prescription pad.  Not to worry, they busted him shortly thereafter when he showed up at the same hospital’s pharmacy with a prescription that read:

Mofeen

10 lbs

It’s national Healthcare Worker Week!  If you know someone who works in the medical profession, thank them for putting up with these jokers.

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Changing the Way I See Things

10 May
flipped glasses

Totally not me because I never could get my Dorothy Hamill haircut. But those are the sweet, sweet spectacles that I loved.

When I was in third grade, my mom took me over to Dr. Hammett’s office in LaGrange.  He was “the eye doctor” and I loved going there because the front desk had a bowl of Kraft caramels on it and every now and then one of those fudge ones would show up…SCORE.

That’s exactly how I felt when Dr. Hammett told my mom that I would need glasses.  I knew that I was not supposed to want glasses but I really did want them.  I thought they would make me interesting.  And I would be able to read and read and read and read.  So I tried not to smile while I heard the news.  I picked out a pair from the kids’ rack–they were called “Cherry Swirl” and they were AWESOME.

Glasses didn’t stay awesome for long, for all the usual reasons.  Blind at the pool.  Contacts are itchy.  Fingerprints.  Four eyes.  Sweat.  They slide down, get knocked off, scratch too easily.

I loved my Cherry Swirl glasses for about a year then I tolerated glasses for another 33 years.

Then one magical day, my car was paid off and I saw an email about $1000 off laser vision correction and I decided that it was time.  I went to the seminar and found out that it could work for me.  I had the money for it.  I got over my concerns about the slim slim chance of ending up with worse vision.  Last April, I did it.  I signed the papers, paid the bill, swallowed a Valium (#18!) and lay down on a table.  Srrrrrrrt.  One laser made my vision blurry.  Then they walked me two steps to the next table and Srrrrtttt blip blip blip runk runk ruuuunk…and I could see.  Seriously.  I stood up and read the time off the clock across the room.  It was 11:40.  Thirty four years of not being able to see then I could see.  Just like that.

The day after the procedure, I gathered up all my old glasses and prescription sunglasses and stuffed them in the donation box for charity.  It felt so liberating!  I could lie on my side and read a book.  I felt safer around the pool because I could see my kids clearly.  We went to the beach and I saw fish jumping out in the distance.  I could wear regular old sunglasses from Target.  Even working out was better because I could sweat all I liked without my glasses slipping down my nose during push-ups.

But this isn’t an extended testimonial about the powers of laser vision correction.  It’s about changing habits and changing situations in life. With the speed of a laser and a few thousands dollars, I changed my situation.  But this morning, I did what I always do–I turned off the alarm, swung my legs over the side of the bed, then reached for my glasses.  It’s been a year, but my body still follows that habit of 34 years.  It happens when I am sleepy and running on my lizard brain.  Habits are like that–they are grooves that my body has gotten used to.  They once served a purpose, but now I might still be doing them without the need to.  Habits don’t always recognize when a situation has changed.  Think about an alcoholic–the minute they decide to stop drinking, the situation has changed.  The habit of wanting to drink takes longer to retrain.  

The week after the laser eye surgery, I started ripping down the ugly fruit wallpaper in the kitchen that I had resented for eight years.  In a couple of days, we redid the kitchen counters, the appliances, the walls.  FINALLY.  It felt like I had shaken something loose.  The eye surgery had inspired me to change other situations.  Some things really can be fixed just. like. that.  It only requires making the decision to change.

There was a time when running was a habit for me and I want to get back to that.  I simply need to do it.  I could spend eight years or thirty years to think about it and plan for it and worry over it, or I could put on my shoes tomorrow and run.  Well, probably walk and then run down a hill.  I can change the situation quickly, even though the habit will take longer to recover.

Sound familiar? What's got you scared to change?

Sound familiar? What’s got you scared to change?

Do you have something that’s been nagging at you?  What are you tired of?  What part of it is a habit and what is a situation?  Can the situation be changed?  How can you retrain the habit?

Now I’m going to bed and I bet you a dollar I reach for the phantom glasses in the morning.  And I’ll smile.

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Grandmama’s Little Helpers

9 May

About 10 years ago, I was renting a house that had a bad flea infestation.  My three dachsies were going crazy with the scratching.  My dad gave me some of the veterinary clinic grade flea bombs to clear out my house but the damn nuisances kept coming back.  He told me I was going to have to spray my backyard to get them gone for good.  I called him a couple of days later and said, “That was great advice!  I sprayed the yard with diazepam and haven’t seen a flea since.”  He chuckled and said, “I guess the fleas just don’t care enough to jump on the dogs?”  I get those two fancy words mixed up:  diazanon is the insecticide; diazepam is the Valium.  I sprayed the yard with diazanon, not diazepam.  I better add that to the “My Lowe’s” website list of preferred products.  

valium funny

I first tried Valium when I had my four wisdom teeth cut out at the tender age of 32.  It’s the only drug I’ve ever taken that made me think, “Hey, I’d like to get to know you BETTER!”  Wisely, the oral surgeon only gave me two.  I liked it because I didn’t feel loopy–I just didn’t give a shit.  That surgery was right around the time that Fartbuster told me about his pregnant girlfriend.  He was still trying to be Mr. Nice Guy, so he volunteered to drive me back and forth to the doctor and take care of me while I was recovering.  So you can see why it was attractive to have a little pill that made me not give a rat’s ass about anything.

My doctor gave me 15 Valium a couple of weeks before Richard died because I couldn’t sleep.  So I’ve had a total of 17 of the little wonders in my 44 years.  Which is probably why I found this next story so darn funny when it happened.

One Christmas at the grandparents’ house, my sister–The Doctor–volunteered to check over all the medications that Grandmama and Pop had in the bathroom cabinet.  She spread them out on the kitchen table and began her inventory.  When she came across a prescription bottle filled with Valium, she held it up with a giggle and asked, “Grandmama?  What are you doing with these?”

Grandmama said, “Oh, I just take a couple when you kids are coming over!” and went right on wiping down the countertops.

The Doctor replied, “You really shouldn’t be taking them.  They can be habit forming.”

Grandmama waved her hand in dismissal.  ”Pshhh.  My doctor told me that when he first wrote the prescription, but I’ve been taking them for 30 years and never had a problem!”

Come to think of it, that might have been the year she told me what to do if I ever walked out of my panties.  This explains a lot.

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You Decide the Next Story!

8 May

I am really burning the candle at both ends this week so I could use a little help with my decision making process.  

I’ve got 25 possible stories in my Drafts folder and I’m trying to decide which to flesh out into a post.  Why don’t YOU decide?  

Please vote in this poll to choose the next story I’ll write for Baddest Mother Ever!

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