Things that Strike Me Funny...

I rarely laugh at jokes. Very few of them are funny enough to me to even earn a smirk. What I think is funny are life's little embarrassing moments, even when they're my own.

Some years back I had taken a job at a publishing company just to get off unemployment. We were forced to take a full hour for lunch, so every day I'd run to a fast-food restaurant rather than eat a sack lunch at an old kitchen table in the same room as a noisy printing press. I frequented Arby's much of the time, and always sat on a padded bench that ran the entire width of the place. When it was time to leave, I'd scoot on the bench until I was between tables, then unceremoniously get up, pick up my trash, throw it away, and go out the door. Simple, huh...

After six months of typing boring 4-H results and "what happened 25 years ago" (like anyone in Washington cared), I got a job in Jasper on an IT team. Before I conjured up lunch buddies, I still went to lunch by myself. One day I headed to the Jasper Arby's. It was set up just like the one in Washington...benches along the far width of the restaurant with tables.

I headed to the spot I usually occupied at an Arby's--the old dependable and comfortable bench. I really didn't notice the one big difference between the Washington Arby's and the Jasper Arby's--that is, the bench at Washington was one solid bench. At Jasper, they had benches--not one single bench. There was about two feet of space between benches.

I scooted in and started eating, noticing the place was empty except for me and a table with two ladies about 20 feet ahead of me. Once I consumed my roast beef, fries, and drink I loaded the trash onto the tray and scooted down the bench to the area between the tables.

Thinking I was on the solid bench, I scooted my big butt right into the space between the benches. Down I went. In a desperate attempt to not hit the floor, I grabbed for the table. And as pedestal tables do, it tipped. Due to the nature of gravity, everything on the table came sliding on top of me. I was trying to catch salt, pepper, trash, and the cheesy bud vase with the cheap silk flowers.

It worked. Although I was sitting on the floor, I did manage to keep everything from landing on my lap. I shoved everything back onto the table, stood up, and looked around to see who witnessed my clumsiness. The two ladies were still eating their lunch, oblivious to me...or that's what I thought.

When I walked past the two ladies, I heard snickering. I looked down to see both of them trying to stifle their laughter. All I could say was, "You saw that, didn't you?" The girls could hold it in no longer.  The snickers turned into full-fledged laughter.  And that's all it took to give me my laugh for the day.

...and I never forgot that the benches at those two Arby's were different from each other.

All I Want for Christmas...

A few years back whenever someone would ask me what I wanted for Christmas, I'd always say, "You can't buy what I want for Christmas"...funny thing was, nobody ever asked me what that one thing was. Maybe they knew. All I wanted for Christmas was to have my Dad back.

I guess I've gotten used to him being gone, but I won't quit missing him--ever. I suppose I'll be back with him soon enough. Time goes mighty fast these days.

This year I have two Christmas dreams coming true. I've wanted to be a grandma for a long time. I finally saw that wasn't going to happen anytime soon, and after 9/11, I was fine with it. I didn't want any more kids brought into a world that has people on it that can do something so despicable. Too scary. Too awful.

But God had a big plan for our family. There were two reasons I never became a grandma. God saw that two little girls--sisters--were living a life far less than perfect. He needed to rescue these two; and a year ago, He found a home that had plenty of room for romping and giggles. That home belongs to my daughter and son-in-law.

Wednesday the State of Indiana will declare my daughter and son-in-law the parents of these two sweethearts. Our hearts declared that a year ago--we just had to wait for the paperwork to catch up.

Welcome to our family, Stasey Renee and Kaylee Rose! You've completed our lives!

Love,
Your Grandma

Thanksgiving (or "Thank Heaven for Little Girls")

My first Thanksgiving as a grandma. For some reason, the song "Over the River and Thru the Woods" comes to mind. It's my favorite holiday--all the food there is to eat with none of that gift-giving getting in the way of eating. The day started a little sunny, which just isn't a typical Thanksgiving day in Indiana. But before we ate at 12:30, the skies were gray and the windows steamed up from all the cooking and baking. Perfect. Just like Granny C's Thanksgivings, where we'd arrive to find noodles drying on a TV tray on the screened porch, and the windows all steamy from the morning of cooking. It was always gray and dreary outside, which made for a wonderful entrance into Granny's warm, aromatic home.

We had all the traditional food...turkey, dressing, Rita's homemade noodles, two kinds of sweet potatoes, real mashed potatoes with giblet gravy, Waldorf salad, cranberry relish, garden corn, and rolls. I made my famous pumpkin pies and peanut butter pies for dessert. The entire family was there, except for my husband who was joining his family. Mark said "Grace" and added his usual prayer for our troops.

The granddaughters enjoyed their first Thanksgiving with their new family. The youngest thinks nobody compares to Uncle Bobby, and the oldest has a special bond with Aunt Rita. But if you ask them whose girl they are, invariably they'll say they're everyone's girls. Such sweethearts. I can't imagine how hard their young lives had been up until the time they arrived at my daughter and son-in-law's. I can't imagine how children can be so resilient. Sure, there are times in everyone's childhood when things aren't what they should be. A little of that is fine--it teaches you that life is what it is--a mixture of good and bad. But it shouldn't be all bad.

So this past Thanksgiving for the first time ever...I thanked God for steering these precious girls our way.

Center Grove High School Class of 1971

I've been too busy to write.

Thanks to Facebook, I'm getting reacquainted with my old Center Grove classmates of 1971. That's right...get out your calculators and do the math.

Last Friday night I made a quick trip to Greenwood to meet up with two 1971 classmates and several 1972 and 1973 CG graduates. I took my yearbook to help me remember. I'd get the name of one of the younger classmates, then look it up. Then I remembered--well, most of the time I remembered. One of the "under" classmates needed no introduction. I'd have known Jan anywhere.

The Riley kids rode Harry Featherston's first busload to the school. Since we arrived at school super-early, we sat in the gym and waited for the rest of the students to arrive. Jan rode Harry's second busload. An hour or so later she arrived with the rest of the bus, and she looked pale as a ghost. I asked her what happened. She said that Harry died. They had pulled into the CG front parking lot, headed towards the old middle school when Harry just "went". He evidently never knew what hit him since he never had a chance to brake. The bus kept heading toward the middle school. A 12-year-old farm kid pushed Harry out of the way and got the bus stopped.

Harry was not only our bus driver, but a neighbor. In the country, a neighbor might live a quarter mile down the gravel road--just like Harry. The day we lost Harry was sure a sad day. Back then bus drivers didn't have to have buses equipped with cameras. We respected Harry and our school bus. We respected our school. I can't always say we respected each other, since my little brother and a goofy kid named "Gopher" nearly got into a fight on Harry's bus once. I stepped between them and stopped the fight before it began. That wasn't going to happen "on my watch".

Back to the three-class reunion...my two classmates looked way younger than me. They still had their figures and the same personalities they had as teenagers. I was so glad to see both of them. I used to be self-conscious about weighing twice what I did in high school. To heck with that--I've finally realized that nobody cares...at least nobody I graduated with.

This weekend I plan on meeting another couple of classmates. We've missed out on many years, and I am not missing out on any more. I haven't seen my best friend in 25 years, and that's a rotten shame. I hope God gives us many more years to enjoy each other's company from here on out. I won't let anything else stand in the way of a friendship again.

I also plan on a road trip to Arkansas to see another old friend and classmate. Life hasn't been too kind to her, but her old classmates are resurfacing to let her know she's always been loved and never forgotten.

We've found out that several of our classmates have passed on, and several others are not well. That makes me feel even more determined to make sure the rest of us get together as often as possible.

Thank you, Facebook.

Double Standards

A co-worker mentioned that she never sees me or hears anything out of me, even though we work in the same room. I told her that's because I was working. She's got things figured out. Sometimes I think she says this to me to see if I'll fess up my real feelings. Nope. I know I can't say a word. I just roll my eyes. She knows what I mean even though my words don't convey what I really want to say.

A Prophet or a Phony?

Back in 1993, I found myself unemployed and hating it. The company I worked for lost its contract with Crane back when Communism died and the government was too short-sighted to see that terrorism was our worst enemy.

After four months of unemployment, I took a job at a nearby publishing company typesetting, writing, editing...general weekly newspaper stuff. I was making the same amount I did in unemployment, but I couldn't stand staying at home any longer. A few short months after I was hired, I was asked if I wanted to do a side job after hours. I would be typing a small book from the author's hand-written notes. Sure...I could use the extra money.

So after putting in my eight hours every day, I'd open up the author's notebook and begin typing. It was all religious stuff, and I don't consider myself a religious person. The author claimed that the Virgin Mary visited her almost nightly, and she held conversations with Mary. The farther I got into the book, the more boring it got. The conversations were pretty much the same thing over and over. The woman would ask Mary what she should tell everyone and Mary always told her "Pray! Pray the rosary!" I mean, how many times did it bear repeating?

Ho hum...this was worse than typing up the 4-H fair results. But it paid well, since I type fairly fast. It soon became apparent to me that someone other than the author had hand-edited the woman's writings. One interesting tidbit that I found was a conversation the woman had with Mary where she asked about the big earthquake that was predicted to happen on a certain date in the Midwest. Mary verified it, and said there would be great devastation and so-on. Famine, pestilence, thousands dead...the whole bit. And I was typing this some time after the earthquake prediction. The earthquake never happened.

Guess what...whoever edited the writing before I saw it crossed that part out. It didn't come true, so why make the woman out to look like a fool. Another time the woman asked Mary about a friend of hers who had cancer. Mary said the woman would be cured. That too was marked out. No doubt she died, or it would've made the book. But the final straw was the one where Mary told this woman that SHE (the woman--not Mary) would do more fantastic works and miracles than Jesus. That part was left in the book. I'm still waiting for this woman to walk on water or bring someone back from the dead. It hasn't happened yet.

After I finished the book and it was printed and distributed, I purchased a copy to give to my mother-in-law, who had heard this woman speak and thought she was the greatest thing since sliced bread. A couple of weeks later, I asked my mother-in-law what she thought about the book and the author. She kind of rolled her eyes and said, "I don't know about her anymore". Then I told her what was left out of the book.

I'm not saying the woman is a bad person, or that she set out to run some sort of scam. But what I am saying is not to take everything you hear or read as the truth. Maybe she was telling the truth as she "saw" it, for whatever reason. But then someone covered up the prophecies that didn't come true.

Guess the editor should've done the editing in a thick black marker so I couldn't read what didn't come true.

Go Rest High

The one thing I remember most about her is her smile. I can't recall ever seeing her NOT wearing a smile--and then there was the laugh that almost always accompanied that smile. I worked upstairs from her, but saw her nearly every day for almost ten years--and she was always happy.

Tonight Heaven is shining a little brighter because of her smile. She passed away late last night after she was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. Janet's had it rough during the past several years. She had lymphoma a few years ago, but got through it. The trouble was, the treatment weakened her immune system. Two years ago, she came close to dying several times with a bad case of MRSA. I think she was in the hospital about six months. But by gosh, she came back. God gave her a couple more years before He took her Home to stay.

The last time I saw her, I gave her a hug. I couldn't believe how this woman could have been so sick so many times, and now she looked great. Her old smile was back where it belonged--in the office of Kimball Hospitality. Although I haven't worked at Kimball in 6-1/2 years, my husband and son still work there. They've kept me up-to-date on her illness, and eventual recovery. Today my son emailed me with news of her death. I knew she was sick again and in the hospital, but I fully expected her to recover from this too.

Just last Saturday night, another co-worker happened to be at the hospital in Evansville where Janet had been admitted. He popped in to see her. She was sitting up in bed and told him they were running some tests on her. Three days later she was gone.

My husband said it was awfully hard to walk by her desk, see her name on the cubicle, and photos of her two sons sitting all around. I pity the person that has to remove all of her belongings from her cubicle--such a sad chore.

Rest in peace, Janet. And thanks for all of those smiles.

Sorry....Wrong Number

4:00 am. The phone rang, jarring me from sleep. I ran to answer it with a sleepy "hello?" and half-expected to hear bad news. No good news comes at 4am. A craggy, old-woman voice whispered, "There's someone walking down the highway..." Great...it's that stupid old woman again. She can't seem to dial the right phone number. Our number is one digit from the local police phone number, and we hear from this old gal once in awhile.

She always speaks in a whisper. I don't know if she's trying to keep from waking someone up, or if she thinks the man walking down the highway can hear her. Again I told her she is not reaching the police department and to please dial the correct number. I hate to think how many times she called me right back with the same complaint. And why does she think it's against the law to walk down the highway at 4am?

We've gotten calls many times over the years from people thinking they've reached the police. Almost always it's something stupid that they're calling about. If that's the caliber of calls that our police get, I feel sorry for them. I don't think I'd last too long as a dispatcher. I'm afraid I'd yell, "Get over it!" one too many times when I heard their petty problems.

Our neighbor's phone number is real similar to the phone number of Daviess County Metal. He was constantly receiving calls from folks wanting to know how much something-or-other was. One day he'd had enough--a man called wanting a price on how much garage doors were. So he gave the man a price. I hope it was close to the actual figure.

I once was called by the sweetest old lady. She was trying to reach the Waltons, if I remember correctly. When I told her she had the wrong number, she started fretting. It must've been terribly hard for her to make one call, much less two. "Oh dear!" she said..."Would you call them for me?". What else could I do? I took the woman's phone number, and the name of the people she was trying to reach. I hung up and tried to call, but no one answered--and no answering machine picked up. So I called the poor old soul back and told her no one was home. She thanked me for trying, and hung up.

When I was a teenager, I got a call from a guy. I didn't recognize his voice, but he never did ask to speak to anyone. He thought he was talking to the person he wanted to talk with. After a few minutes, I realized that we didn't know each other...but I kept on talking to him. We must've talked for a half-hour and really had a good time talking. But after a while he asked me a question that I couldn't possibly answer, so I told him that he had actually called a wrong number. He was surprised, but told me that he really enjoyed talking to me. I'm amazed he never called back.

But doesn't it irritate you when someone calls you and then in a demanding voice asks, "Who is this?"? I always asked them the same question. Invariably they hang up on me.

I've gotten calls from babies too. Somehow the baby hits just the right number and gives me a call. That's always good for a laugh or two.

In this day and age, we are able to hit *69 and get the number of the person that just called us--that is, if we don't have Caller ID. I don't get enough calls to warrant having Caller ID. So sometimes I'll just *69 and write down the number so I can call them back and be equally as rude. That's always been my plan anyway. Some day I may actually do it.

You know, we haven't heard from the whispering old lady in a couple of years now. She's either passed on, or in the nursing home...or maybe the man walking down the highway stopped in and did away with her in retaliation for her calling the cops on him so often.

Where's the Ice Cream?

Something I just read on another blog reminded me of some of the funny things my kids said when they were little. Thought I'd better commit some to paper before my mind completely goes and I forget them.

When Brian was maybe around five, I was outside in the neighbor's yard visiting. Brian poked his head out the sliding glass door and yelled, "MOM...WHERE'S THE ICE CREAM?" My reply? "It's in the oven."

About a minute later, he came back to the door and yelled, "NO IT ISN'T!"

Then that reminded me of the time when C&C...aka Mark...came to our back door on Rural Street in Indy. He was about the same age. We were out playing in the snow with Mom. Well, Mark stepped almost completely out the door...and he was stark naked! He yelled, "Mom, where's my clothes????"

Carrie had a unique way of measuring the amount of food she consumed. She always asked for a "patch" of ice cream. And she loved my aunt's cole slaw. One day she said she was so full because she ate "two loads of slaw". She was a good eater, which was great after having such a picky eater (Brian). But as soon as she was full, she'd hold her plate up to be removed, and would announce, "I don't like this anymore."...what a kid.

There's tons more, but I suddenly got sleepy. Guess the 1/4 dose of Ambien kicked in...and it IS after midnight. Got to hit the sack.

We Remember Moments...

How many of those special little moments of your life can you recall? I'm not talking about something big like our recent trip to Italy. I'm talking about something that seemed so small at the time that it might not even be worth remembering. But that moment in time lives forever in your memory.

Some small little moments in my life...

The time a sweet nun offered me a quarter to spend at the school carnival.

"Ode" Perry sitting in his old easy chair, singing hymns while my little sister sat in his lap.

Burning popcycle papers in a hole in our concrete steps on Rural Street in Indy.

Me telling my dear Grandpa Cissell "Don't put pepper on my leg" while he fried chicken on the front porch of his house.


I witnessed such a moment when my two new granddaughters had their nails (fingers and toes) painted a beautiful, bright red. The "nail artists" were my sister and my niece. Both of the little girls loved the experience. They both sat very quietly and patiently while their nails were being done. And they did a pretty good job letting the nails dry too.

We were just finishing up a big weekend. My "adopted" son from India was visiting, and he wanted to have a big get-together to celebrate my daughter's birthday and to welcome the new nieces he now had. The girls met cousins, aunts and uncles, friends and neighbors. And they loved everyone they met. They now have a pretty good-sized family, and took it all in stride. You would've thought they'd known us all of their lives.

I'm not sure what actually started the nail-painting spree, but that's exactly how treasured memories are born--something simple, something not planned. Capturing the moment digitally is nice, but unnecessary for those that were there. You can't capture the smell of the polish, the tickle of the toes, or the feel of the soft little fingers in your hand. But who knows...sometime many years from now, just the smell of nail polish might bring this sweet memory back to life for these girls.

So don't be surprised when some tiny little hint brings back a treasured memory, or looking into the beautiful blue eyes of a teasing four-year-old reminds you of your father's blue eyes.

Again, welcome to the family girls. All of us have been waiting for you for a very long time. Thanks for bringing your sweet sunshine with you.

We love you very much.

Grandma and Grandpa

It's Only the Trunk!

I'm telling you, this sleep issue is causing problems.

Well, that's what I'm going to blame for this bonehead move. On July 20th, I went to an allergist in Bloomington. I tested positive for molds/mildew, several weeds, grasses, and trees, and corn pollen. When the doctor first came in the examining room, the nurse asked where me I get my prescriptions filled. I told her and then the doctor started drilling me on everything concerning possible allergy symptoms. She gave me a nose spray to use right then--even before she did the tests. Once the allergies were confirmed, she told me she was going to give me a prescription for Allegra. I was given a folder with my test results and some general information on allergies, and was sent on my way.

A few days later, I opened my purse (yes, I tend to only open my purse every couple of days or so), and found the nose spray. Then I remembered the allergy Rx I was supposed to get filled. I snorted a couple of sprays in each nostril and carried on with my work day. Sometime over last weekend, I opened my purse again and found the spray. I decided I better look for that prescription before I forgot again. It was nowhere--not in my purse and not in the folder. So I just thought I'd look for it later; it was a very busy weekend. I had more important things to do.

Last night I remembered the nurse asking me where I got my prescriptions filled. CLUE!!!! Today I finally remembered to call the drug store to see if the prescription had been phoned in. SUCCESS!!! They had called it in, and the drug store filled it the same day as my doctor visit. Sometimes I just need to be smacked upside of the head for something to sink in...but really, the nurse should've said "We will CALL this in".

I asked my little dog Rudy if he wanted to go to the store. (Yes, I really do ask him questions like this and he always answers.) So Rudy and I jumped in the car, hit the garage door opener and moved the PRNDL to R.

I guess I'd been better off if Rudy had been driving. Suddenly I heard a big SMACK. I looked in the rear view mirror just in time to see the garage door attempting to continue its upward journey. I put the PRNDL into D and inched forward a couple of feet. The door from the garage to the family room opened and my husband poked out his head. "Whaddya do????" came out of his pie-hole and in a most accusatory tone. I fessed up my sins and he proceeded to read me the riot act.

"You tore up the garage door frame! Look what you did to the trunk!"...I shut off my ear drums. I didn't want to hear any more from Mr. Andretti. But I did tell him that at least I managed to knock off a couple of mud dauber nests from the garage door. (Where is a man's sense of humor at a time like this?) Well, he kept it up until I leaned up against the car door and started crying. Men can be such turds at times. Did he think I freakin' did this on purpose? Hell's patoot...my vision is going downhill, my brain is fried from no sleep, and for God's sake I'm 56 years and ready for the nursing home!

I marched into the house and tried to compose myself. I still needed to get to the drug store and pick up that prescription, and the mere thought of crying puffs up my eyes and turns them scarlet. I took a quick peek in the mirror, and thought that maybe the folks at the pharmacy would just think it was allergies.

I went back to the car where Rudy was waiting patiently to go on his ride. The husband was trying to get the garage door's metal wheel back into the track, but at least the door was fully open. I told him to move, or I'd run over him too. He moved pretty fast for an old fart--must've been the threat of bodily injury.

By the time I got back home, the door was back in place. The husband quit his bitching and decided he better be nice to me. Heck, he even said that he's come close to doing the same thing a time or two. Too late. That ploy is not going to work.

I managed to do some studying online for a project management course I'm taking, and then decided to take my phone to get a fast photo of my trunk to send to my son-in-law (who also happens to be my insurance agent). When I sent the picture, I sent it with text that read, "Garage door too slow--or car too fast". In just a couple of minutes, he called back. I found out that since I "collided" with something, this would be considered "collision". Since it's been less than three years that I've had the policy, it would raise my rates. Who wants to insure an insipid old woman anyway; especially one that backs into her half-opened garage door? The car is seven years old and is already dinged and scratched. What's a few more? I'll drive it until it's a piece of crap anyway.

For now, I think I'll use my husband's guilty conscience against him and see if he'll run down to McD's and buy us a couple of $1 hot fudge sundaes. Then I think I'll call my son-in-law to see if this falls under my homeowner's insurance. I was not the only one moving at the time. The garage door was also moving. Maybe it collided with me, making it the house's fault--not mine.

Gotta run and hit hubby up with the sundae idea.

Monitor Code = Z...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

If you're one of my two or three loyal readers, you know I am an insomniac--a life-long one. But for the past couple of months, it's gotten really bad. I can't make myself go to bed before midnight and many times it'll be 2am. Then I get up at 4 or 4:30 to go to work. The trouble is, I seem to have my days and nights mixed up now and can't function up to par until 4pm--that's quitting time.

I find myself sitting at my desk trying my hardest to stay awake. I need to find some test data, so I open up good old Toad and run a query to knock out all records in a table with a monitor code of Z. Next thing I know, I'm the one with a monitor code of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. It's a miserable situation and each day seems to last 24 hours. It's hard to think, much less write boring stuff all day long.

I had a doctor's appointment last week and he put me on Ambien. I hate sleeping pills. Every one I've tried has left me groggy the next day. But with this one, I was already groggy. So I don't know if it's a natural sleepiness or it's drug-induced. The last two nights, I've cut the pill in half. Still sleepy, even though I'm taking the pill much earlier. Last weekend I actually slept until 9:45, thanks to the little pill. I'm sleeping more than I have in years, but still find myself nearly comatose until 4pm.

A couple of weekends ago, I was trying to study the online course I'm taking in project management. After ten minutes I gave up and actually went to bed to take a nap. I never take a nap, but just felt like I really needed to listen to what Mother Nature was trying to tell me. I slept from 2pm to 7pm. Now that's a nap!



I hate being this way. I've always been a morning person, but not any more. I'm worried about falling asleep while driving--even on my 20-minute drive to work. In the morning when I wake up, I stagger to my recliner while my husband brings me my cup of coffee (complete with just the right amount of creamer and sugar). The coffee no longer helps to wake me, but it sure tastes good going down. Hopefully, after a couple of weeks, the Ambien will get me on a more normal sleep cycle and I can quit taking it. Life will return to normal and my usual four or five hours of sleep a night will return. I will be able to keep my eyes open at work...unless I'm stuck in a boring meeting. My concentration will return and I'll be more productive at work and at home.



But for now, it's time to take the pill and get ready for bed in hopes of a decent night's sleep.

Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place

As I attempt to document the 16 new reports, it becomes painfully obvious to me that these reports have "issues". The new reports have all been copied from the first one created, and evidently each programmer assigned to each report didn't see the "hover" messages above date fields that say "Defaults to the first of the month" and "Defaults to the current date". So maybe three of the reports really do default those dates, but the rest do not. So either really do default the dates or get rid of the damned "hover" messages.

OK, I can work around that problem by checking each report and documenting whether or not it really does default the dates. I could ignore the entire situation and pretend I didn't notice the hover messages. After all, they only show up in a bright yellow box when you happen to move the cursor over the fields. But worse yet is after I run these queries, about four of them have math problems when I hit the Print button. The report generates into an Adobe Reader format, BUT on the screen with the search results, a field that shows an 'average' lists that average as 67%. That part is correct. However, on the generated report, that average shows up as 50%. Now how is that possible? I note these issues in our tracking software. The analyst then sees what he missed when he QA'd the reports. He calls the programmer. She's not happy.

This morning I ran into her in the hallway and was greeted with a "Since when are you an analyst?" statement. You know...sort of kidding, but sort of NOT kidding? OK, I admit...I'm a mere lowly tech writer. But how can I document what doesn't work or what doesn't add up? I'm a whiz with the screen capture software...I can fake a screen to make it the software look like it can save the world. But is that the right thing to do? My choices are to:
1. Fake it to look correct.
2. Document it "as it is", mistakes and all.
3. Skirt the issue and just give a generic "here's what we did"--no screen shots.
4. Bring the problem to the attention of the analyst, even though he's already passed it onto the customer to look at (and chances are, the customer doesn't test it very well either).

So maybe next time I'll do the screen shots complete with all the nice little Oracle errors that pop up, or the totally blank reports that are generated. Maybe I'll leave the simple math errors for the world to see. Wonder what they'd say to me then..."What...are you an idiot? You can't see that this thing doesn't work right? Why didn't you say something?"

...and I'll just say, "What am I???...an analyst????".

Miracle Girls

I've been lucky enough to spend two Saturdays in a row getting to know my beautiful new granddaughters. This weekend they're visiting Grandma's house for the first time. Hopefully, they'll get to meet some of their many girl cousins on my husband's side of the family. I imagine I'll hear a giggle or two.

The strange thing is to NOT hear or see siblings yelling at and fighting with each other. I've yet to hear, "She's looking at me...She's touching me", and all those other crazy things my two used to get upset about. But I think these two little girls somehow sensed that they needed to stay very close to each other. The older one is like a little mother to her little sister. She even told me that she loves her little sister more than anything else in the world. I'm amazed at their resiliency.

This weekend I plan on making some gelato, chocolate of course, for these two little miracles. I'll wait until they get there so they can see how ice cream is made. I know they'll love it. They also have two great-grandmas to meet. Last weekend the oldest asked me about my mom, then my dad. I told her about their new great-grandma, and explained that my dad died some years ago. I handed them my dad's driver's license and told them that this was their great-grandpa. Stasey said, "He still IS our great-grandpa". Hard to believe coming out of a seven-year-old. I wish Dad was still around to meet them, take them to the candy store, and tease them about little boys. He sure loved his grandbabies.

In closing, I'll just ask God for the opportunity to be as important and "teaching" as my grandmas were to me. As I've said before, I want to be as sweet as my Grandma Riley and as fiesty as my Granny Cissell. Thank you, Grandmas, for all you've done for me. Please guide me in the right path as I gladly undertake this new role in life.

The Texan Transplant

He's a life-long Hoosier, but living in Houston at this time. His entire family is back in his small hometown in southwestern Indiana waiting for him and wishing for the day when he'll get to come back home. His friends want him back home too. And he wishes that day would come real soon, but he's still not sure when that day will come. That's because my friend Kenny is staying in Texas fighting a huge battle with leukemia.

Kenny's had several rounds of this in the past. In fact, he had leukemia and went into remission before he even found out he had it. It was found during a routine pre-surgery blood test when he was about to have his shoulder worked on. After a year or so (best as I can remember), it did come back. Kenny seemed very calm about the whole thing. He'd go get his treatment and come back to work. He always looked well, too. The leukemia would go back into remission for awhile, and then surface again.

I guess the leukemia has gotten too smart for Hoosier remedies and now it's going to take a bone marrow transplant. So Kenny is staying in Houston getting treatments in preparation for his BMT, which was donated by his sister. Kenny will make the fifth person I know that has had his life saved by a bone marrow transplant. That's pretty amazing. A few years ago, I didn't know of anyone that had a BMT. Just last year a generous donor gave my 15-year-old great-nephew a new lease on life. Today he's back in school and on his high-school football team once again.

So please, if you're healthy and under 60, consider registering to be a bone marrow donor. Even if you have to open your wallet and pay for the registration, it's worth it to possibly save someone's life. If you watch, you can sometimes find blood drives that also register you for bone marrow transplantation. The Navy, pioneers of bone marrow transplants, also has a grant in place that pays around 50 percent of the cost of registration. For more information, visit www.marrow.org.

And if you're pregnant or know someone who is, look into saving the baby's cord blood. You can get information on that at the same website.

Kenny, you're still in our prayers. We love you, buddy.

My Blonde Hair

I finally got to meet my new granddaughters yesterday, and I'm already crazy about them. They call me "grandma", and I love hearing it. It's amazing how good those two little girls are, and how fast they warmed up to us.

On the way to the zoo yesterday, we had lunch at McDonald's. The youngest wanted to "sit by grandpa". My husband admitted that he nearly "lost it" when she handed her chocolate milk to him and asked, "Grandpa, can you help me open this?". Later at the zoo, "Grandpa" was about 20 feet ahead of us when she took off running and yelling for grandpa. He's so unused to hearing that name that he just kept on walking. So I yelled for "Grandpa". He stopped and turned around just in time to see her reach out her hand for him to hold.

When we'd first arrived at my daughter's, the oldest girl must've been inspecting her new grandma. She was kneeling on the couch beside me checking out my hair. Then she said it. "Grandma, your hair's so blonde that it's white"! Now that's pretty durned funny considering I'm (used to be) a natural brunette and I don't dye or bleach my hair!

I can't wait to see what's in store for us as "Grandma" and "Grandpa"!

Floater Friends

How can such good things happen in a week, and bad things happen in the same week? How are you supposed to feel? Happy and sad all at the same time? Or do you flip-flop back and forth between happy and sad? Maybe it just evens out so you're just in a "whatever" state of mind.

My neighbor of 35 years had a serious stroke a few days ago. We've spent the last 35 years tormenting and teasing each other. This afternoon I told his wife that I didn't plan on stopping either. Hopefully, he'll be able to tease me right back real soon, but it's affected his speech, and his left side is not working at all. I pray God heals him real soon.

On the other hand, visitation with my new granddaughters has begun. The new little family is having a great time together, and can't wait until the girls move in. They're already part of our family, and no one has even yet met them except for the "expectant" parents. But I did get to speak on the phone to the oldest girl last night, and it was great. This weekend I get to see them too, and take them the new clothes I bought for them.

Then on the other hand again, I made another run to the ophthalmologist due to some "sparks" I saw yesterday in my left eye. The vision has also become worse, and now my right eye is joining in the fracas. So the doctor dilated both and had a look inside. Maculas are good, lenses are clear. But there is a very small retinal hemorrhage in the left eye, plus the old blood, plus the huge floater. And she verified that the right eye was doing the same thing, but it was bound to happen. She also said that it takes about six weeks for the vitreous to detach and then my vision should get better. So I've got six weeks to "wait and see". Until then, I've got to put up with the blurry vision and the swinging floaters/distortions.

I told the doctor it was like having windshield wipers flapping back and forth. And it really does make it hard to do my job. But at least she's given me some kind of idea what to expect and how long this process takes. I really shouldn't complain. Lots of people don't have it this good and would give anything to have just some sort of vision.

...and at least I'll still be able to look at the beautiful faces of my two new granddaughters this week. Thank you, God, for eyesight! I won't take it for granted again.

God's Phone Number

Just some funny things that I used to think when I was a kid...

I remember being in first grade at St. Francis de Sales in Indy and attending mass every morning. That was back when the masses were in Latin and telephone numbers began with a word--but shortened to two characters. Our phone number in Indy was Melrose 92736, but dialed ME92736. During every mass when we said, "Et cum spiri tu tuo", I thought that was God's phone number.

Whenever I'd visit my grandparents in Newton Stewart, I'd usually go see my Uncle Carl and his family since they lived just down the road from Grandma. Although Grandma didn't have running water, Uncle Carl did. It came into the house from a location just outside their kitchen window. To insulate it, the water line came out of a large metal barrel/drum that was filled with sawdust. I'd stand at the barrel and just stare at it and try to figure out how they got water out of sawdust.

I thought I had it figured out how to keep from getting killed in a plane wreck. Just before hitting the ground, jump! I didn't see why that wouldn't work. Then years later, I heard George Carlin saying the same thing.

I've already written about the tiny little skeletons that lived in our staircase like they were little bitty coffins. They came out at night, walked up and down the stairs and made them creak. And I've already written about Mom telling me my embryonic little sister was in a sac in her stomach. I pictured a brown grocery sack.

I know there are more, but they'll have to wait until I get some sleep. Before I turn in, I think I'll give God a call.

The Magician

The magician asked for volunteers from the crowd and selected a little girl from all of the kids holding up their hands. She walked up to him and waited for instruction. He asked her name and thanked her for helping him. Then he had her turn and face the audience while standing in front of him.

As he flourished "The Magic Wand", he began to explain to her that he was going to use his magic to turn her into a rabbit and asked if that would be ok. She grinned and nodded her head. Then he began the "hocus pocus", "abra cadabra" talk while circling the top of her head with the magic wand. Just as he'd get to the point where he was going to complete the transformation, he'd stop and tell a story. One of the stories was about a little boy he had turned into a rabbit, and the rabbit ran off never to be seen again. He asked the little girl to please not run off after she was turned into a rabbit. She nodded and promised to stay put.

After about the tenth iteration of "abra cadabra", he dropped the magic wand in front of the little girl. A large sheet of paper rolled out of the wand, and the magician held the paper in front of the little girl. Painted on the paper was a rabbit with the face cut out--exactly where he positioned her face. After a round of applause, she returned to her mom.

The little girl really thought she was going to be turned into a rabbit. But I had already transformed her--my little girl--into a rabbit a few years earlier. I had made her a costume for Halloween; she's the white bunny on the right. I also turned my son into Batman. (By the way, I had no trouble getting him into the traditional "Batman Blue" (girls) tights.) Also pictured is "Robin"--my nephew Chris and the gray bunny is my nephew Pat.

All four of these "kids" love seeing the photos from that Halloween. I can't believe that I took this photo almost 30 years ago.

Enjoy the memories and the photo, kids. I love you.

I'm a "Grandma in Waiting"

Finally! I'm about to become a grandma to two very special little girls--sisters! My daughter and son-in-law are fostering, then adopting, two sweethearts. I can't wait until the first time they call me "Grandma". As far as I know, they've never had a grandma or grandpa in their lives. That's about to change.

I've already bought a pattern for some summer clothes, along with fabric. Making clothes for little girls again should jump-start my sewing. Years ago, I made nearly all of my daughter's clothes. I loved to sew, but haven't really sewn much of anything in years.

Funny thing about all of this is that God seems to have played a major role in making all of this happen. There's just no way all of this could have worked out by chance. And the oldest girl is the spitting image of my daughter.

I also need to pick up my knitting needles to make a couple of baby afghans. That's because I'm not only getting two instant grandkids, but in a few months I'll be a grandma again--to twins! My "exchange daughter" from Spain has just made the announcement, and as far as I'm concerned, the twins are also going to be my grandkids. After all, their mom was my daughter for nine months or so (and still considered my daughter).

Now if I can just talk my Indian son and daughter-in-law into this grandbaby thing, I'll have grandkids all over the world. I have plenty of hugs to go around--I've been saving them up for quite a few years.

So please, God...continue to hurry this little project along. I have cookies to bake.

If Thy Eye Offends Thee...

"Just great!", I thought, "Another floater." And it was a big one. I've had floaters as far back as I can remember. Some people are born with them, and I'm pretty sure that was my case. But this one was especially bothersome.

At least it was hanging around off the outside of my direct vision, in my left eye. I hoped it would hurry and break up. Then I remembered on my return to work after vacation a couple of weeks earlier, I kept seeing shadows behing me. This went on for days, and I thought it was people walking behind me. It was just then that I realized those "shadows" I was seeing was this stupid floater--not shadows of people.

Tuesday at work, as I was flipping my eyes from one wide-screen monitor to the other (yes, I use two monitors at once), this distorted, blurry thing began swinging across my center of vision. It would always move the opposite direction that my eyes moved. Since my left eye is my dominant eye, it was really bugging me and making it hard to do my job--which is writing. This was not an ordinary floater. It was like it was attached. It didn't sink like normal floaters eventually do (maybe they should've called them "sinkers").

I knew better than to put this off, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to call my optometrist. I wasn't seeing sparks or flashes of light that signal a retina detaching. I wasn't losing any part of my vision field. But there was definitely something wrong with my left eye. Wednesday, it was still there and seemed worse. I gave up and called to make an appointment, hopefully for Friday since it's my regular day off. But when I explained to the person on the other end of the phone, she pretty much insisted I come in that day. She made an appointment for 2pm.

As soon as I walked into Dr. Buechler's office, he asked what was going on with my eye. I told him I couldn't figure this one out. I explained my symptoms, and he reached for the dilating drops. After fifteen minutes, he pulled over the slit lamp biomicroscope to have a peek. No comments, so I hoped that was a good sign. But then he got out the artillery.

After giving me more drops to dilate my eye even more, Dr. B. pulled out this contraption to wear on his head. I knew this was the test where he used those horrible magnifying lenses. Those lenses intensify the light coming out of his head contraption to the point where they temporarily blind you. He was especially showing too much interest when my eyes were pointing down and to the left.

He told me he saw changes in the gel of my eye. He asked me if I'd ever heard of a vitreous detachment. I hadn't. He said it appears to be a vitreous detachment, but it looked slightly different than they usually do. He said there could be a retinal tear behind it, and he wanted me to see an opthamolgist. Not wasting any time, he picked up the phone in his office and called Dr. Flannagan's office. I was to come in immediately. Dr. Buechler put another drop of dilation juice into my eye so I'd be ready to go when I got to Dr. Flannagan's.

Luckily it was only a five-minute drive, since the sun was out full force and my eye was dilated. Dr. Flannagan's partner did the same tests on me as Dr. Buechler. She said she saw "old blood" and a large floater. She also told me that she wanted to check me again in two weeks, and until then I wasn't to do any "jarring" activities in case the retina was getting ready to detach. She said if there were no new bleeds and the retina looks ok, I'll be good to go. The eye should eventually absorb the blood and my vision should improve. Let's hope. This thing is about to drive me mad.

If this doesn't go away, I think I'm doomed to a life of watching this thing swing back and forth . So far, it only seems to be getting worse. Today it's darker.

I've learned that vitreous detachment happens to 50 percent of us over 50, and it normally doesn't cause a problem with your eyesight. At any rate, there's nothing they can do to fix it. If it causes a retinal detachment, that can be fixed, but since the vitreous detachment is caused by a shrinkage of the "gel" of the eye, that's just something I'm going to have to get used to.

Another wonderful side effect of "getting old".

Riley's General Store

I wish I had a real photo...

This is a photo I took of a painting of my Grandpa Riley's general store. It's pretty accurate, but lacks some details that I will carry in my mind for the rest of my life. It does spur some good memories.

Somewhere near the front door was a Sunbeam bread sign--it may have even been on the screen door. On the far right, there's a small white rectangular sign. That was the sign for the Masonic Lodge, which was on the second floor of the store. I'd never been in the lodge at the general store, but I heard it was pretty fancy like most Masonic Lodges.

The gas pump did sit exactly where it is in the painting, but when I was real little Grandpa had the old-timey gas pump that had the clear glass tank on the top that filled up with gasoline. There was always an old car or truck parked where this one is parked in the gravel parking lot. On the other side of the parking lot in front was Patoka River and the bridge. Grandpa kept old cane chairs on the porch and anyone coming by was welcome to pull up a chair, sit, and talk.

I loved visiting Grandpa and Grandma, but my favorite thing to do while in Newton Stewart was to coax my dad into giving me a nickel or two. Then I'd run down to Grandpa's store. Once I entered the door, I could smell the old wood. To this day, visiting an old store that smells of old wood takes me back to the general store.

Just after entering the door and to the right was the candy and toy counter. And I knew how to make a nickel go a long way. I'd first buy a packet of fake toy money in bill form. Then I'd use all that play money to buy all kinds of candy from Grandpa. Little did I know then that this was called counterfeiting and punishable by going to jail for a few years. Thankfully, Grandpa never called the law on me. He just let me purchase candy with my fake money.

After having my fill of candy, I'd walk across the width of the store to where Grandpa kept the "dry goods". There was a tin wind-up carousel I loved to play with...and I'd give my eye teeth to have that carousel today. Towards the back of the store were a few chairs--the kind of chairs with the small round seats and the curved iron backs. The chairs were located around the pot-bellied stove that heated the store in the winter and gave the old men that gathered there something to sit around and tell their tall tales.

To the right of the stove was a counter with bar stools where folks could get some of Grandpa's good bologna and crackers. Across the aisle was the Coca-Cola cooler--the kind with the two lids you lift up. It was always full of the small glass bottles of soda. Folks would just grab a soda, open it using the opener on the cooler, and then leave the nickel on the counter.

Customers would come in and tell Grandpa what they wanted. I remember the cereal was behind Grandpa's counter, along with most of the groceries. Grandpa would grab what the customer ordered. If they wanted some bologna, he'd cut it with a large knife and weigh it on the old scales on the counter. I can still taste that bologna today. In fact, there's a local meat locker that makes and sells bologna just like Grandpa's. I'd be willing to bet the same family makes it with the same recipe. Some day I'll ask them how long they've been in business.

Grandpa even had a post office in his store. I don't know how many people lived in Newton Stewart, but there couldn't have been more than 20 houses. Neighbors would come by and get their mail and usually end up talking. Back then they mostly talked about the reservoir that was coming in someday. I can remember hearing them say the reservoir would take their land and their houses, and they would all have to move away. It seemed a long way from happening, but 20 years go by very quickly.

Grandpa died when I was around 11 of an aneurysm, a trait he's passed on to a daughter, son, and one grandson. The reservoir was built after the town of Newton Stewart was purchased for peanuts and all of its townsfolk moved away. I remember hearing talk of an old small graveyard near Grandpa's house that was "moved". They said all they have to do is take a shovelful of dirt from each grave and move it to a new location; and that constitutes "moving" a graveyard full of ancestors.

The construction of Patoka Reservoir was halted for a time when Native American artifacts were found while they were digging and grading the land. We could've told them that before they started. Back behind what I remember as a blacksmith shop was an area where we'd go to scoop up handsful of "Indian" beads, which were actually small fossils. I don't know why they were piled up behind the blacksmith shop, but we kids always imagined the "Indians" put them there.

Once Grandma moved to French Lick and the reservoir finally finished, she'd always tell me not to go see it; that it would make me feel bad. After Grandma died, I did finally go. I found Newton Stewart. The new store built next to Grandma's house was still there and utilized as a garage or storage. The footprint of Grandma and Grandpa's house was still there, with even a few hand-carved foundation stones. A herd of deer were laying in the grass right where the house sat. The trees still overhung the road, and I could walk down the road just like I did when I went to Grandpa's store. The pavement had been taken up, but no trees had grown where the road was. As I walked down to the water's edge, I could tell the water began just before the spot where Grandpa's old general store had been.

Other than Grandma's cinder block store, Newton Stewart had been scraped off the earth where it had been since its establishment.

Angels and Demons

I just got home from my sister's house near Indy. We held our Mother's Day a week later than normal due to our trip to Italy to celebrate my sister's 50th birthday. You don't turn a half-century more than once, and we did it in style We flew to Venice where we were wonderfully surprised by my Indian son Saumil. After staying three nights, we took trains to Cinque Terre for another three nights. Then a train or two to Pisa to pick up a rental car so we could travel to Volterra in Tuscany for three nights. After that, we drove back to Pisa to turn in the car and catch a train to Rome for six nights.

It was an amazing adventure for my son, my sister, and me.

Today we held an Italian Mother's Day, complete with spaghetti and meatballs made by my brother Mark and spaghetti carbonara made by me. After lunch, we doled out the gifts we got for everyone. Necklaces made of art glass for our nieces...Hard Rock T-shirts from Rome for our nephews. My brother Mark, spaghetti-maker extraordinaire, received an Italian spaghetti apron and chef hat. Mom got a rosary, and my brother Mike received a Fiat shirt. And my great-nephew Kyle was given a "cut-away" book on Rome that illustrated how the buildings probably looked when they were in their heyday.

On the way home, my son decided we'd stop in at Bloomington and watch "Angels and Demons". We saw it advertised in Rome like crazy. My friend Rick said I have to go see it, after just getting back from Rome. I must admit...I'm not a movie watcher. I fall asleep nearly 99 percent of the time, and that tends to make any movie boring. But not this one. It was a great movie and I recommend that everyone go see it.

I also recommend that everyone take that one adventurous vacation before something happens that makes it impossible. I couldn't tell you my favorite place of all we saw--I loved them all. And don't go to a country merely to stay in some chain motel, or a fancy five-star place. If you do that, you might as well stay in the states. To get a more realistic "flavor" of a country and its people, stay where they stay. In Venice we stayed in an apartment on one of the canals where we were serenaded awake about 9:30 every morning by Italian musicians on gondolas passing in the canal we were located.

We stayed in Manarola in Cinque Terre in a studio apartment. It was quite a climb to get to our apartment, which was located near the top of a cliff on the ocean. Hauling two heavy suitcases didn't help matters any. But we made it, and the view alone made it worth the dozen rest stops we had to take to catch our breath.

In Tuscany, we stayed at an agriturismo--which was a 1,000-tree olive farm. The food, cooked by our hostess, was out of this world. Volterra was wonderful too. I can't wait to return.

We stayed at a B&B near the top of the Spanish Steps, and Anna's place was not only gorgeous, but comfortable. Anna made us a really nice breakfast every morning. We sure hated leaving there.

Details later...I just needed to touch base for now.

Crack Addicts

OK girls...what's so cute about your butts that you draw attention to them with a hideous tattoos, then wear pants that are specifically cut to show the cracks of your butts below your hideous tattoos?

Sorry, kids...this look is NOT attractive. And you never know when some old lady fed up with cracks and bellies might be right behind you, armed with a camera, and not afraid to use it. This photo is one I snapped while in Italy the last half of April. I was walking down the Spanish Steps and this is what confronts me. It was bad enough to see the tattoo and the crack, but she was also sporting black undies and something white stuck in the crack. (If you can enlarge the photo, you can see it, but I don't know why you'd want to.)

At the last Mellencamp concert I attended, we were on the side of the stage and close enough to touch Mellencamp when he came over to our area. In the first row, just before us, a young lady took a seat. The chairs were the folding kind that had the lower back open. And of course, there was her crack. I had my handy-dandy cell phone, so I took a crack photo and sent it to my brothers with some smart-aleck caption. A few minutes before the concert began, a father and his son--who looked to be about ten--sat next to us. And right in front of that young boy was the girl with most of her butt visible to me and him.

What did I do? I happened to have some paper with me, and two Bandaids. I took the Bandaids and taped the paper onto the back of her chair. That way, I didn't have to look at her butt all night, and neither did the kid.

I'm certainly not a prude--I'm just sick of this look. The girls went from wearing "home boy" clothes that completely covered up their shapes to completely uncovering their shapes. I don't know how fashion made such a radical jump in one year.

Not to leave the guys out, I have some big complaints about how they dress too. I really have an issue when I'm forced to look at one foot of your boxers sticking out of your pants. To top it off, your pants would definitely fall to the ground except you're holding them up by grabbing your crotch and hanging on for dear life. Ever notice how many of those goobers on COPS wear these too-big pants, and then try to run from the cops?

It's bad enough when they wear the boxers, but a few weeks ago I saw a young man wearing "tidy whities", with his jeans down as low as the ones shown. I mean, if you're going to show that much of your underwear, you might as well not wear pants at all. Just strut around in your undies. What's the diff?

And I'm aggravated at myself for spending time writing about cracks and boxer shorts when I've got tons of Italy photos to document and write about in my blog. I planned on writing two blogs tonight, but I need to hit the hay to try to fight this awful cold I contracted from someone in Italy. I'm too sleepy to write anymore. Please excuse any typos. I'm gone.