SOS Can Somebody Help Me

So, if you really want to freak your family and friends out, I have found, by complete accident, the perfect way to do this. Google Maps SOS feature.

A couple of years ago, Facebook had a thing going around that said if you go into your Google Maps app, there is a feature called SOS. You add contacts to it, and if you are in an emergency situation, you turn this feature on and it will send a help message to the people on your list. It will also send pictures of whatever is going on around your phone. Well, I thought that sounded like a good idea. I’m one of those people who turns the “bee-boop” sound off on my phone buttons, just in case I’m ever kidnapped and need to make a phone call in secret. Yeah, I dream up dramatic scenarios I will never be in and try to prepare for them. Anyway, I thought this would be great for when I am eventually dragged off to my doom. So, I filled in my four contacts and promptly forgot about the whole thing… until yesterday.

My mom wanted me to come see her new house. We met up and decided she would follow me to Home Depot and then we would drive to her house from there. With those plans made, I dropped my phone in my purse, jumped in my car and headed down the road. I hadn’t been driving for more than a few minutes when my step dad sent me a text message that said “What?”

Well, I hadn’t sent him anything at all, so I just sent back “What, what?” I don’t normally text and drive, but something about his message caught my attention, it was just so out of the blue. Well, then he replied back saying that I had sent him an SOS message with two blurry pictures asking for HELP. I was also sending him updated map coordinates regarding my location.

In my head I’m thinking, no. I sent no such thing.

Well, it turns out I had. I somehow managed to toss my phone into my purse in such a way that it sent a message to four people telling them I had been kidnapped, needed help - SOS, and it  actively sent them location points as I drove through the city.  (OKAY, as I’m writing this, I’m going into my phone to see exactly what the steps are that my phone had to go through to do this, and I cannot figure it out. I have no idea how to even do this on purpose. My friend is Googling the steps for me right now. I’m not making this up).

After several intense seconds of internet research, it appears that the way to activate this feature is to hit the home button on my phone three times in a row or hit the sound and the power button at the same time. I had no idea.

So anyway, I’m trying to drive and assure my step dad that I am indeed fine, and my phone starts ringing. It’s my Richy, and he is now very concerned. He had also received the message that I am in some dire predicament along with two blurry pictures (of the inside of my purse no less)  and map coordinates of my whereabouts. While assuring him I was fine, and still not understanding what happened, I can see mom in my rearview mirror. She is talking and gesturing on her phone too. Turns out when my best friend also got the help message and couldn’t reach me, she called my mom, who ALSO got the SOS alert. The only reason my mom wasn’t panicking was because she was behind me and could clearly see me and knew I hadn’t been chained up, drugged, or dropped off a pier.

It was nice to know that this feature does indeed work and that my chosen emergency contacts were in fact on top of it when I had an “emergency”. I now owe all of them a bottle of wine and a xanax for all the trouble, but hey, at least I know they all have my back.

I did finally figure out how to go in and turn the alert off so it would stop sending my location coordinates and pictures to everyone. Thank you to all of my friends and family who were looking out for me, and thank you Google Maps for upsetting four people with a compilation of health problems including anxiety, high blood pressure, and heart problems. We are now Googling the location of a good therapist.

Ocupado

So, this is why I haven’t written a post in the last hundred years… I am painting  some furniture to sell in an upcoming festival. If I had to give my “style” a name  I would call it “Le Artsy Fartsy”. It is a combination of whimsy, left over paint, and rum. I actually have done this before and sold the furniture. The only problem is, I did this over a decade ago and am ridiculously out of practice. The good news is, when I screw up, I can sand it off and start over again. It’s actually been a lot of fun and I’ve gotten good feedback from what I’ve done so far. The jewel toned chair is finished and the yellow one is what I am working on now. I have two more child sized chairs to work on, two adult size chairs and a cradle to do. My goal is to have it all finished by May 4th. If I don’t get it all finished in time for the festival, I may just try selling it locally or on Facebook. Right now I’m just having a good time revamping my art skills.

Also, my mom moved back to Tennessee, and I’ve been helping her with that. We spent a good two to three weeks cleaning, painting and refinishing the home she moved into. It’s an older place and needed some work, but now it looks good. I’m hoping it will feel like a good home for her. In truth, I’m hoping she will live there for the next hundred years or until one of us dies, because moving is such a pain in the butt. I’d rather not ever have to do it again. Richy and I had hoped to move out of our loft one day - that is until we moved my mother. Now we will be living in this loft until they move us to a casket… I am never moving. Not ever. Or else I’m just going to set my current home on fire, move somewhere new and start over. I am NOT moving all my junk. Screw that.

Anyway, that’s about all that’s been happening in my world. Granted, it doesn’t sound like much, but it has kept me very occupied for the last few weeks. I have hardly had time to figure out whether I’m coming or going. Thank you all for reading if you still are, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

Just a Little Sparkle

I have slipped a disc in my back. And in related news, I have made some firm resolutions regarding my underpants.

Saturday I woke up in an noticeably unusual amount of pain. At first I didn’t know what I had done, I just had this awful burning sensation in my back and my feet were so tingly they actually hurt. I couldn’t sit, stand, lay, move, anything. Even sneezing or coughing hurt.

I talked it through with a few people and they all agreed that it sounded like a herniated disc, but this didn’t constitute an emergency, therefore I had to wait until monday to call my doctor. When Monday morning finally came around, I called the doctor and they said they could see me that day. Wonderful! I needed to go ahead and get ready though, because I only had about two hours to shower, get ready and get to the doctor’s office.

I hurried through my shower, dried off, and put clean clothes and clean underwear on. I dried my hair and finally was able to gimp out my front door. I drove to the office, arrived ten minutes early, and was promptly called back for my appointment. Things were going well. Even though I was in a lot of pain, the nurses were walking slowly with me and everyone was being nice and prompt.

The doctor agreed with my medical diagnosis (namely, This Sucks) and ordered a series of x-rays to rule out any fractures. Given my history of brittle bones, this is always a good idea. I had assumed they would be taking x-rays anyway, so when I dressed after my shower, I put on leggings and a pullover shirt with no buttons or metal. Even my bra had a plastic underwire. I dislike undressing in those cold x-ray rooms, so I made sure there was nothing I would have to take off when I got there.

The guy who did the imaging was super nice. He was helpful when I went to try to lay on that cold, metal table and was patient with me since I was moving so slowly. He finally got me adjusted where he wanted me and took several pictures.

When he finished, he told me to relax while he checked the film to make sure they came out okay. That was fine. I tried to lay comfortably on the table and he disappeared somewhere into a little room. Then, he came back out.

He had a concerned look on his face and asked me “Do you have any snaps or buttons on your pants?”  No, I didn’t. He asked me if I’d had a couple of different surgeries. Again, I told him no. He just looked more confused and finally asked “Well, did you maybe have a hysterectomy?” Yes! I had.

This only made him seem a little more concerned. Then he starts stuttering about some kind of abnormality on my x-rays. Well, at this point, I rub my hands over my pants just to make double sure these pants weren’t like jeggings, where they put the rivets in them like they do jeans. I rubbed my hand around my waist and the pants were in fact very smooth… that is, until my hand ran across my butt.

My underwear. Oh no! My underwear was bedazzled with rhinestones across the butt that read “bebe”. I burst out laughing and told him I actually didn’t have any abnormalities in my x-rays, and he wasn’t losing his mind. It was my fault; me and my big beautiful, bedazzled bebe butt!

The poor guy was visibly relieved and finally laughed too. I don’t know what news he thought he was going to have to break to me, but he was seemed thoroughly relieved when it turned out to be just a mild case of rhinestones.

So, I’m really sorry, x-ray guy. I hope your day was less traumatic or you found some vicodin.

Turning Wine into Water

Well guys, I’ve started a diet.

It’s never a good idea to admit to being on a diet because that’s a sure way to fail. I don’t know why, but putting the word “Diet” out in the universe seems to make all the hard work come crashing down. So, the only reason I’m admitting to this is because I already screwed up, so why not.

I started this whole cruel and unusual behavior on February seventeenth and so far, it has been paying off. I downloaded three free apps to track different aspects of my day and life. I don’t take a bite of food without scanning it, logging it and thinking long and hard about what I’m doing and the life choices I’m making. I even keep my phone attached to me somewhere so that it can count how many steps I manage to take everyday before I collapse from hunger. I count everything… I mean except basic drinks. Like, I drink tea in the morning sweetened with artificial sweetener, which has no calories, and then I drink water. Even if I drink a diet soda, it doesn’t have calories either, and that’s really all I drink. I mean, that’s all except wine. But wine doesn’t count. It’s like water, right?

It turns out water and wine are in fact not the same thing. Oddly enough, the plateau in my weightloss seemed to be coinciding with my wine drinking. So, the other night, just for funsies, I scanned the wine bottle I was drinking into my calorie counter app. As it turns out, my particular bottle of wine actually contained 647 calories per bottle of wine (who drinks a serving anyway?). Well, I was shocked! Mostly, I was regretting the fact that I was on my second bottle of wine. So, 647 times two bottles of wine equals, about 1250 calories. Oh. So, like a day’s worth of calories, and I just drank it. All of it. Both bottles. Keep in mind, I am allotted 1,764 calories per day right now, and I drank all but 500 calories of it. Well damn.

Granted, at the time, I felt far too good to care, but the next day, sober me saw my calorie counter and realized something is going to have to change. I’m going to have to really make some changes in my life and get my priorities straight. I’m going to have to stop eating something.

I don’t mind really. I mean, I can live on yogurt and wine. No, I’ll do cheese, wine, and fruit. I’ll live on a diet of a Grecian goddess. I’ll just have to cut out you know, things that help sustain life, but I’ll still have wine - no, wait, instead of fruit (I’ll have fruit because of wine), I’ll eat fish, wine and cheese. Perfect! I’ll eat like a medieval princess. They lived long, full lives. Very healthy group of people.

Good plan.

First Giveaway

All of you followers and commenters have been amazing! It’s been a wonderful couple of months and I couldn’t have done it without each and every one of you. To show my appreciation I’m giving away the LOKASS Drawstring Makeup Bag pictured below. I have partnered with a fellow blogger The Virginia Nymph at The Virginia Nymph for this giveaway so you will see this post there as well.

All you have to do to enter is share this post on social media (FB, Twitter, IG, Pinterest, etc...), use the hashtag #VANGIVEAWAY and then comment on this post where you have shared it, (you can also drop a link if that is easier, and make sure your post is public so we can verify it, please). This giveaway is international and the shipping of the prize will be covered by us. Each share gets you one entry. Entries close on Friday March 15th at 11:59 PM EST. The winner will be chosen and announced Sunday March 17th 2019 at 6:00 PM EST.

I look forward to rewarding you all for your support.

You can also share this post from The Virginia Nymph’s Blog - The Virginia Nymph located HERE. There is no cap on entries. We hope you all have fun with this.

Love and hugs to all. ^_^

Your Friend,

Vivian Asher
Thoughts From the Shower

Race Against Time

Date night did not go as planned. It really is our own fault though, as we didn’t plan in advance.

Since Valentine’s day so obligingly fell on a weekday this year, Richy and I decided to hold off on romance until the weekend. On Saturday we planned to celebrate our undying love by going to a local hockey game, eating a footlong sausage on a bun, and consuming alcohol. Needless to say, we were pretty excited. Honestly, as funny as it sounds, I was excited. I have never once been to a hockey game of any kind and I am always tickled when I am practically expected to consume a hotdog.

Now, what really sold me on this hockey game idea, was the idea that it wouldn’t be crowded. Richy, who used to attend these games fairly often, assured me that we could walk up to the ticket window on the night of the game, buy a rinkside seat, right up against the glass, and see all the fun. I liked this idea. As I have gotten older, I have become snarky and less tolerant of people and crowds, so a little elbow room appealed to me as well. So now we had fun in small crowds, the possibility of brawny men pummelling each other, AND hotdogs? I was all in!

Well, Richy, being the forward thinking person he is, looked up tickets online, so we didn’t have to wait until that night to stand outside in the rain waiting for tickets. We would just buy ours online.

No. No, we wouldn’t. The tickets to this volunteer, non-professional, local hockey game had been sold out at the Civic Coliseum for two weeks. TWO WEEKS?! What the hell? I asked him what on earth could be going on to cause this thing to sell out half a month ago. Are you ready for this?

Weiner Dog Races. The ANNUAL Weiner Dog Races. During half-time, or whatever you call it in hockey, there is a weiner dog race. So now, I only had more questions. All through the night, questions kept popping into my head and I’d randomly blurt them out through our alternate date (The movie - Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindewold, and dinner). Like, do they have the dogs run on the ice? Do they slip and slide? Is it funny? Or does it hurt their little paws? Do they have little boots? What happens if a zamboni runs over a rogue poopie? And really? This is what sells every seat in the house?

After a quick Google search, here is a short list of the local Coliseum events that did not sell out: The Nutcracker, Shinedown, and Knoxville Symphony Orchestra presents: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. What did sell out? Weiner dog races at the halftime show.

So, at least now I know; if I am going to see a hockey game at the local level, I need to make sure to get my tickets in advance. That, or make sure nothing as important as weiner dog races is happening on the night I want to go.

Launching the Meat Missile

Trigger Warning: Almost Dirty Words and Euphemisms for Your Junk Writing erotica is a funny business. As I mentioned in an previous post, I am taking on a writing project with a friend. My first project ended up being an erotic story. Now, this isn’t completely new to me, I have tried my hand at it before and I did a decent job. Those were just short stories and I popped them out in quick order. However, this particular smut has turned into an entire series in my head. I have diary entries from one character, a storyline going, and another character will soon start a journal of his own. I am basically writing the same story from three different viewpoints. I am a glutton for punishment. Now, when talking about body parts in these kinds of stories, especially when discussing someone’s privates, it helps to be creative. It also helps if you have been exposed to a lot of euphemisms for the naughty bits. The good news is that I HAVE been privy to this kind of terminology as an editor. The bad news is, the two people that I edit for the most write male/male erotic fiction; and I am writing a female/female storyline. In other words, I have 48 synonyms for a weiner, but when it comes to the lady parts, I’m at a loss. The friend that I started this project with was kind enough to lend me a hand. She got on Facebook and asked this question: “Me and my gal pal are trying to write some sweet girl on girl action and we need some other names for breasts and vaginas.” Well, ask and the internet shall deliver, right? Well, somewhat; here are some of the answers, spelled exactly the way we got them: tits, bewbs, chest pillows, and globes. Also, netherlips, petals, lotus, folds, sheath, and velvet glove. Most of what we got though, is a bunch of other writers wanting an update if we found anything that didn’t make what we were writing sound like absolute cheesy filth. We strive for a better class of smut around here. The truth is, it’s really difficult to write porn without sounding so filthy that hell won’t even have you. On the other hand, you can run the risk of not being descriptive enough, something that may lead to no one wanting to read your smut because it isn’t smutty enough. There is a fine line between erotic stories and just out and out raunchy sex. For instance, do you call them boobs, breasts, or tits? Well, if it’s in the heat of the moment, maybe it’s her “heaving bosoms”. If you are feeling wordy, you could say “her breasts were perfect alabaster globes”. If you are going for a little trashier, or writing from a man’s point of view, you might choose to go with “Her tits were so perky, it looked like she was hanging upside down”. But when it comes right down to it, how many ways can you say boobies, without being repetitive, and still make it sexy? Now, naming the Velvet Sheath is a whole other frustrating problem. It’s not that the ol’ vajajay doesn’t have any synonyms, it just doesn’t have a whole lot of sexy ones. We ladies call it many names, but who wants to read something that says “He touched her cooter and she moaned in ecstasy”. I mean, no man wants to hear it called the tuna taco when he’s trying to spank the monkey. It’s just not sexy. Then we have the funny names we use in our conversations: Snoochi, Hoohaa, Oonie, and Coochie. None of those words belong in porn. Then, there are just the ridiculous, cheesy names, which are the ones that generally end up going in the story. These include the honey pot, the cave of delight, the crux of my womanhood, and of course, the lady sheath. Yes, writing erotic fiction is probably one of the least sexy things a person can do. Afterall, how serious can a person take themselves once they have written the words “jiggery-pokery” to express making love? You cannot write “I gave her yearning womanhood a hot beef injection,” without giggling outloud for several minutes. On the other hand, one cannot simply write “they made love” and keep a reader who is looking for smut, interested for any length of time. So, this is my life now. I spend my days looking for four hundred ways to describe doing the horizontal mambo. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.

"We Are All Mad Here"

Do you ever do something without really thinking it through? Just jump right in something, feet first and hope for the best? Nope, me either, I am always given to careful thought and serious planning. Pssht. Riiiiiight.

I jump along the cliffs of life and basically never look to see if I’m actually going to make it to the other side. I just start running then jump. Might land, might crash, you never know. But I will never know if I don’t try, so what the hell? WELL, what have I crashed headlong into this time? Writing!

Not this; not writing this blog - which I still intend to keep up with, as much as I keep up with it - but, another blog. A gal pal of mine came up with the idea to co-publish a blog. It was supposed to be a collection of short stories, essays, erotica, discussion pieces, and art. As it stands, there is plenty of free content posted on the blog with extra content available to customers.  She asked me if I’d like to participate in adding content, and without a second thought, I said I’d love to.

I am a silly woman. What was supposed to just be a casual short story has now turned into an entire erotic series with three tiers of content. Not only do I have three versions of the same story going, I am writing essay pieces for the page, and I’m going to continue this blog, and ideally, I’ll make some art for the site.

I hadforgotten what happens when I allow myself to write. I had a couple of years, when I first started this blog as a matter of fact, where I wrote continuously, i mean non-stop. I wrote short stories novels, essays, blogs as well as research topics. Hell, I even wrote plays and haute poetry!. There would be literal days  I didn’t leave my room.. I forgot what takes over me when I give myself permission to let go. I just really can’t stop. I’d forget to wash my hair, which was probably fine, as I had forgotten to comb it out anyway. I wouldn’t remember to eat until my blood sugar would crash so hard that I couldn’t see the screen in front of my eyes. Even then, I just squinted and kept typing and ate whatever I could get someone to bring me.

Yet, despite the fact that I tend to  fall into a rabbit hole of words and the tapping of keys, despite the fact I look like a yeti, I am stupidly happy. I pop out of bed each morning, grab my tea and immediately head for my computer. I open it up and open my mandatory eleven tabs and get the blank document ready. I don’t know what’s going to happen when that blinking cursor starts to move, but I’m excited to get it going. It’s so much fun. It’s so satisfying to spin a story or give life to a secret fantasy. It’s thrilling to have someone discuss a serious piece with you because what you wrote truly mattered to them, or gave them something to think about. It doesn’t matter if it’s your mother, your lover, your best friend, or a stranger who wants to talk to you about it. The fact that it’s on anyone’s mind at all is extremely gratifying.

Anyway, now then, the pressure is on, but I’m so glad it is. I know I have someone counting on me to have my act together now. I’ll have deadlines and quotas to meet. Nope, I gave it not even a full day’s thought. But, you know what? I’m excited! I look forward to waking up every morning.

I know that I might end up spending twelve hours behind a screen. I know the dishes might pile up a little and maybe the bed won’t get made. I also know I can survive an entire night in a bed that was left crumpled. Even if it stayed unmade all day long, we can sleep a full night in that same bed without dying. I have come to realize, now that I am 39, that if we leave the dishes in the sink all day long, the police will not show up and drag us away. Social services will not take our children from our home (they don’t want them either), and the health department will not condemn our building. I have even left dinner dishes until morning and not once have I triggered the apocalypse.

In other words, I finally gave myself permission to get lost in my writing.

If you read this, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please keep doing so, it tickles me. Feel free to share it or make it your guilty pleasure or dirty little secret. And please wish me luck in my new endeavor. I am also hoping to retrieve the rest of my novel soon from a broken computer. Finishing that would be a dream!

If you are interested in the blog mentioned in this post, I will put the link below. However, please be aware, there is ADULT CONTENT in various posts on this blog. If the post contains adult content it is marked as rated MA in the title. This way you will know what sort of content you are about to see. The mature content is easily avoidable, but is still available. Just a precaution.

Here is the link: https://www.patreon.com/whiskeywithwine

My Quantum of Solace

So, I am in the middle of cleaning my guest room/art room and I’ve picked up approximately three objects and therefore am in desperate need of a rest. I just figured while I’m recovering my strength and sipping my tea and rum (Hey, it’s good), that I would write about why I began cleaning in the first place.

My Sandee is coming to see me!

I mean, so is the woman who gave birth to me, (Hi Mom) but that’s not who I am writing about today. Although, I do want to give the parental unit a quick “shout out”  to say  “Thank You” from the bottom of my heart because she is driving herself and Sandee out to see me. So if I may take a second, Mom, thank you for coming to see me and thank you for bringing along one of the sweetest people on the planet!

Now, back to my dear little sister and best friend, Sandee. I met Miss Sandee, or PeeWee, as she was known then, when we were both residents at an in-patient rehabilitation center. I was in there because I’d had a massive stroke, and she was in there after being diagnosed with MS. The left side of my body was paralyzed and she couldn’t walk and could hardly stand on her own because her legs were so weak and hurt her so bad.


We were both painfully shy. I was bashful because I was only 26 years old when I had the CVA (CerebroVascular Accident, aka Stroke), I was in what felt like a nursing home with people aged 70 and up. I was, by several decades, the youngest person in there, yet I couldn’t cut my own food, stand, or walk. I couldn’t remember anything for more than about five seconds and I told the same stories over and over. I was wounded and too ashamed at my newfound circumstances to function. All of that swirled together and resulted in my self- imposed isolation. I hid away in my room unless forced to come out for therapy. I had all my meals in my room on my bed and had no intention of doing anything else. I would sit and draw and eat all alone everyday. I was miserable and I saw no end in sight. Little did I know someone was looking out for me.

One day, during lunch, one of my favorite nurses walked into my room, sat on the edge of my bed and watched me draw for a little while. She smiled and said I was very good. She followed that much appreciated compliment by letting me know about another patient and artist on the same floor. A lady who was a bit older than me was there, and she was  taking meals alone as well.. This “other lady” would stay by herself and draw as well. The nurse said this  person was sweet and the nurse was confident that I’d really like her. There wasn’t much else to do at the time, so I figured I’d humor the well-meaning nurse, go say “hi”, and continue on with my existence, for whatever that was worth. Well, as they say, the rest is is history. This is when I met my much beloved PeeWee and we have been sisters ever since.

When I entered her room, I saw a petite little doll of a woman. She was so delicate and dainty especially compared to my larger and taller physique. She had long braid after braid expertly done on her elf- sized head that hung in masses down her back. She had kind, light eyes that squinted up into little slits when she laughed. Her slender mouth opened into a frank smile that was equal parts genuine and welcoming. She was older than me, but you’d never know to see her. Her dark complexion was as smooth as any 20 year old you’d want to put her against. Her hands were small and graceful and her calves were covered in leg warmers, which I would come to know as her signature look. These leg warmers served the dual purpose of looking fashionably cute, and they also kept her little legs warm. But best of all, this woman was charming, inviting, and preciously, vulnerably open. I at once wanted to hang out with her, protect her, and make her laugh just one more time.

And God, have we laughed! Before leaving rehab, she managed to fall into and get stuck in a toilet because her little tush was too small for the seat. We still laugh about that to this day. Each time we bring it up, we laugh until it makes our ribs hurt, especially when she mimics her position in that porcelain bowl: legs up in the air, ass stuck in the cold water and feet and hands waving around, haahaa!! We laugh over the time my abdominal muscles gave out and I ended up helplessly sliding down the glass sneeze shield at Subway. We laugh at our triumphs as well as our dismal failures and funny mistakes. We can commiserate over walking into a room and having no idea why we are even there or even who’s house we are in. We get a kick out of falling over thin air, choking on nothing and coughing so hard we pee. Some of this is age related and some of it is medical. But all of it is US - and OUR  unique brand of humor. For years we have kept each other going with our giggle-fest phone calls.

So, yeah, Sandee coming is kinda a big deal to me. I can’t wait to sit up all night with her talking about nothing and everything all at once. We can drink a little, laugh a lot, and gossip and then gab the night away. I’m so grateful for this woman. She means the world to me. Love you, Sis!

Dehydrated Water, Isle 5

If you know me, then you know that I got a bread machine for Christmas (Thank you Richy), and that means that you also know that I adore this gift. I have used it about twice a week since I got it, and I just love it. There is nothing quite like the smell of baking bread permeating through the house. It makes everything feel warm and cozy and the scent is downright intoxicating. In fact, I’ve used it so much that I ran out of yeast.Besides the lack of yeast I needed some other ingredients, so I had to make a trip to Wal-Mart. And that’s where today’s blog comes from. Oh. Dear. Lord.

This is not a rant about Wal-Mart, though that would be easy enough to do. No, this is a conversation I had with an adorable employee that was maybe sixteen years old and clearly used to life being a bit sarcastic to him.

I parked on the Marketside side of the mega-ginormous Superstore and noted my parking row (it was row 8 for those of you who are taking notes) and made my way to one of the four sliding glass entryways. I knew I needed only three things, the aforementioned yeast, powdered nonfat dry milk for yet another bread recipe, and wheat flour for, you guessed it, a wheat bread recipe. All I wanted to do was head to whatever isle powdered milk was on, and then move on to the baking isle then go. I did not want to get stuck in Wal-Mart at 5:00 on a Friday afternoon. I hurried through the doors, grabbed a cart in the breezeway, and headed inside. Just inside the doorway, stood an employee in the standard blue shirt and khaki pants. I was thrilled, as this meant I didn’t have to waste my precious time hunting for dry milk, I could just get directions. How fortuitous!

As I approached the employee, I took in his appearance and at once felt a little bit motherly toward him. He was, at a guess, somewhere between 16 and 18 years old, but he looked about 14 because he clearly wasn’t growing facial hair yet. He had a head full of tight reddish-blonde curls and his skin was that pale creamy color that gets super red if  given any reason whatsoever to flush. He had a cheerful face that reminded me a little of Tom Holland and he appeared to be having a pleasant conversation with whoever he was talking to in the deli. I immediately made up my mind to approach him with my question. I didn’t much like to interrupt his conversation, but at that moment, I was older, I was The Customer, and I was In A Hurry, so I decided I was also Entitled. In a sweet yet effective manner I cut off whatever was being said between him and Deli Guy. Sorry.

I asked him, “Excuse me sir, but do you work here?” He confirmed that yes, he did work there. I’m assuming he left out “Nope, just wear the outfit because I think it’s cool” because he was too nice to say anything. Anyway, I said something profound like “Great!” and continued with my query, “Can you please tell me where I can find the powdered milk”? At once I knew something was wrong because this kid who had been sweet and smiling up to this exact point was now looking like I had asked him what the average airspeed velocity of a laden swallow was. He just blinked a couple of times and then kind of laughed a little and he blushed from his neck to his hairline. Seeing his brain begin to crumple in the confusion, I broke the silence with a laugh of my own. I said “Okay, thanks anyway” and started to move on. He finally found his voice again and asked me “Powdered Milk”? I had to laugh a little. My only thought was, Okay, I can see this kid did not grow up eating government cheese. He doesn’t even know what powdered milk is. But folks, it was so much worse than that.

Oh, this poor kid. He looked and I could see something was dawning on him. He grinned a big grin as a twinkle glimmered in his eye. He laughed a little more and looked at me ever so suspiciously and (swear to god) said “Wait, ‘powdered milk’ is that like ‘blinker fluid’?” Y’all this poor kid thought I was punking him. I laughed so hard! He had made up his mind that I was sending him on some kind of snipe hunt!

I at once remembered when I was in high school, I worked at Kroger and we used to ask the new hires to go grab us a box of dehydrated water. It was on isle 5. Those poor people would spend forever over there looking for dehydrated water. One unfortunate guy spent nearly two hours looking for it when one of us realized how long he’d been gone and sent someone looking for him. He had been so afraid of letting us down that he had spent all that time looking for it and was upset at his failure when we found him. Yes, we were terrible people, no, no one ever did it to me for whatever reason, which is no doubt why I participated in such a mean prank. That and I was fifteen.  

So, to whoever hurt this young man, please lay off him for all that’s good and holy! He was just the sweetest, cutest little thing you’d ever want to see, but bless his heart, I think he may have been the recipient of one too many pranks. I feel like I should go check on him every now and then. And just to keep him on his toes, next time I’m going to ask him to point me in the direction of the wild haggis.

The Best Day Ever

According to my dog, Peanut Butter, a.k.a The Best Boy Ever, a.k.a. Little Butters, today is the Best Day Ever. Here’s what happened: The Best Day Ever started out with last night being The Best Night Ever. Little Butters got to sleep with mommy and daddy last night in the big bed. This is a Big Deal, in the world of a small dog, and he luxuriates in it whenever he gets the chance. No one enjoys a bed like this particular puppy. First he lays flat out in a perfect sploot, just taking in the comfort of the thick quilts and poofy pillows. Then as he sinks down into the cloud of fluff, and his eyes surrender to slits of perfect happiness, his nose begins to wiggle in anticipation of the burrowing that will come next. At last, his little puppy legs will scooch him forward to the head of the bed where he disappears underneath the covers. He loves nothing better than to burrow under every inch of blanket he can find. From the head of the bed to the foot, from side to side and back and forth, Little Butters makes tunnel after tunnel before suddenly reappearing, hair askew and full of static as he sticks only his nose out between the pillows and smiles his goofy smile. Then, with his paws extended and head between them he got to sleep All Night Long between mommy and daddy. It really was the Best Night Ever. But then morning came! It was the Best Day Ever! Peanut Butter got to wake daddy up by licking him right in the mouth, it was the best! And at 6:30 in the morning, daddy’s mouth had never smelled more interesting! Yep, it was the best smell ever, so Peanut Butter just stuck his tongue right down daddy’s open mouth. Daddy seemed awfully startled, but to The Butters, it was like a champagne and caviar breakfast! For some reason, mommy laughed and laughed at this. Butters didn’t know how he made mommy laugh, he just liked the sound, so he wagged his tail and jumped out of bed. This was going to be the Best Day Ever! No Way. Is it really breakfast time? Ohmigosh it really is! Peanut Butter has only had 2,554 breakfasts in his life, so the idea that he is really getting breakfast this morning really blows his mind. You can tell he managed to wrap his head around it though after carefully observing his meal time ritual. I scoop out his measurement of mail order, gourmet food, pour his tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil onto it, mix it in, and shake the treat bag over the bowl, so he believes there are treats in his food. Note: he will not eat without this song and dance. Oh wow! Breakfast AND treats? THIS is the Best Day Ever! After breakfast, it’s time to go outside. OUTSIDE! Oh. My. God! We are going outside?! We have only gone outside at the very least five times a day for seven years. Despite the fact that he has been outside approximately 12,775 times, he still acts like a lifetime shelter dog getting to see the outdoors for the first time. No one has ever been this excited about the outdoors and no one ever will be. All I have to say is “Peanut Butter, do you want to go… OUTSIDE?” Oh my god, does he ever! His ears perk up, his little toes begin to tap and he dances on the floor in desperate anticipation of new smells and neighbor dogs to bark ferociously at. And boy, does he smell everything! There are cats to smell, and recycle bins to smell, and gloriously dirty trash bins to smell! Best of all there are things to pee on! He gets to pee on car tires and bushes and garden walls and trees and fire hydrants and endless miles of curbs! Outside is just the best and a huge part of his Best Day Ever. Finally, after all the things are peed on and all the smells are smelled, it’s time for Peanut Butter to come back inside. What does that mean for Little Butters? I’ll tell you what that means; it means a treat for using the bathroom! Yes! It’s treat time! Treats are the Best Thing Ever and he gets one every time he uses the potty or does something clever or looks semi-cute or does something endearing. So, pretty much, he’s surprised anytime he gets one, and has no idea he’s ever had one before. Treats are awesome, and this is DEFINITELY The Best Day Ever! So after a long hard day of eating, peeing, sniffing and tail wagging, it’s time to nap with Mr. Quackers, his stuffed duck and sleeping buddy. Naps are an integral part of Peanut Butter’s day in order to keep up with his hectic schedule. After all, who can have a Best Day Ever without a full 8 hours of sleep at night and 15 hours of sleep during the day? Not this overworked puppy. Tonight we will once again blow his mind by giving him his 2,555th dinner and he will be as excited about it as he was about breakfast. Later, we will take him for his 12,776th walk and he will sniff everything he can reach and pee on anything he can chase down. He will bark at all the dogs and chase all the cats. He will be so proud of himself and will earn the treat he will get once he goes inside. And why will he do all of this? Because today was The Best Day Ever.

Holiday Blues

Can we talk about the crash after the holidays? It’s so depressing. There’s the long build up to Christmas and then in one day the gifts are opened, the family is seen, and the food is eaten and put away. Then suddenly the loved ones have gone back home, the bad gifts are buried in the backyard and the even the leftovers have vanished from the fridge. Nothing is left to do but to plummet into a wet, cold depression. I, for example, have spent the month drinking because my daughter went back home, five hours away from me, and I am refusing to cope in a healthy manner. I think I miss my children more than anything. My son lives about half an hour from me, and I get to see him pretty often. But every year, my daughter leaves and I sink into a long depression involving crying during Queer Eye binges and overeating. 

I’m not sure who started the winter holidays, but I get why they did it. And no, I’m not interested in the Reason for the Season PR. I mean, someone came up with the thought “let’s do something celebratory in the middle of winter to break up the monotony”. I can appreciate that. I really can. I just wish I could make it last until the birds start to sing and the redbud trees bloom. Can you imagine if we had to go from November until Easter or spring with nothing to bring some kind of color, joy or fun to us? I am just so glad that along the way, somebody said, “let’s throw in a couple of celebrations. We can celebrate a new year, and what else? Oh! Let’s have another celebration, we’ll call it Christmas.” That was just a damn good idea!

One thing I am doing to occupy my time during this soggy, cold season is making bread. Technically, I am cheating; I’m making it in my new bread machine that Richy gave me for Christmas. I get so happy using it! I love adding the ingredients and watching it do it’s thing while mixing. For whatever reason, they didn’t add a light to the inside, so I keep a little flashlight by it so I can peek into it and watch the dough. Oh, and the smell is gorgeous!  As it rises and cooks the loaf, the scent of freshly baked bread permeates through the house and it feels like a Panera Bread has opened up in my kitchen. This new hobby of mine has made me very joyous and content in many ways, however, it hasn’t exactly curbed the overeating. No, I have to say having warm, freshly baked bread at my fingertips every day of the world has certainly not done anything to slow my eating down. Not that I’m complaining.

Fortunately, with the help of friends, fresh bread, and the best boyfriend in the world, I am getting past my After Christmas Blues. I am lucky to have such good people in my life and lucky to live in a world where for a little while in the winter we find a reason to celebrate and be nice to each other. I’m thankful for so much and while the crash after the holidays can be a bit of a drag, it’s helpful to know that other people might be feeling the same way. Try to reach out. Try to check on each other. And if you find something that brings you joy, then do it as often as you can. As for me, I’ll be eating bread.