Yeah, but can you do it and not slosh your coffee?

Joy is not in what you have or who others say you are or even who you think you are.  It’s who you are in Christ.  Behave with joy.

I could have told Honey when he opened the Netflix envelope that 9pm is approx 1 hour and 4 minutes too late to start something if you want to see the ending.  But, it was Saturday night, therefore, since hope springs eternal in the mind of those who can’t remember last Saturday night, we hit the start button.

One hour and 4 minutes later, “we have to be at the church early for sound check, we’d better pick this up tomorrow.  But it’s so good…eh….I’m not making it to the end.”  So we paused it and picked it up again right after church so we could still take a nap at 3:00.

We don’t go to concerts for several reasons, top of the list being they’re crowded.  First, you pay an unreasonable amount of money for a ticket in the nosebleed section so off in the wings if the performer is not on the front edge of the stage, you may as well be at home listening to the CD.  Or the DVD.

“This guy has more talent in his left ear lobe…..”

“Wasn’t that fun going to his concert with the Dales? It was worth the parking, the walking, the price, the crowd, the not so good seats…. he’s good.”

We’ve gone to one music concert in our entire relationship in 36 years.  We’ve gone to hockey games, baseball games, the state fair, all of which involve parking in the Australian outback, too much money, high priced bad food, and crowds but this guy was worth it all.

“Oh! I love this one!  Turn it up…. is there still some coffee?”

…the Copa, Copa Cababaaaaana…

One hand on the waist, the other holding the coffee cup, movin’ to the beat, movin’ the feet, all the way to the recliner sofa…

Didn’t slosh a drop.

About this time in the story telling, any one of my kids will have his/her hand over his/her face, shaking his/her head and making “uuuuuuuu..” moans.  Oh, well…

Copa Cabaaana….

“Do you mind if I play that one again?”

“You know, he just doesn’t stand at the mike and yell.  Well, I’m woofed.  Think I’ll lay down for a while.”

We’ll have to rent that one again sometime.



Facing and facing the doc

I’ve created a FaceBook account and don’t know squat about how it works or nothin’.  Somebody help me.  I’ve been blogging since — since —- ok, look at the archive dates, that’s how long, and I love it.  I’m even toying with a book idea but that’s on simmer.

Other than exposing my computer challenges, here is an update on my — at last! — visit to Cardio Man.  The term itself conjures up a super hero image.  Here he comes, Cardio Man (dah ta da ta dah la ta dah! It’s Cardio Man to the rescue!! wearing a red cape and sporting a big gold CM on his chest)  Well, I hope he’s to the rescue.  He looks like he could be the younger brother of the ME on CSI:NY, tall, skinny, way big smile with teeth to fill it up, uncut but not long hair, wears black instead of white doctor clothes, chatty, grinny, outgoing and leaves with “God bless.”  His practice is as St. Mary’s so go figure on the God bless stuff.

Anyway, he went over all my comments, records, asked questions, said my supplements “can’t hurt” without endorsing so much as Omega3 (hrmmph) and scheduled me for a heart catheritization, what I’m fondly calling a dye job, next Friday.  Pray they find something and fix it, ‘cuz I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired all the time. Chest pains waking me up at 5am feels like something is going on and needs fixing.

If I don’t need a stent, they keep me long enough to determine that the puncture in the thigh artery isn’t going to blow all over the inside of the car and if they do insert a stent or three, they keep me overnight to make sure …. uh, not sure… that my face turns pink again? I thought the pale face was makeup.

I’ll keep y’all posted.

Today I’ve managed to put a load of darks in the washer, empty the dishwasher, load it, try to figure out vat dar heck FaceBook is and how to use it, checked the email, and got winded getting up for coffee while web camming with the kids.

Nap time.


It’s 3:20, the rain is steadily coming down for the second gray day in a row, the air temperature is on the 50 mark, great for Canada, chilly for Florida, the TV is off, and the two clocks in the living room are ticking away.  I am basking in the afterglow of paying into the government half of what I thought I was going to pay.  If anyone had told me during the furniture store years when we were getting nothing but refunds that I would be near tears thanking God for this tax bill, I would have committed that person.

The taxes are done.  We knew we were paying in but didn’t know how much.  We’d set aside as much as we could, but the torture was that it very possibly wasn’t enough.

Our culture has convinced us through advertising that if we pay less than the seller said we’d have to pay if it weren’t on sale, we were saving the difference.  Is anybody out there still not getting it?  It’s a cold, hard fact that if you don’t PHYSICALLY PUT the difference into savings whether it’s a bank or a china pig (the two are now eerily related) you haven’t saved a thing, not a red cent.

This year, we set aside the amount we thought we’d have to pay without giving thought to the concept that the very money we drew out of the IRA would push us into a higher tax bracket. Honey being over the age line required to avoid penalties, we weren’t worried about that, only the overall rate.  Our primary motivation was to find our favorite kind of car, Paid For.

I’ve told you before that I have guardian angels on rotation.  Some days they have to draw straws to see who gets the duty.  Drinks on the house for those who don’t draw the short one.  We were indeed pushed into the next bracket, but because last May, Honey insisted I clean out those closets for the church garage sale, because Tennessee’s sales tax is high and deductible, and because TurboTax assigns a generous value to my rejects, I was able to deduct more than we normally do and offset the Feds’ insatiable appetite.

I could list the projects and chores that I now feel free to attack with force.  That would be boring.  As a matter of fact, they’re boring me just looking at them.  The laundry, at least one load, will get done the next time I feel like getting up.  But for now I am basking in the sounds of steady rain, clocks, embers, and when is that refrigerator going to stop?