Have you ever heard the expression: “There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, I hope it isn’t a train” ?  Well, today’s light at the end of the tunnel just happens to be candles on a birthday cake. Three of them to be exact.

Yes, today is the third birthday of a  favorite little friend “Duke”.  Duke belongs to Ann at “Snap, Edit, & Scrap” blog.  She has planned a surprise birthday blog-party for him and everyone is invited to drop by. 

Duke is a little white ball of fur that brings light to a lot of bloggers, as well as to his owners Ann and Wade.  As I said before, we’re all invited to Duke’s Birthday party which is today.  If you have time, hop over and wish him a happy birthday.  They’ll probably be serving lots of snaks, like…milk bones, snausages, beggin strips, and maybe even some real live bacon.  The party will be going on all day and all the way into the night. Ann said she would leave the light on for us.

Anyway, we’d like to take this opportunity to wish Duke a very happy third birthday.

By the way,  since Duke is 3 years old in people years, that means he’s actually turning 21 years old in dog years, so it may mean that he will be allowed to partake of some spirits. Let’s all make sure he doesn’t drink and drive.  I’ll be the designated driver, if that’s okay with everyone else.

Okay, get in, hang on and shut up.  We’re off to the party. It’s almost time to light the birthday candles.

After the party, we’ll all head over to Theme Thursday and see what the other bloggers had to say about the word “Light“.

Well, here it is Monday all over again and I don’t have a thing to blog about.

I could probably tell you about how my right shoulder has been killing me for the past couple of weeks, but that would be too whiny and I’ve never liked whiny posts. So I won’t mention how, when I try to raise my arm it feels like it’s being torn from the socket. I’d mention that I might need surgery to repair the rotator cuff, but nobody cares about that kind of stuff anymore.

Frankly I find it kind of boring myself.

I could probably mention the extreme heat and how we have had record high temperatures here in Tennessee for the past two days, but once again, nobody really cares about the weather.

I’ve found that people only talk about the weather when they run out of anything else to say and they’re just attempting to fill the silence with words. (Kind of like the way I’m doing right now).

Have you ever resorted to talking about the weather during polite conversation with someone whom you have nothing else in common?

I have. After a long uncomfortable silence, I’ll say something like, “how about this weather we’re having.” They’ll usually nod and say, “Hot. Really hot.” Then the silence continues and I’ll think, well, that was a good ten seconds. Then they’ll say, “How about them cyclones.” I’ll usually answer with something like, “I don’t follow sports very closely.”

On the other hand I could probably tell you about something really interesting that happened to me recently. Something that nearly blew my socks off.

However, nothing remotely resembling “interesting” much less “sock-blowing-off-ly” has happened to me in quite some time, so there goes that idea. It would have made for a great post though, if something like that had happened.

In the event that I should come up with a good idea for a blog post, I’ll certainly write about it. Meanwhile, I’ll stop talking and just wish everyone a great week ahead.

I’m glad that we still have around five months before our Christmas Newsletter will need to be written. Surely something interesting will happen before then.

Have a Happy Sunday, everyone.

Whenever something is easily done, we often refer to it as being “a walk in the park”. Taking a walk in the park is fun and easy, and it’s often healthy for us. Unless of course, we happen to be Barefoot In The Park. This could lead to a severe outbreak of romantic sitcoms on television for the next several decades.

The word “park” is a versatile word. It can be used as a noun, a verb, or an adjective. It can also be a proper noun as in Park Overall, the actress who was born in Greeneville, Tennessee, just one town over from where I live. Incidentally, if you’ve heard Park talk, then you’ve heard me. Our accents are identical — heavy on the Southern Appalachian dialect.

While doing research for this post, (actually I just typed the word “park” into Google search) I came across another bit of information about the word “park”:

It seems that In 2009, a shopping center in China opened a car park that offered women drivers bigger-than-normal parking spaces to accommodate what it sees as their “special needs”.

Of course, those “special needs” they were referring to  just happened to be the constant back-seat driving by the husbands or other males in the car.

"Thanks for the driving instructions, George. I could never have done this without your help!"

This week’s theme at Theme Thursday is “park”. Drive over and check out what all the other bloggers did with the theme, but be careful where you park. We wouldn’t want you to crash your browser.

Here we are at the start of another work week. How many people do you know who love their jobs? I mean people who actually love to labor and who can’t wait until the weekend is over so they can go back to work? I don’t think anyone actually loves going to work — some just hate it a bit less than others.

Suppose someone were to conduct a poll and ask random strangers on the street the question: “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you rather be?”

How many of these people would say that they’d rather be at work? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say approximately none.

However, millions of us head out to work each morning, not because we like it, but because we need a payday at the end of the week. Most of us work anywhere from forty to sixty hours a week and what do we get come Friday? A piece of paper. Yes, we do all that for a piece of paper.

Of course these pieces of paper are worth more than, say, bits of copy paper, toilet paper or gum wrappers, because these papers have words like “pay to the order of” and “void after ninety days” and they also have numbers on them, which makes them more valuable. The more numbers they have, the more coveted they are.

Immediately after leaving work on payday, we head off to the bank where we give the teller our piece of paper. She gives us another piece of paper in return that has words like “receipt” and “deposit” on it. Oh, and it also has numbers.

We usually stop on our way home and pick up food and a few personal items for which we give the store clerk a piece of paper with numbers on it, from our own personal booklet of papers, or either a square plastic card with the word “debit” or “credit” on it. (Which also gives new meaning to the question: “paper or plastic?”).

We then return home where we take our little paper booklet and proceed to tear out little pages, write numbers on them and place them into envelopes addressed to places like, Central Telephone Services, United Electric Company, Credit Card People, etc. When we finish, we add up the total of all the numbers we have written and subtract the total from the amount on the piece of paper we received from our week’s work and discover that there aren’t any numbers left.

The following Monday morning we head back off to work where we begin the journey toward our next payday. We stumble through the maze of cubicles, much like trained mice, not really wanting to be here, but thankful that no one moved our cheese.

And in all this working and trading of papers and plastic cards, we rarely, if ever, see any real cash or coins, which makes me wonder…where has all the real money gone? Just between you and me, I think the government gave most of it away to the auto makers and to Wall Street.

The drug cartels, the mob, and the FBI have the rest of it hidden inside their briefcases.

A few months ago I discovered a band so unique they simply blew me away. Mumford & Sons. I fell in love with their music the very first time I heard them. I adore their style, their energy, their Britishness (is that even a word) and their sound which is a new mix of folk, rock and a hint of bluegrass. It’s like nothing else I’ve ever heard before.

I love this band so much I could listen to them all day. And I usually do. I have all the songs from their debut album ”Sigh No More” on my iPod and my computer and in my car stereo. I don’t think I could pick a favorite as each song they do is wonderful in its own unique way. But to be honest I like watching their videos even more.  

If I were nineteen again, I would so totally be their groupie. These are four of the sexiest guys I’ve ever seen in one place. (especially Marcus Mumford). I’d love to attend one of their concerts. For now, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with watching the video of their latest concert at Music-Hall-of-Williamsburg online here.  Over and over and over…

AREN’T THEY THE MOST GORGEOUS GUYS YOU’VE EVER SEEN???

I’m really rooting for this band and I hope they become as well known as the Beatles. And I hope success doesn’t change them.

I’ve often found that whenever I’m feeling down and out of sorts, the best thing to help me get back into a good mood is to do something nice for someone else. Sometimes it may be nothing more than smiling at a stranger I happen to pass on the street, holding a door open for someone, or allowing someone to get in line in front of me at a check-out or the bank or post office.

When we help others it automatically gives us a warm feeling that immediately chases away our bad mood. Research shows that when you surround yourself with positive energy, the kind you get from doing things for others, you feel less stress, more connected to your inner spirit and you become a happier individual.

It doesn’t have to be anything colossal — even the smallest acts of kindness can make a huge difference in our mental outlook.

The following suggestions should give some idea of what I mean by helping others.

1. Offer to help someone carry their packages to their car. If they refuse, ignore them. Rip those packages out of their hands and carry them anyway. If they yell for the police, you can always run toward their car, providing you know which car belongs to them. Pry the trunk open and deposit the packages inside. Ignore their cursing and threats and walk away with your head high. You’ve helped and that’s all that matters. You should begin to feel better immediately.
2. Help a child or an elderly person cross the street. It doesn’t matter if they want to cross or not. You’re helping them, darn it, so grab them by the arm and steer them through the oncoming traffic and deposit them safely on the sidewalk.
3. If you spot someone walking along a country road or highway, stop and give them a lift. If they decline, force them into your car. Tell them you won’t take no for an answer. They might try to tell you that they are just out for an evening stroll, but don’t believe it. Some people are uncomfortable accepting help and them might make up excuses.
4. Whenever you’re in a resturant, offer to buy someone a meal. Perhaps you could order them a huge steak dinner. They may try to tell you that they are vegetarian, but don’t fall for it. They’re probably just reluctant to accept your hospitality. Force them to eat the steak. You’ll get that warm fuzzy feeling knowing that you did a good deed.

Now that you have an idea of how it’s done, you too can be well on your way to having a more positive and balanced lifestyle. You’ll find that you’re more in touch with your inner spirit, less stressed, and a happier individual.

You’re welcome.

This week at Theme Thursday the theme is “Help”. Hop on over and read how the others handled the theme.

So, a few weeks ago, Youngest Grandson decided he wanted a kitten. His parents said no, absolutely they would not have a cat in the house.

Guess who got a kitten and guess where it lives. Yeah. Wayne and I now are the proud co-owners of a brand new kitty cat that belongs to Youngest Grandson.

I’ve always been a dog person myself and so has Wayne, but this little kitten has already stolen my heart and Wayne’s as well. Whenever our grandson stays overnight with us, the kitten sleeps with him, but the rest of the time the kitten sleeps curled up next to my shoulder.

Right now, both Shadow and Sheba are living outside in their fenced in yard and in their doghouses, so there’s not really a problem with the cat, but I’m wondering how to introduce the three of them. They hate cats. Do any of you have any suggestions on how to do this safely?

The kitten is so cute and playful, and I will admit that I’m having fun with it. I used to have cats when I was a kid and I’d forgotten how sweet and funny they could be. I’d also forgotten how, when they lick you on the hand, their tongues feel like sandpaper. It’s really weird.

As of yet, the kitten doesn’t have a name. Youngest Grandson said he might name him Rambo, but I’m thinking that Scratch would be a better name for it. My goodness, his little claws are sharp. They’re like tiny fishhooks that snag into your skin and hang on. Especially when he climbs up my leg to sit in my lap. Which is almost every time I sit down at the computer. I think this kitten really likes me.

I tried getting some photos of him, but he kept trying to eat the strap on my camera.

See what I mean? Who could not love this little kitty? And who can say no to Youngest Grandson? I can’t. I know, we’re spoiling him, but isn’t that what grandparents are for?

I realize that I’ve been quite lax in my blogging duties this week and I apologize, especially to all my wonderful readers who are following my bog. All forty of you. You deserve better treatment and I am ashamed. I promise to do better in the future.

However, in my defense, I hope you will allow me to explain my slackness. Yes, part of it was laziness. But an even bigger part of it was that I have been busy elsewhere.

I spent a great deal of time this past week listening to the complete works of Mozart — On the phone — While I was on hold — With the office of the IRS.

At one point I found myself waving my cigarette around, pretending to be a maestro conducting a symphony. Wayne walked in and asked me if I’d gone crazy then he left again before I could tell him yes. Every now and then a recorded voice would break in and tell me to please continue to hold and that my call was important.

Well, to quote Sarah Palin, “you betcha!” I was trying to inform them to NOT send us a refund check for thousands of dollars. Obviously, it was a mistake. The money wasn’t ours.

The day before that I had received a letter in the mail from the IRS informing us that we had overpaid our taxes for the year 2008, and that we were due a refund in the amount of $16,640.38.

After I stopped rolling around on the floor laughing at the absurd amount, I knew I would need to call them and get it corrected.

I hate dealing with people in government. Usually they are annoying, smart-a**es who treat you like they are doing you a favor by doing their job. I remember once, talking to a woman at the employment office…yes, there used to be actual humans there who talked to people on the phone…anyway, I think she had the mouth piece a foot away from her lips, or maybe in another part of the office, or maybe she was whispering, because I had to strain to hear her. I kept saying “pardon me?” and “could you repeat that?” and she would repeat it in the same far-away voice and I still couldn’t hear her. She was becoming annoyed as well. Finally I just told her to forget it, I would call back again at a later date. I wanted to scream at her to SPEAK UP YOU STUPID TWIT!! but I didn’t. I’m polite that way.

Lucky for me, when I finally got to speak to an agent at the IRS office this week, she was a very nice lady, who spoke clearly and was more than helpful. She even apologized for the error. I had dialed the 1-800 number the IRS had included in the letter I received. I assumed it was from the Memphis office. After we had gotten everything corrected I thanked her and asked her if she was from Memphis. She said no, that she was in Seattle. I told her that since she had been so nice and helpful, I just assumed that she too was from Tennessee. She got a kick out of that.

I did find out, in the course of the call that the refund check belonged to someone else and that they were probably pulling out their hair because they hadn’t received their refund yet.

If you’re reading this and you are that person, I’m so sorry. Honestly, it wasn’t my fault. Apparently the IRS makes mistakes too. Who knew?!

Leeuna is out of the office this week due to a bad case of lazy. Please join us in reading a reposting of one of her columns from a couple of years ago while we wait for her to get over herself and write a real blog post. Thank you for your patience.

Hard Rock Country

Sometimes, there just aren’t enough rocks” Forrest said to Jennie.

Well, Forrest should have sent Jennie to my house where rocks mate and produce offspring faster than my husband and his shiny new lawnmower can get rid of them. Just when I think there is not another rock left on the planet, Wayne finds a brand new family of them hiding in the grass like hornets. Each time I think he has mowed over and slung the last surviving rock into the next county, he discovers a new batch.

The man has never met a lawnmower he couldn’t destroy. So far in the twelve years we’ve been married, he has managed to completely demolish nine lawnmowers of his own and the one he borrowed from our neighbor. With his patronage alone, the owners of Mowers-R-Us have been able to put all six of their kids through college.

Not to mention his contribution to the lumber industry. Our neighborhood resembles a town along the gulf coast during hurricane season. At the first sign of Spring, when mowing season begins, the neighbors immediately begin nailing plywood over their windows. Reports of Wayne’s intent to mow are announced on the six o’clock news. Sometimes they interrupt the regularly scheduled programing for a lawnmower alert.

The local weather forecast goes something like this:
“Expect partly cloudy skies this evening, with a twenty percent chance of rain by morning. Northwest winds 10 mph or less. Temperatures will be in the low to mid sixties and Mr. Foster will be mowing his lawn this evening. We strongly urge all the folks in that area to be on the alert. At the first sound of a lawnmower, seek shelter in a basement or a closet. Stay tuned to this station in the event of an emergency evacuation.”

These aren’t all little tiny pebbles either; most of them are full grown rocks. And Wayne never misses a single one. He manages to hit each rock at least twice. Once on the forward sweep and again on the backward drag. They pepper the house in a musical rhythm reminding me of the intro to ‘Wipe Out’, an old sixties tune. Add in a little fife music and it would sound like a regiment of Revolutionary War soldiers marching through the neighborhood. On the few times I go outside to help him, I wear goggles and a helmet. Listen, I might look dumb walking around in hundred-degree temperatures wearing this garb, but I learned my lesson after the first three trips to the ER for stitches. I still suffer from brain damage.

The county elected to put up a big yellow caution sign near the house with an arrow pointing toward our yard with lights flashing the words: WAYNE MOWING. No one will drive by the house when the caution light is on except the Wells Fargo truck or the Army National Guard, on maneuvers. Terrified parents rush outside and drag their children to safety. The dogs cower under the front porch and the cattle kneel in the fields in an attempt to dodge the sparks and the rocks flying from beneath the wheels of the roaring machine pushed by a madman with no shirt at a speed of thirty-five miles per hour.

When it’s finally safe to go outside again, I walk around the house and survey the carnage. I count the broken windows and the holes in the siding. The house looks like the aftermath of a drive-by shooting, or like it’s been attacked by Zorro with an AK47 instead of a sword. I point out the shattered panes in the bay window. Wayne shrugs and reminds me that the window needed replacing anyway…after all it’s three month old. I just smile and nod. He assures me he will pick up a replacement window on his way to get a new lawnmower.

I heave a sigh already wishing that mowing season was over, although it’s just begun. Then I remember the leaf blower he bought last winter. I run to the garage and read the operating instructions on the box. It reads: Precaución: Motor de gran alcance. Utilice el cuidado extremo al trabajar en un área que contenga rocas.

Well, kiss my burrito! I can’t read Spanish! Nor French nor German. But I’m betting a brand new Snapper self-propelled mower-mulcher that if I could have found any English on the box it would have said: Warning. High velocity. Use with extreme caution in rocky areas?

Maybe I should phone the manufacturer. Maybe I’d better warn the neighbors. I have a headache. Did I mention I suffer from brain damage…