Moving Day is lots of fun, so much so that I’ve decided to capitalize it! This way I’ll never forget ... how much fun it is, I mean. Otherwise, I might make some silly pronouncement like I Will Never Move Again As Long As I Live, and miss out on all the big fun!!
Thursday was September 11 – my daughter's wedding anniversary. They were married 15 years ago, on a hot September day in Charlotte ... a really happy day. Thirteen years ago, on their second anniversary, my daughter and her husband had taken off work at Wachovia Bank, and planned to spend the whole day together, starting with a romantic breakfast for two. They were just sitting down, watching "Good Morning, America," when that first plane hit the first tower.
I’ve finally sold the house, and in a desperate attempt to be able to pack up this entire house in only three or four boxes, I decided to have a yard/garage sale ( I use the two terms interchangeably because, please, you take the stuff out of your GARAGE and put it in your YARD -- what’s the dif?!)
A friend of mine was having a birthday, the same friend at whose home in the mountains I was staying for the summer, so I thought I’d throw her a birthday party, you know, in case I ever want to go back to the mountains and live in her house, like tomorrow, like permanently, like forever ... I’m just saying. So, in the interests of, well, my being able to do that, I won’t reveal her age -- she’s a bit sensitive about joining me in hot-flash hell -- but she was agreeable to the birthday party, as long as it was held in a meat locker because the heat has reached insanely anti-birthday levels.
Do you remember the friendly neighborhood drug store? We used to call them drug stores, because that’s where we went to get makeup, toothbrushes, Hershey Bars and drugs. But, then that “someone” with nothing better to do decided people might think they could buy makeup, toothbrushes, Hershey Bars, and DRUGS there, and changed the name to Pharmacy.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!! ... Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell, I’m just so freakin’ mad! Twice this week, some scummy scammer has tried to take advantage of me, and I still don’t get it -- what kind of people do these things? The fact that both dirtbags (yeah, that’s right, “dirtbags” -- like I don’t watch “CSI”?) were totally disappointed in the size of the loot they’d never get is the only thing that makes me smile.
You know, there are few things in life that are guaranteed to cause my friends and family to collapse with what I like to call “laugh cramps” than when I injure myself. I don’t mean to suggest that they are not generally sympathetic and concerned, but ... well, yes, I guess I do; these people are cold, I’m telling you, stone cold, heartless human beings.
Every summer, my brother-in-law, Gregg’s, parents rent a house at Emerald Isle, and Gregg’s whole family – including my sister, Susan, and their three teens – comes down from Ohio for a week’s vacation.
There is one kind of husband that invariably causes a longing envy in virtually every woman on the planet. He is not necessarily the hottest or even the cutest; he isn’t always the smartest or the funniest; he’s not automatically the tallest or the most romantic. No, this husband has something much greater, much more important than any of these virtues: This husband can actually fix stuff.
True story -- Friday, June 27, 2014, 3:40 pm:
Robot: Hello! Welcome to AT&T customer service! I see that you’re calling from 555-GET-REAL. Is that the phone number you’re calling about?
I’m going out of town today, to Blowing Rock for the month of July. This is thrilling for me, since the heat and humidity here have reached approximately the same temperature at which I bake lasagna.
Selling your home is like a formal ball, where you accept an “invitation” from an interested “suitor,” wondering if he’s The One of whom you have dreamed.
I make a lot of fun of my family, telling hilarious stories about my visits to Ohio, about my parents, who are becoming more “seasoned” citizens every day (Dad is 87 now, and Mom turned 86 in March). And yes, hand to God, it is like “otherworldly” crazy up there, like being plunged into a family tornado ... or, maybe a family hurricane, which is not quite as destructive, but is much wider in scope, you know?
I’m up in Ohio visiting my parents, who are getting along in years. I normally come up at the end of the school year, but I was summoned by my sisters because in the past few weeks the family dynamic has sort of ... uh ... “collapsed” would be a good word.
My sister -- who shall remain nameless due to her behavior on the occasion herein described, but let’s just call her Susan -- is celebrating her birthday today, and she doesn’t want anyone to know her age (which is 60) because she’s just sick about it. Not about having a birthday, but did I mention that she’s 60? Not that I want to keep bringing up her age ... which is 60 ... but that’s what she’s having a fit about.