Sleep. Drive. Work. Drive. Write. Repeat.

Couldn't resist a brief update today, and along with it, a tiny peek into my world. The post title says it all, but the picture at the top of the page might help explain. (Note the bed that hasn't been made since August) What you cannot see are the dishes piled up in the sink, the overflowing trash cans, the clean laundry that never gets folded--just dumped on various pieces of furniture throughout the house, and the stacks of unopened mail on every horizontal surface between my laptop and the garage door.

BUT...and this is top secret...I think I might actually be making progress!!! Shhh--don't repeat that out loud. This is very important. It's sort of like when you get an unexpected financial windfall--a raise or a tax refund--you must NEVER, EVER discuss it in front of a major appliance or the car. They can hear you. This is why they enter into suicide pacts with each other whenever you have extra money.

It's the same with my thesis. If I say that I'm making progress out loud, all the files on my laptop and thumb drive will spontaneously corrupt and little kilobytes will start dribbling from my USB ports and I'll have to start over. So this is just between you and me: I met with my thesis committee chairman today and she LIKED Chapter 1!!! Not "it's good, but..." or "it's coming along..." or any of the other kind remarks that I just know she makes so that I won't slip into that catatonic stare again or start sucking my thumb. She said "IT'S GOOD! I LIKE IT!" What this means is the light at the end of the tunnel might actually be light and not an express train to the nut house.

SO. Once again--keep all fingers and toes crossed for me...but do it quietly...I think my laptop is listening....

I am thankful for laughter...except when milk comes out of my nose...

I must say, the response to my last post was extremely gratifying!! Thank you one and all for your comments, your giggles, and your expressions of concern--they meant more than you can imagine! Unfortunately, it wasn't until the week after I wrote that post that things really went down the crapper. It has to do with both the thesis (which I spent four hours on and managed to revise five pages---I have 70 more to go, so you do the math...) AND the fact that I'm digitizing old family videos. This means I'm watching my life (when I had one) all over again and missing my sweetheart and my babies so much I can hardly breathe.

SO. When I went in to work on Tuesday, God must have had me in mind. On the breakroom table was this cartoon:

I could NOT stop laughing! I know it's a really dumb cartoon and not anywhere near the best that Gary Larson can produce, but it did the trick. So tonight, I've changed the blog title picture to one of my favorites. That's my grandbaby Connor, running through my backyard, trying hard to avoid getting pelted with giant marshmallows expertly fired from slingshots manned by his big brother and sister (AND his Mom and Dad--note the little white objects on the lawn behind him--more missed shots...) and having a blast!

THAT day was a really good day and truth be told, I have lots and lots of them. I just needed to put things in perspective.

Enjoy the music!

p.s. I did leave "Masochism Tango" in the playlist. After all, I've still got 70 pages of thesis to revise...

So near and yet so far...

Many of my lovely family and friends have followed my...shall we say...colorful progress toward securing my master's degree in history from the University of West Georgia. On the whole, the process has been a delight. I have loved every class, enjoyed every teacher, soaked up every experience, and performed every assignment required of me. My work has, apparently, been pretty decent. I don't like to brag, but I managed to pull off a perfect 4.0 GPA throughout my entire 36 hours (12 classes) of graduate coursework. The only thing standing between me and that coveted diploma is my thesis. It's just a paper. A 75+ page paper. A thoroughly researched, scholarly written, meticulously footnoted, professor-scrutinized, repeatedly revised, never ending PAIN IN THE ASS paper!

I am reminded of one of Randy's experiences in AOCS. When Gunny Buck wished to drive home a point to his hapless charges, he frequently did so with pushups. He would cheerfully announce that the squadron would be doing, say, 20 pushups. Heartened, the guys would drop down and get started. Just 20. No biggie. Gunny Buck would then begin the count: 1...2...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...3...4...5...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...6...well, you get the picture.

It also reminds me of giving birth to a first child. Somewhere in the 15th hour of labor, when your husband's loving encouragement just makes you want to run him over with the car, the thought begins to creep into the back of your consciousness....what if I'm the first woman to ever be in labor for a year? A decade? The rest of my life? Sure, it's never happened before, but what if it happens to ME?

This is the point I have reached with my thesis. This is the reason for the photo at the top of this blog (note the aspirin, kleenex, and CHOCOLATE). This is the reason for the particular song that's playing. This is the reason for the hammer in the "current pages of my thesis" graphic above. It somehow seems an appropriate symbol for this stage of the process. Imagine hitting your thumb with a hammer while driving a nail in place. Now imagine hitting it over and over and over and over and....well, you know what I mean. I've managed to cough up 60 pages of this interesting, little known story that I'm trying to tell. This is good. But it's not good enough. It needs revising. And revising. And revising. And revising....it's the process of turning this interesting, little known story into a valid addition to an already impressive body of historical knowledge that makes me want to slit my wrists with a spoon.

So, dear friends and family--keep all fingers and toes crossed that I'm up to the task. And if, by some miracle, I do manage to pull this thing out of my...head--and get it turned in in time for December graduation, be advised that I'm going to do something spectacular to pat myself on the back. This will NOT be a "dinner out and retail therapy" event--this is going to be a "check something off the bucket list" event.....Hawaii anyone???

and God bless the Haruches, Best Buy, and modern technology....

Okay, this is a post done quickly, but I am so anxious to share what I've spent the better part of two days and a sizeable chunk of my paycheck on. Please turn off the music player once you've gotten a taste of Lee Greenwood and then click on the video below. The scene: an LDS ward building somewhere in either Arizona or Utah, in the spring of 1991. The occasion: a guest speaker invited to discuss his experiences in Desert Storm. These are his closing remarks.

Enjoy....

...and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

This past Wednesday was an exceptionally good day at work. While I truly like my job on most days, Wednesday seemed to be a day when everything clicked. The all staff meeting that began the day included free MARTA passes with the promise of continued subsidies for those of us willing to try public transport--something I need to do since my commute time and costs are staggering. My co-workers, including my boss, were especially fun to be around. Our patrons were easy to please and generous in their comments about my knowledge and willingness to help. The last patrons of the day were a group of three elderly ladies that reminded me so much of my Mom--spry and cheerful and thrilled to have my help in finding information on their ancestors. I was riding high.


After closing up the library, I headed downstairs to return a call--one of my volunteers had left a message earlier saying that she wouldn't be coming in that day. I had a feeling she wasn't happy with us, but when I called her back, she let me have it--personally--with both barrels. It seems I had humiliated and embarassed her in front of a patron and my boss; I was always too busy to speak to her; she had an excellent relationship with my predecessor and all my coworkers, but there was something about my personality that she just couldn't stand and she did not think she ever wanted to work with me again.


Well, by the time she finished with me I was in tears and unable to hide it. I never contradicted anything she said, but apologized profusely and repeatedly and offered to put my apology in writing to her, my boss, and the AHC Director of Volunteers (which I did as soon as I hung up the phone). It didn't even faze her. She was every bit as angry with me when we hung up as she was when we started. Having dealt with angry people for decades in a number of customer service-type jobs, I have never failed to win folks over eventually. Not so this time. As far as she is concerned, I was scum, I am scum, and I will always be scum.


One pint of Ben & Jerry's and a Chevy Chase movie later, I was feeling somewhat better, but the very next day I put both my darling daughters on separate planes--one to England and the other to college in Idaho.


One pint of Haagen Das and a Bridget Jones' Diary movie later, I was still blubbering. Which leads me, oddly enough, to the point of this post.


I have, unfortunately, discovered the best kept secret of widowhood. It's what NOBODY ever tells you about being a widow. You can run around like the energizer bunny and have the most smashingly wonderful life imagineable and then you'll have one single, crummy, terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day and BAM--it's like you just lost him this morning. You can take trips to spectacular destinations, retail therapy your guts out, but go home to find the washer died and BAM--it's like the funeral was yesterday.


Now, if Randy were alive, would that woman have been able to upset me so? Sure. If he were still here, would the plumbing still explode? Would the car break down? Would I still be unable to finish my thesis or sell the house? Would I still hate AT&T? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and HELL yes! It's just that being alone is sort of like building a house of cards. No matter how impressive it looks on the outside, it doesn't take much to bring the whole thing crashing down.


SO--to compensate, you learn a few things. You learn that music, movies, food, and Excedrin Migraine are acceptable weapons. ZZTop got me through his funeral, "Scrooge" will get me through next Christmas, Ted's Montana Grill will get me through my next anniversary, and a couple of Excedrin Migraine will get me through the Volunteer Orientation meeting next week that my pissed off volunteer may or may not attend.


I'll be okay. I'm a tough old broad. But if you ever hear Jimmy Buffett blaring at the threshold of pain while the kitchen trash is stuffed with empty Sticky Toffee Pudding ice cream containers and I'm spouting lines from "Blazing Saddles," check the computer. It's a sure bet the desktop finally rolled over and died....better hide the Excedrin Migraine....

A woman of many talents....

Sunday is family history day. I look forward to this day more than any other day of the week--I log on to xmradio.com, set the player to channel 4 (40s/big band music) and curl up with my ancestors. It has been said that I have more fun with dead people than with the living and while I staunchly maintain that this is NOT true, I have to confess that it could certainly appear that way. Well, maybe a little. Dead people don't leave dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor or steal other people's cell phone chargers when they can't find their own. But I digress....

Today I'm sorting through papers and photographs that belonged to my mother's mother, whom we affectionately called Dardy. Born Maria Ignacia Robbins in Buenos Aires, Argentina on the 24th of May, 1897, Dardy was a character in every sense of the word. If you looked up "perfect grandmother" in the dictionary, there would be a picture of her there. I've never known anyone with a wider array of talents or a more wicked sense of humor. She was a gifted seamstress--when we shopped together, I would point out a cute dress that I liked, and she would go home and duplicate it. From scratch. Without a pattern. She was a natural musician and could listen to a song on the radio and duplicate it on the piano although I don't believe she ever had a day of formal training. She was a gourmet cook--creating masterpieces from fruits and vegetables that she grew herself. She was a linguist--shifting effortlessly from English to her native Spanish (especially when she didn't want us to know what she was saying!) She was a woman of great dignity--but delighted in sitting on the floor to help me play with doll houses well into her sixties.

In the interest of space and time, I'll keep this post brief and focus on just one of her many talents. She was an artist. I just can't resist posting a couple of her drawings. This first one was torn out of a letter she wrote my mother--there's just enough of the letter left to indicate that this is a depiction of what she imagined the latest potty training session looked like. That's me, by the way, on the commode. In front of the TV. There's also a brief reference to my first visit to the emergency room after ingesting a bottle of Vitalis. For those of you under 50, this would be akin to drinking a bottle of liquid hair gel. Perhaps this potty training session immediately followed that episode, but I can't be sure.




This next is a portion of some drawings I found that are literally disintegrating. Drawn on both sides of a sheet of flimsy brown paper, there are images of a young couple cuddling on a couch, a few images of women in 40s style dress, and then this image of a woman in beach attire. I LOVE these drawings! As you can see from the image at the top of this post, Dardy also loved the beach. She and my grandfather, Colonel, lived in Hawaii during the late 30s and early 40s. She was apparently quite good at the hula. I think she was quite good at everything.

I had seen these drawings before today's family history session. But I did find something today that I had never seen before. Didn't even know I had it. It's a signed letter from none other than Norman Rockwell, written in November of 1955. It reads:



"Dear Mrs. Shutt: It was certainly thoughtful of you to send me an idea for a picture. I have just returned from a two month trip around the world, or I would have written you sooner. Your suggestion is really very good, but I usually paint only my own ideas. Not that they are better than some of those sent me, but because I believe I paint them best. I do greatly appreciate your interest, and thank you for writing. Sincerely, Norman Rockwell."


I'm not surprised that he took the time to personally answer her letter. He has always seemed like a pretty decent guy. I'm just surprised he didn't take her advice. Who knows, maybe my potty training picture would have ended up on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post....

You've been pranked.....

I got fired last month. No, really, I did--in spite of the post title, I'm not making this up. I was tasked with doing some research that required looking through the Atlanta Historical Society newsletters from the 1970s. While doing my scholarly duty, my colleagues and I stumbled upon a picture of my boss' boss, taken when he was first hired by the institution. I confess it was a most unflattering photo--he had a rather goofy expression on his face and he looked about fifteen. We were delighted! And I'm the first to admit that it was me who commented on how funny it would be to put said picture on the side of a milk carton.

WELL--my co-workers (including my boss) egged me on. The next day, a quart size milk carton (complete with black and white cow markings) was the perfect receptacle for the ridiculous photograph and a caption that read something like "Have You Seen This Child? Name: Mikey Rose. Last seen: At the Pig & Chick on Roswell Road. Age: SUBSTANTIALLY older than this photo." I placed it carefully on top of the coffee maker and waited patiently for my quarry to spot it. He did. And then he promptly informed me that I had had the shortest tenure of any of his employees, having held on to my job for less than one week.

This got me thinking. Pranks are a WONDERFUL thing--especially when you're on the pranking end, not the pranked end. A few classic examples spring to mind....

First, the Great Breast Pump Escapade. This is a classic, and brilliant in its execution. Many years ago Randy's mom, Alice, was asked to bring a White Elephant gift to a church party. She chose to bring an old breast pump. Bob Panian, the husband of one of her best friends, was the unfortunate recipient. Now this would be funny enough, but what happened over and over again for years is what brings this particular prank into the realm of genius. At every church occasion for years and years to come, Alice and Bob continued to exchange the same breast pump, each one trying to outdo the other in the method of delivery. One year Alice baked it into a cake--another year one or the other of them had it canned at the local cannery. They got more mileage out of that breast pump, I'm sure, than the baby it was originally purchased for! Classic.

I worked with a gal who's husband received a nearly life size inflatable cow as a gift. (Don't ask why--apparently he collected cow memorabilia and somebody thought this particular object would be a great addition to the kitchen counter). Anyway, my co-worker, the administrative assistant for the Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences at a local university, brought the cow to work, blew it up, placed it carefully in the Dean's office chair, and propped the current copy of the Journal of Higher Education in it's hooves. This is the same woman who later encased every single object in the Dean's office (desk, chair, phone, computer, books, etc.) in aluminum foil while he was on vacation. And yes, she's still employed!

But I think the best prank I have ever heard of, I discovered just about the same time I got fired. The Atlanta History Center is the proud recipient of the Olympic torch used for this summer's Beijing games. While doing some research on the whole torch-lighting thing, I stumbled upon this prank--arguably the best I've ever heard of.

It seems that in 1956, during the torch run for the games in Melbourne, Australia, a few blokes decided to protest the ceremony since it actually came into existence at the Berlin games, at Hitler's bequest (a little known fact). Anyway, as it came through Sydney, they decided to run their own version of the torch, which consisted of a chair leg, a plum pudding can, and a pair of underpants. (Yes, I'm quite sure alcohol was involved.)

What happened next is priceless--somehow the real torch runner got waylayed in the crowd and these guys with the flaming underwear were mistaken for the real thing! The crowd pushed them forward to the mayor of Sydney who, not expecting the torch so soon, officially received it for the city! By the time the mixup was revealed, the fake torch bearer slipped into the crowd--and into the prankster hall of fame! For more info on this delightful episode, click here. (scroll down to 1956 Melbourne)

SO--back to the milk carton incident. It turns out that getting fired is sort of a rite of passage at the Atlanta History Center. I was informed that a food offering was required in order to redeem myself. Two dozen carrot cake cupcakes later, I am still employed, and my exploits have been duly noted across the entire campus.

These are my people!

p.s. the photo at the top of the page is Deena Millett. When faced with such a lovely cannon, what else can one do?
p.s.s. if I have any readers, I would LOVE comments about your favorite pranks....