Heave Ho!!!

     Once I got over the initial buyer's remorse after we bought what we affectionately referred to as the "Blue House", it became clear that the first step was that we had to empty it out and clean it. I researched dumpsters in the area and finally found a company that would drop a 30 yard dumpster at our back porch for a week.  The day it showed up Jonathan and I arrived wearing durable clothes, gloves and face masks.  There wasn't a lot of mold, but we weren't taking any chances. For good measure I took off my eye glasses and put them on one of the mantles for safe keeping.  My theory behind this move was that if I couldn't actually see what I was touching then it wasn't really in my hands. I know, irrational, but desperate times called for any measure of any kind to get the job done.

  Anyone who knows Jonathan and I knows that as laid back as we can come across to folks, we can really work when we need to get a job finished. We were relentless with this project, though I got sidetracked now and then by old newspapers. It was fun to read what people were writing about in the 50's, until Jonathan would jolt me back to reality by barking at me to get back to work.  We made trip after trip walking up and down the concrete back steps, like drones on a mission.  Below is our lovely sun porch. It had a hole in the roof, and thanks to a few rain storms all of the stuff in the photo was soggy. It made the job just that much more fun.

  

This is our "Kitchen". I wasn't lying when I said that the house was painted in a spectacular shade of burn your eyeballs in their sockets green.  The rest of the rooms weren't quite as full as these two, but they still provided a lot of trekking to and from the dumpster.  The two car garage scared me to pieces, since I have a fear of creepy crawly things and it seemed to me like a brilliant first class hideout for all of the creepy crawlies in SC.  However, when we'd finally gotten the house as empty as we could it was time to tackle the garage.  Most of the time I was holding my breath while doing the garage portion of "evacuate the crap", so my memories of it are hazy due to oxygen deprivation.  It was definitely better that way.  One thing struck me while we were getting rid of all of this eccentric dead guy's garbage. I kept expecting to see a mouse, or a spider, cockroach, anything that would scuttle and cause me to leap to the ceiling. All I found for animal/insect evidence was a mummified bird, who had probably found it's way down the chimney by accident.  I began to wonder if the house had some sort of curse on it that kept living creatures from being able to survive under it's roof and partially collapsed roof. Maybe it emitted a odorless gas that told the wildlife to stay away, but us dumb humans would suck it into our lungs and only realize what was going on right before paralysis set in.  These aren't the sort of thoughts you should be having when you've just bought your first house, but this was the mood I was in on that first day of heaving out.  

Now don't be jelly of our delightful claw footed tub!  I guess the former owners couldn't bear to have any of that leftover green paint go to waste, so they gave the tubby a quick splash of it to ensure not one room would be spared the tasteful effect of this irresistible shade.  Later, I discovered it's actually quite common in the period to paint the lower half of a claw foot tub, but I prefer to imagine the former owners just being cruel.  My hatred for what they'd done to this house has spurned my work ethic immeasurably over the last few months.  

   Inside the tub you'll see the "linens".  Ancient terry cloth towels that were tissue paper thin, crusty facecloths and set of sheer curtains, gray with age. All truly disgusting.  It appeared that at one point the propane heater that was mounted at a jaunty angle behind the door had caught fire and done a fair amount of smoke damage in the tiny bathroom.  The walls were smeared with soot and filth. It took me days before I could force myself to set foot onto the actual bathroom floor.  There was a full set of gentleman's toiletries still intact on the shelves of the medicine cabinet. Aqua Velva, Pepto Bismol, Bryl-cream, even a toothbrush.  It was as if the man decided on a whim one day that he would move out and he left the place as intact as a crime scene. It was eerie to say the least. 

So there you have it. The first glimpses of our sweet little Shangri-la. I've provided photographic evidence to prove that I wasn't exaggerating about the extent of the mess inside this little gem of a home. It was a staggering job, but we eventually got it cleaned out to the last coat hanger.  The dumpster sides nearly groaned outward, because we'd stuffed it so full.  It felt really good to be able to navigate our way through the house without having to dodge boxes and bits of furniture.  The sun porch proved to be a much bigger room than we had anticipated (see below). Things were starting to look up. A little bit.  I still wasn't about to get carried away with glee, but I could see a pinprick of light at the end of what is proving to be an endless, yet entirely rewarding, tunnel. 

We bought a hovel, I mean house!

  Well, as it always does, the dust settled after I got down to SC with the animals. The blurry edges of my life started to come into focus again. Jonathan's dad was still in critical condition in the ICU, which was freaking all of us out.  He would make a small improvement and then lapse. The doctors had no answers, it wasn't really up to anyone what happened next. Time would tell if he'd improve, or continue to spiral downward.  All we could do was be there as support for Jonathan's mom and pray.

  The matter of buying our house was looming in the next week. We had stopped off at the property the day after I arrived down south.  It was a grey, gloomy day in late December, with a rawness that only the air in winter can provide.  The house had been unoccupied for nearly a decade and it's owner had passed away from a heart attack in late summer.  He used the house to store "things" for yard sales. And by "things" I mean anything you can think of, from tools, to curtains, to clothing, etc. The house was full of crap. Useless, dirty, cluttery...crap.  The flat roof on the back addition had long since rotted and was falling in, allowing rain to accumulate in puddles on the floors in the kitchen and sunroom.   As for the property itself, the acreage was mostly wooded.  A slanted red barn that was also full of crap listed on one side of the property. The two car garage was a white cinder block building that was filled with more crap.  For some reason someone had decided that painting the pump house yellow, with a red roof was a good idea. It sure was something to see.

"Isn't it awesome?" Jonathan kept saying.

  I would muster a feeble grin, raising my eyebrows to show my enthusiasm, but honestly the place was just gross.  I liked the house itself, but the amount of work ahead of us before we could actually live there was overwhelming.  It had no running water, no electricity, no plumbing, no heat, no a/c, no working anything.  And it was filthy dirty.  And most of the interior rooms were painted the most putrid shade of green you can imagine, floor and ceiling. And the back roof was caving in. I swear if a house could sigh this place would be sighing big time. I know I was doing plenty of sighing, though I kept it to myself.


 The big day of the closing finally arrived right before Christmas. We met our realtor, who had been amazing through this whole process, in the parking lot.

"Y'all ready to buy a house?" she said with a grin.

I let Jonathan answer that question, since at the time I was having trouble showing any positive reaction toward the idea.  The lawyer had the papers all ready so it was a matter of a few signatures and we were on our way.  It was official. We were now home owners, of a house that we couldn't actually live in. Leave it to us, I said to myself. Go buy a house you can't live in and that needs ten zillion hours of work.  Lord, it was going to be a very long, long winter.

Me vs. THE MOVE II

      It's funny how when you have a date for something unsavory, like a root canal, or colonscopy, it seems like a dot in the distance.  Plenty of time until you have to face the music. Then before you know it, it's the day before the dreaded date. And then you wake up the morning OF the dreaded date and your first thought is, "F#%K, it's here!"  That's how I felt on Dec. 20, 2013 when I opened my eyes to laser bright sunshine streaming in my window.  I had until 4 p.m. to get the last details taken care of before the van was to arrive at my driveway. Quite honestly, I don't even remember what I did in the hours that preceded my departure from NY state, but I had everything ready to go when I heard the air brakes from the van blowing at precisely 4 p.m.  There was no turning back.

  Aside from the two drivers, one of my customers and her husband, plus an extra helper in the form of a strong young man all began to drag, carry, or wheel the paraphernalia that I'd gathered in the barn aisle to take to SC. The driveway had turned to dirty, mucky slush which made this process ten times harder, but soon the equipment was packed into the peak of the van and the three horses were loaded. We made a couple of changes for where the (OH MY GOD) cats and dogs were going to travel. I was under control up until this point, but I could feel utter panic pushing to be released from my chest with each thudding heartbeat.  It was time to take all of my poor, unsuspecting animals and stuff them in crates and force them to ride 14 hours in a cold, dark peak of a horse van. I really thought I might throw up.  When I got into the house, I  couldn't help but notice (read: torture myself) how cozy all the kitties looked as they were sleeping in various spots. Choking back tears, I gathered them and one by one put them in their traveling compartments. It was time to do the unthinkable, and I had to just man up and do it.

   The wide eyed animals were nestled in the van, crate by crate, like Noah's ark, as I forced myself to close the door.  I was running on hyper fast nervous energy as I thanked and said goodbye to my customer and her husband. I could feel more tears pressing to shoot out of my eyes when we hugged, tears that if allowed to flow would be difficult to stop.  I didn't want to freak out the van drivers since they were stuck with me in the cab, so I brusquely cut the hugs short and climbed up into the passenger seat.  It was sad to be leaving our life in NY, but after all of the hell I'd been through over the previous weeks I was relieved to finally be shambling down the road toward our new adventures in SC.


   As for the cats and dogs? They traveled like pro's. I doled out treats to them at each stop, poking my fingers in the cages to give each a quick scratch. They were actually in better shape than me. The van drivers were amused at my initial angst over the pets, but that worry soon gave way to full on exhaustion.  I even managed to sleep for a few hours in the bouncy, noisy sleeper cab by jamming a pillow over my ears. At 8 a.m. the following day we pulled into the driveway of the barn where I'd arranged to keep the horses until our own stable was built.  Jonathan was already there and boy, was he was a sight for my bloodshot eyes. The first official leg of getting down here was behind me. Welcome to South Carolina!

Me vs. THE MOVE

     I feel like Rip Van Winkle of the blogging world. It's been a little over four months since I checked in at my blog.  Ordinarily, I'd be sorely ashamed for not writing for such a long stint. However, I have legitimate reasons this time. I've been busy with a capital B.

  Jonathan and I moved to SC in December in possibly the most chaotic, disorganized, maniacal fashion that two people can move their household, two dogs, four cats and three horses.  At least, that's how it seemed to me.  Three weeks before our moving date, Jonathan's Dad became seriously ill out of the blue. Totally unexpected, worrisome, scary time for all of us in the Edel family. Jonathan and his brother had to leave suddenly to go help their mother cope with what was looking to be a very grave moment (honestly, no pun intended).  Now I don't want to sound mercenary, because I was truly over the top worried about John Edel, but with no warning I was left to deal with "THE MOVE" all by myself.  While I should've been packing, like a mature adult, I spent a lot of time on FB, which is the equivalent to covering ones ears while yelling "la la la la la la". When you really need to get shit done, going on FB is the ultimate flip of the bird toward productivity. My other "avoid packing" activity was to call my friends. My poor, poor friends, who had to listen to me whining, sniffling, occasionally sobbing, hysterical ranting, you name it. I'm surprised they even answered my calls. I wouldn't have answered my calls, I'll tell you that.  I got out of hand on a daily basis.  Meanwhile, Jonathan's Dad was on a roller coaster of going uphill, going downhill, leading to a feeling of dread every time Jonathan called me to check in.  On top of my own psychosis (you can't make this shit up), the weather was just fucking ridiculous. It was freezing cold and it seemed to snow a significant amount at least every other day.  Each night during this time alone, I would curl up in the fetal position on the couch, surrounded by empty cardboard boxes that were mocking me with their lack of contents. The one night that I decided I really needed to pack at least a little bit I ended up breaking a bronze horse statue by trying to force it into a box. I loved this statue and as I held it in two pieces, while screaming at the top of my lungs, my remaining shards of sanity knifed through my chest to make their escape. I wasn't coping well and I knew it, but I felt powerless. It was me vs. THE MOVE.  And THE MOVE was totally winning.

   There were so many facets to THE MOVE that weren't coming together.  Logistically, nothing was actually planned except the date that the horses were being shipped. I had no idea how our car was going to make it. We hadn't actually picked a moving company, nor did we know if we were going to use a pod, or rent a truck. My anxiety level over shipping the cats in the horse van was escalating to mach one mode. It sounded so horrible to me that I couldn't think about it, yet I couldn't not think about it. Yeah, I know. That's a special kind of crazy cat lady.  Jonathan was patient for a very long time, but after a week of phone calls with me being a psycho he called me out on it. It was fair. He was coping with his freaking out Mom and very sick Dad. I didn't have a leg to stand on in the sympathy department.  Nor did I ask for it. I knew I was shrinking from being in charge of THE MOVE. It was time for the helpless jig to be over. So...I took deep breaths and made lists.  It was a step in the right direction. Not a leap, or a bound, but a teensy step.


   The day before the horses were leaving was spent flying around town trying to organize all of the things I needed for me, cats, dogs and horses to make the drive as comfortable as possible. I had lists of lists. I was wild eyed, disheveled, as fragile as fine china still, but I was getting shit done.  Out of nowhere, our neighbor called me. He was an old running friend of Jonathan's dad, who by sheer coincidence lived just down the road, and he'd heard that John was seriously ill.

"What can I do to help you, Michele?" he asked me in a gentle voice, after I explained what was going on with John's health.

"Nothing at all. Really, I just have to get down there with these animals. And then figure out how my car is going to make it."

"There. That's what I can do. I'll drive your car," he replied.

"No, you don't have to do that!" I said. "It's too much, it's so far!"

"I like driving. It's settled. I'm driving your car."

   And with those nine words, one of my worries evaporated with a virtual poof right before my eyes. Those nine words from John's friend gave me hope that maybe THE MOVE was possible. Maybe things would come together? It couldn't have come at a better time, because the most intense part of the move for me was coming on the very next day.

To be continued...


 

In my mind I'm going to Carolina...

     Most of my friends already know this, but in case you didn't hear the news...Jonathan and I are moving to Aiken, SC. In fact, we're moving next Friday. I can say that all day long, but it still doesn't seem real to me. Why, you ask? Well, I keep looking around our house (which is half packed, thanks to my hard working husband) and all I see is "stuff". "Stuff" that has to be packed, my hairbrush, nail clippers, the pretty blue bottle on the kitchen windowsill, the patio furniture, a candle, and the list is endless. Will it all fit in the van? I just don't know. What do we do if it won't all fit? I don't know. I've become almost mute on the subject of our move. I have so much to do and plenty of time on my hands to get it done, but I'm almost paralyzed. I've asked everyone and their brother about how they think I should transport the cats since we have a four door car and two dogs and four cats won't all fit. Even I'm sick of hearing myself talk about it. So, I'm done talking about it. Suffice to say, that somehow we'll all end up in SC sometime before Christmas, ensuring that the holidays will pass in a bedraggled blur for us this year. I'm fine with that, though. Really. I just want to be down there in one piece with the dogs, cats, horses and Jonathan. And have this agonizing pre-move anxiety be a thing of the past.

  The above picture is the living room in our new house. It's an oldie, circa 1907 with four fireplaces, built in cabinets, nice wood floors and high ceilings. Those are the positive points. The negatives add up to a lot of time and money in renovation costs, but we'll do all slowly, one piece at a time. See that odd blue/green color in the background?  That would be the kitchen. The entire room (cabinets, too!) is painted that wretched, puke inducing color. The guest room is the same hue, also. It makes you feel like you're in a crack house. Must've been a sale going on when the old owner went to buy paint.  The land that goes with the house adds up to a little over 7 acres and it will eventually be our home base for JEM Stables. At the moment it resembles a small wildlife preserve, but it's flat and with strategic clearing we'll have a nice spot for a stable, ring and paddocks.

  There is one small wrench being thrown into the works for our actual move. The weather. It isn't cooperating. At all. Yesterday we had an ice storm, which rendered the entire farm a skating rink. The driveway literally could've been skated on, no joke.  Today's treat is a snow storm, on top of all the ice. It's been snowing since I got up and it's still going at almost 1:30 p.m.  Now, the reason why this winter weather is a bit of a challenge is that our house is up on a little hill from the driveway. Carrying furniture isn't fun on flat, safe, dry ground, so try adding some ice and snow on a downhill slope and see how you feel about that.  Yeah, I thought so. This is going to f*&%ing suck. There is just no other way to put it. I've been joking all along about how it's going to snow before we leave, ha ha ha, won't that be a drag, etc., in hopes that by saying that it wouldn't happen.    Why haven't I learned not to fool with Mother Nature?? Did I learn nothing from the commercial in the 70's that said that very line? Apparently not. We are screwed. 


  When you tell people that you're moving you generally get two types of reactions. The first is that of pity. If you've ever moved, wether it was 10 miles, or 1000 you know that it's a gigantic pain in the ass. On many, many levels. So the pity people put a hand on your shoulder and give you the pursed lip look that says,  "I'm so glad it's you and not me. Hang in there." The second reaction is the overly positive, "You're going to get through this and be so happy in your new place!!", complete with pom pom's and a split. If we were mega wealthy and could afford to hire movers this would all be so much easier. But alas, we're saving our money by doing this on our own. And I swear this is the last time I'm moving.


  So y'all (hello, practicing!) probably won't hear from me for a bit. For the next two weeks I'll be walking in circles and wringing my hands, while muttering about all the loose ends I have to tie up. When I return to the surface of life  I'll try my hardest not to be one of those people who moves to a warm climate and proceeds to continually gloat about how nice the weather is while everyone back home is buried in six feet of snow. I might have to do it once, or twice, but then I'll hold myself back. Promise. Happy Holidays and I'll be back with a new blog name in January. I'm thinking "Adventures in Aiken", but I'm open to suggestions from the six people who will actually read this.

Meant to be

   The other day I had to drive out to Clinton Corners, NY to the Agway to buy a special type of horse grain that's only available at a couple of places near our farm. Jonathan was away so I had a limited amount of time to get the grain and drive home to do more horsey day care activities. I had brought the dogs with me, because they LOVE going on rides in the car. Doesn't matter if it's hours in the car, or just a quick run to get coffee. They want to be with us all the time. Australian Shepherds are loyal to a fault and by and large, great dogs.
 
 I was finishing paying for the bag of grain when a paunchy, disheveled balding man sauntered in and said, "Hello!!" in a booming sing song voice. The cashier looked up and gave him a nod and a wan smile. He proceeded to ask her where the cat food was located and he bounced off through the store to find a big bag of Meow Mix.

"Are those your lovely dogs in the black car out there?" he asked me in a lilting accent, which I took to be British as he stood next to me at the check out.
"Yup," I replied. "They're my steady companions."
"What breed are they?"
"Australian Shepherds," I said. "A black tri and a blue merle"
"Ohhhh," he said. "I love Aussies! I have to get my phone and show you a picture of my Aussie, Dozer. He was a beauty!"

He shambled off to his car, and I looked at the cashier, with my eyebrows raised. She told me he's a talker and bid me good luck as I left the store to give the grain guy my ticket for the bag of grain. Great. I was in a hurry and I really needed to get back to the farm. And I had a talker waiting for me. Sweet, I thought, only me.

I went out to my car and waited as the man came over from his car, while excitedly thumbing through photos on his phone.

"Hold on," he said. "I can't find the picture."

I waited patiently and studied him quietly as we stood side by side. Clad in baggy, navy athletic shorts, he was an middle aged man, thick in the middle, with two day razor stubble, and he seemed like the type of a man who had let himself go a bit.  He asked if he could pat my dogs, who were straining at the open windows. My one dog, Becks is over the top friendly. He was more than happy to have a stranger reach through the window and give him pats and love. Within seconds, Becks was licking the man's face and giving him all of the love that a dog can give. I sighed, because I know Becks and his immense need for love from all people, but this guy was in heaven. I could tell. Remy, our blue merle, in his gentle way was looking into the man's eyes and reciprocating love while the man scratched his ears. As he patted my dogs, the man proceeded to tell me all about his divorce, the fact that he had to give his dogs away, he'd had recent trip to South Africa to get his head straight (he's South African, not British turns out) and tells me that his wife had just left him for another man. It was a heart wrenching story. Suddenly, my impending need to move on went away and I let his guy pat Becks and Remy to his hearts content. I didn't care that I needed to get home.  This man was hurting in ways that I couldn't relate to personally, but it was palpable. The man needed to touch the dogs and they were giving him therapy that no human therapist could provide. This went on for quite a while and eventually, the man found the picture he was looking for on his phone and I saw his Aussie dog, Dozer. He was a beautiful dog. Gorgeous blue merle Aussie and I saw tears in the man's eyes as he showed me the photo.

"I hated to give him up," he said. "Hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I'm not in a place to have dogs now."

"He's lovely," I said. "I'm so sorry that you've had a rough patch, but I think you've done the right thing. I bet he's happy where he is right now. "

What more could I say? I don't know. He gave my dogs parting kisses and told me that visiting with them was the best thing that's happened to him in a long time.  We parted company and I got into my car and drove away, wondering if I was meant to show up at this particular feed store just to see this lovely man, who was in a bad way and needed to love some Aussies to help him through a tough day and share his story with a perfect stranger. Funny enough, we never exchanged names. It was an anonymous meeting of two people at a feed store in Clinton Corners, NY. Yet, it felt like it was meant to be.

A Birthday Tale

   Last Thursday was my birthday and my aunt suggested that I write a blog about a birthday from the past that I hated.  My childhood birthday's were all very lovely, with parties, cake, presents, friends and family. None of them qualified as a hated birthday.  During my 20's and early 30's, my mother-in-law took it upon herself to give me a birthday party every year when they lived in Connecticut.  I would feel like a boob teetering over a fancy cake lit with candles, while the drunken party goers cheered. I loathed opening the presents in front of everyone. It felt like a gross display of greed on my part, though I hadn't asked for any of it.  I never could get my MIL to throw the party sans gifts. She felt like it was important for people to bring gifts.  Eventually, I learned to make sure I was half crocked at gift opening time so I could get through it all without somehow feeling like a petulant brat, screaming "mine, all MINE!" as I stood in front a pile of brightly colored boxes with extravagant bows and ribbons.

  I don't know why it took me so long to figure out the birthday that I hated the most. It's quite obvious to me as I look back. Turning 40 was by far the most traumatic, crappy, bum me out birthday ever. Bar none.  My dog Izzy had become very ill early on in the summer before my 40th. I was depressed about her steady decline, despite the numerous medications she'd been put on. I stopped coloring my hair that summer. Soon my natural roots appeared and the silver ribbon along my scalp began to creep down my skull. Faded brunette ends became overtaken by the silver (I prefer calling it silver to grey, it just sounds more exotic and less...old).   I had to say goodbye to Izzy on August 1st, 2009. It was a horrible, emotional drain and still "the birthday" loomed in the upcoming weeks.  I cried over Izzy on a daily/nightly basis, which didn't help my state of mind. When I looked in the mirror I saw The Bride of Frankenstein hairdo and deepening wrinkles on my face. It made me cringe. And I was still on the cusp of turning 40.

"No party!", I shrieked at Jonathan every day. "No gifts, either! I just want this damn birthday to pass with no acknowledgement."

   He would nod and give me a wan smile. And he respected my wishes to a T.  My 40th birthday was a non-event, as birthdays go. I can't remember what I did that day, other than most likely cry at some point about Izzy.  Jonathan made me a fine dinner, which he does almost every night of my life. He got me a cupcake for dessert, but no candles to blow out, no smartly wrapped gifts, no clever cards.  Later that evening, I began to feel even more sorry for myself that I'd turned 40 without an ounce fanfare. It was a milestone that I was sure didn't need to be marked with joyous celebration, but it turned out that no recognition was even worse.  And it was all my doing.  I'd been so stubborn in my approach to turning 40 that I cheated myself out of the one day of the year when you're entitled to be celebrated for being born. Isn't that funny? We don't make the choice to be born. Our parents do that for us. We should celebrate our lives and our parents for bringing us into the world on our birthday's.  Well, it was too late for celebration on that hot August night so I climbed the stairs on leaden legs and went to bed a very sad, newly 40 year old woman.

  Total bummer of a story, right? Ha. Turns out that turning 40 was a great thing for me. A week went by after my non-birthday and I decided to call my hairdresser and make an appointment for cut and color.  I emerged from the salon with shiny, sleek brunette locks. I felt like me again, not some two tone, silver haired sea hag.  I faced the reality that I wasn't going to get carded again, but I didn't really care. In fact, turning 40 took away a lot of stresses in life.  I learned that stressing over money is a completely stupid waste of time. I'd spent a lot of my 30's worrying about making ends meet and where had it gotten me? Guess what? The ends always meet, because we make it work, not because I'm up nights wringing my hands.  I stopped caring about what other people think of me. I bought a pair of bright purple corduroys that make me laugh when I put them on. I have a Hello Kitty bathrobe. My iPhone case is Barbie pink. It turns out that turning 40 was a liberating moment for me.

  This last birthday wasn't filled with exorbitant fanfare. My Mom had come for a visit so we'd gone out to dinner the night before to celebrate, which was really fun.  Jonathan and I went to Lowes to purchase a new wheelbarrow, which I jokingly referred to as my "present"and in actuality, I'm totally cool with that. It's a kick ass wheelbarrow.  And as a total random act of kindness, a FB friend whom I haven't seen since 8th grade graduation gave me a $5 Starbucks gift card. How bloody cool is that??  I'm so skeptical about getting sent things on FB that I originally thought it was a scam, but it turned out to be real. I redeemed it today and am currently jacked up on a tall latte. Thanks FB friend!!!

 So, there's the story of the hated birthday, Aunt Judy. I hope you liked it. Thank you for the writing prompt!  Happy Labor Day everyone! (and if one more person tells me it's the end of the summer I'll cut them!!)