Hello? Somebody Is Here. I Think I’ll Take a Nap

Charlie taking a nap.

Well, I’ve recovered from the foot thing. Walking normal again. Meanwhile, I have been busy as usual.

I can’t imagine being bored. I don’t seem to have enough hours in a day. As a child, I remember Dad trotting off for a nap on the living room sofa after Sunday lunch. Sitting and watching him from the kitchen, I wondered why he chose to waste so much time sleeping at mid-day. After all, he slept at night as did the rest of the family. Even as a child, I felt the days were too short.

Today, sitting here, I am tired. I want a nap. But I’m too stubborn to do so. My eyelids drop every once in a while and it is mid-afternoon.

Last night, at about midnight, I awoke for a drink of water and returned to bed. The full moon illuminated my path so as not to bump into furniture. Soon after closing my eyes, a voice called, “Hello? Hello?”

Was I dreaming? I closed my eyes.

“Hello?”

I got up and rushed to look down at the front door from the stairway. Closed. No one there.

“Hello?”

Where? I call to Hubby, “Someone is here!” I rushed downstairs to the kitchen. No one there. I opened the cellar door to find the light on. It had been turned on hours ago to assist my company in maneuvering the stairs with a platter of barbecued burgers and rolls. If the light was still on, the garage door might be open as well. I sucked in a breath and answered, “Hello!” at the top of the stairs. “Hello?” came from below. A male’s voice.

Barefooted, I  quietly stepped down the stairs, hesitating at the bottom. Should I go around the corner into the basement and see this person inside? Perhaps he was outside in the driveway. “Hello!” I called. “Hello” replied from outside. Stepping into the lit basement I walked toward the open garage doorway. A man of about thirty-five appeared with a flash light glowing from his smart phone. He seemed sober, standing about fifteen feet away. He stayed put.

“I’m sorry to wake you. But I’m not from around here and I’m lost. My aunt was driving and she was picked up on a DUI and the police told me to walk. I’ve walked over two miles and I don’t know where I am. I finally saw your light and thought I could ask for your help. Can you help me. I’m not used to all these trees and woods that are around here and I’m really scared of wild animals coming out. Don’t be afraid of me, I’m a good guy. I won’t do anything bad. I’m just scared and I don’t know where I am.”

Asking him to stay in the driveway for a moment, I returned to the stairs finding one of our guests at the top with a quizzical look. Hubby appeared next. “I need a man down here. Please,” I whispered. My urgent request moved Hubby and the couple visiting to descend and investigate.

Returning to my midnight guest, I grabbed a chair just outside near the garage door and offered him a seat. My goal was to have him in a position where he could not easily lunge at us. He accepted. Upon questioning, we debated what to believe and what to do. My male guest said, “Tell him to get out of here. Get going down the road.”

His name was Robert, He wanted to get back home after a day at the Lobster Festival. We determined he was about four miles from his destination. His phone had no service and displayed his eleven unsuccessful attempts at calling his wife.

Being the good Samaritan, I called 411 for a taxi. 411 was not available. We couldn’t find the local taxi in the phone book. So I called 911. I explained the problem. The officer asked what the emergency was.  No emergency. “You do NOT call 911 for a taxi.” I apologized asking him who to call, he gave me the sheriff’s number and hung up.

Sympathetic to our situation, the sheriff’s dispatcher gave us a number. Meanwhile the plan changed. We decided to call Robert’s wife. After several attempts, she finally answered. She knew Robert. Handing Robert my phone, he spoke begging her to pick him up.

We suggested to that he walk along the road to flag her down. As he parted, I said, “Don’t worry about wild animals. The only thing you have to worry about are the cars going by. But they will avoid you.”

Thanking us, he then lit his way down our driveway into the moon-lit night.

Koala sleeping on a tree top

Koala sleeping on a tree top (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hubby and I found it difficult to sleep afterwards. Eventually, I sat up waiting for Hubby to be in deep sleep. Light awakens him. I only turn it on when necessary.

The door being shut tight, I gently and firmly turned the knob. No squeak. I returned the knob to its original position. No squeak. I pulled the door open. No screaming hinges. Upon exit, I gently pulled the door towards me without shutting it. Success!

Quietly making my way to the downstairs living room in the dark. I decided to read. As I fumbled around, a light suddenly switched on in the hallway. I walked to the stairs to find our male guest at the top step, bent over, struggling to quickly don his jeans. Was he planning to run down the stairs to grab a “intruder”? When I appeared at the bottom of the stairs, he stopped in mid-pose. One bad move and I imagined him tumbling down the stairs—head first.

“Jesus Christ, Jo. We thought someone was in the house! Why are you walking around in the dark?” Not waiting for an answer, he pulled his pants up, returned to the guest room in a huff and shut the door.

Chuckling to myself, and appreciating that he was ready to defend our home from an unknown intruder, I replied, “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”

Returning to the living room, I read for about an hour, then tip-toed back to bed where I finally managed to get four hours of sleep.

We were pretty tired this morning. Especially my male guest who had to catch a 6:30 AM flight.

Now I believe I will join Hubby for a little nap.

Damn—I Swear It’s OK

I’ve written my first YA manuscript and a scene comes back to me now and then. One of the characters is angry for good reason, why not let him swear?

Listen to me. I, the writer, give permission for a character to swear? I write the narrative, but the characters seem to have a life of their own. Perhaps they can swear because they really, really feel like it.  Perhaps they dictate the narrative and I just type it.

At first it was a children’s story? Naw. That didn’t work out. I tried different iterations  and each time, it was just too—corny.

English: Cartoon depicting little girl on beac...

English: Cartoon depicting little girl on beach talking to her mother. Caption: Her First Pair of Jumpers — “Am I a little boy now, mama?”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then one day, I just started writing. I had a sad scene and lots of sobbing—the protagonist, not me. It seemed okay. But how was I to make this work? First there were two characters ages 6 and 12 and their moms. Add another kid, a girl this time. My own motherly instincts took over. Lots of love and gentle ideas, well brought up kids. The works. Make all mothers proud.

Then one day, it sounded too—corny.

No one is this nice and able to deal with adversity at a young age without blowing a gasket. Young ones have to get mad sometime. And when things just don’t go as planned? Well, they get angry like everyone else. Wouldn’t they want to express it and feel in control? Feel grownup? In their angry sort of way.

SwearI am convulsing on letting little ones swear? Mothers would be not proud.

Then one day, I made the children older: 12 going on 13 and 15. But it had to fit. Chapters, many chapters written and I had to make sure the change would flow through. The protagonist had to sound and act his new age as did his friends. Then I created a diagram and a timeline for each character to make their stories fit.

Karakasa (parasol) in Japan

Karakasa (parasol) in Japan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember my first swear—whispered in anger—in my second floor bedroom. I arrived home from school, went to my drawer to fetch a small, silk umbrella. A gift from my uncle. A souvenir from his last naval trip to a land I didn’t know existed. It had a painted picture on the orange silk. I know now it was a parasol, not an umbrella.  I opened the drawer. The parasol was gone! I was aware a distant cousin visited while I was at school, I knew she had absconded with my parasol! In anger I whispered “Dammit” to the bureau drawer. A voice at the bottom of the stairs said, “I heard that. Don’t you swear in this house!”

Why not? My space was violated. I was robbed! I stomped down the stairs and asked my step-mother where the parasol was. “I gave it to Rachel. She visited with her mom this morning, so I gave it to her. You don’t need it.”

I felt devastated. This was not the first time Rachel went home with my toys. My step-mother seemed to enjoy giving away my things without asking me. I swore and I felt, even to this day, justified in swearing. It was my relief valve.

That one swear did not convert me to daily swearing. I survived. As a young girl, I never swore again. Weeks later, a friend kind of swore when she nearly missed the after school bus. She said it in French, but changed the pronunciation a little.  “Maudine!”

I found the word fascinating, but never used it for fear of retribution at home. I knew my  parents were old enough to decipher ‘maudine’ as a play on ‘maudite’, which is French for ‘damned’.

The things one remembers.

Swearing? I do believe it is okay to let my character use one swear. Actually, I may have him say it in French because… . Now here I am enabling him. He is old enough to decide.

So I’ll continue editing my MS and see what happens. He’ll let me know what he wants to do.

What the Blog For?

I have too many blogs!

cartoon by j.m.orise (aka: j.s.cabana
“Just One of Those Days”.
caricature postcard series
by J.M.Orise (formerly: J.S.Cabana)

A platform is important for an artist in any medium. But how many? Two FaceBook pages, Twitter, Blogger, WordPress, LinkedIn. Somehow, YouTube and Google+ slipped in!

Enough already!

Okay, calm down.

I taught computer science for over twenty years. FaceBook can’t be difficult to use—can it?

In a public school, FaceBook, YouTube and similar sites were blocked to protect students from unsuitable posts. Result: I too avoided these sites.

Now, here I am crawling through a jungle of strangers,  ads, add a friend links, etc… . My students did this at home! Alone! In their rooms at night! The promise of a secure account promoted an enthusiasm to commit themselves. Why not? No one sees their posts unless they are a friend… . Err-r.

Possible artifice in social networking emphasizes caution.

The same caution I had preached to my students—their eyes rolling upward into their little foreheads. I asked how many had ever experienced a best friend’s betrayal? Eyes snapped down now focusing on each other.

So why trust everyone who claims to be your friend with a “like me” invitation? I check out the suitor by clicking the avatar or going to their blog, site, etc.

Perhaps a “can assist” or a “can sponsor” link is needed instead? “Friend” sounds too—intimate. Too demanding.

How often are you expected to relate with a thousand +/- friends?

Do you ignore three hundred friends for the sake of maybe, ten really good friends? How do you make it up to those other ignored “friends?” What will they think?

How about a “Deal With It” or “Sorry I ignored you” link?

Depends on your temperament.

Once I’ve authored a post, I hesitate. Am I ready to post? Days later, I press the post button. Perhaps someone will read this one.

Comments?

Barely anyone bothers. I’ve bumped into one person who reported, “Hey, I read your blog! My husband laughed. He thought it was pretty funny.”

But there are no comments. Not even a g+1. “Like.” What is that? Oh, yeah. It’s a way to receive RSS feedback whenever clicked at someone’s post. I think.

I am an artist. Do you know how difficult it is for an artist to write about what is going on? Artists are private people—well, a lot of them are. I spend hours at the easel or at the computer composing a story, a blog, editing pictures, returning to the easel touching up a painting because I had a better idea.

No one is there to tell me what to do. No one drops in. Friends? Where are they when I get happy or frustrated. How about a slap on the “Like” or a “You Done Good ” link 😉 . Not the same as a slap on the back is it?

Psychology 101 emphasizes touch is important in any relationship. Hugs. Perhaps I should hug my PC when I see a “Like” designation for one of my posts. Blissful tears are for comments.

Research indicates I need a platform. Without it, no one will find me interesting and I may never get to publish a novel, or sell it either. Who made these rules? If I create art or stories and am serious about my craft, why does the public have to know what I am doing Wednesday, April 26, 2017 at 2:30 PM?

I think about goings on in our troubled world: the wars, the ecology, the economy, the tragedy, the politicians who do nothing… .

Really? You want to be my friend? Comment me already.

Tonight I thought I was on Blogger. I later realized I was on Google+! Looks a lot like Blogger. But less elegant.

Conclusion: I’ll have to delete a few accounts. What will I keep? FaceBook, WordPress and Twitter? Will Blogger have to go?

I just returned from another browser drill down. Good news. I found what I needed! WordPress has share settings that send posts to FB and Twitter. Ah-h. Perhaps it won’t be so bad. My finding led me to my Blogger account. What do you know. It too transmits to FB and Twitter.

So you see. IT isn’t so bad after all.

But who will know what I write? Will anyone read this blog? A comment will notify me. No comment will notify me. I think the instruction manual mentioned crossing one’s fingers before pressing the post button.

sunlover2
Another one of my postcard series
“Just One of Those Days – Sun lover”

My eyelids droop—a reminder of other needs. I am about to fall asleep at the blog wheel. Strap your seat-belt. I’ll be back soon. Decisions can not be made in a somnolent state.

 

Comments? Click the link below. I look forward to a blissful tear or two. Cross your fingers.

Angry – Happy

What makes one happy? And others just so damned pissed off?

Happy Green frog

Happy Green frog (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

I’ve met both.
What is anger? What makes it happen?
A little research can enlighten many.

Gargoyle enhanced

Gargoyle enhanced (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Bitterness Street is that shortcut taken to Anger Street. When you get to Anger Street, you notice the lights are dim, house shades  are drawn, nobody sees you and it is so quiet it is deafening. If you ask for directions, residents lie, leading you deeper into unknown territory. Very debilitating. You don’t want to be there, but you are lost and  can’t find you’re way back.

English: Angry cat

English: Angry cat (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Friends want to help but they have no idea what street you’re on. They don’t know what is happening in your head.

Remember when mommy said, “If you get  lost. Find a nice police man. He will help you and bring you home.” Well… ?

We all get angry at times. The trick it to get over it.

Insisting on being bitter with another doesn’t make the victim miserable. You, the antagonist, suffer the most.   Bitterness turns to anger and poisons our thoughts, relationships, and our lives. By refusing to let go of a hurt, we increase the hurt to ourselves. We become toxic.

“Too easily we become bitter. The thing with bitterness or resentment is, it takes control, and it consumes and robs us. Bitterness is more than a negative outlook on life. It is a destructive and self-destructive power. It can be physically as well as emotionally debilitating. Persistent bitterness and resentment makes one angry and confused, and leads oneself deeper and deeper into a jungle of despair. Bitterness and resentment is a frozen anger in latent form. Bitterness is a malignancy that makes a person extremely vulnerable to unwise decisions and destructive thought patterns that infiltrate and affect our bodies as well as our souls. It may aggravate or even cause physical problems. It causes fatigue, backache, ulcers, headaches, and drains our vitality. It is an oppressive and destructive emotion that is the root of resentment, anger, hate and other negative emotions, which when not dealt with may even lead to violence.
Bitterness spreads easily like cancer, we become bitter towards other things and it can spread to those around us. It also comes out in different ways – the outworking of bitterness often include jealously, anger, division, dissatisfaction and hate. It makes us focus on what we haven’t got, rather than what we have got. Bitterness is a trap that the devil puts out and is all to easy to fall down. It will always hurt ourselves more than it will hurt the other person.
Bitterness and resentment starts growing from denial or rejection followed by shock and/or numbness, guilt, shame, depression, anger and grieving. These feelings are part of the normal grieving process over bitterness. Bitterness grows up when people linger over and cling on tightly to the anger and the depression of the grieving process. Bitterness and resentment is a cold and latent form of anger that shows itself through complaining and plotting and scheming and grouching.”
Source and more info:http://www.charminghealth.com/applicability/bitterness.htm

I have been there. Not a nice place. With much introspection, I realized I had to let go of angry thoughts. I encouraged others to be happy—think positive—it could be worse, etc.  This exercise makes me more positive and happier. You also must walk the talk.
I found it too easy to get sucked into a self-pitying, complaint session. Afterwards, I felt drained and angry to have participated. I was angry at just being sucked into discussing a miserable topic!
I feel sadness for the person who is miserable. I don’t want to reinforce misery so I point out “how fortunate that …” or “aren’t you lucky that…” or search for other points of view not considered. Other times, I am blunt and say, “you know, I used to feel that way, but I found that I got nowhere… and now I’m happier because I think or do this—or that— instead.” I try to make them think of what they can do for themselves and focus less of what they can’t do. Then I end the conversation and walk away.
Constant complaining sounds so absurd when you are in a healthy place. Healthy relationships are impossible when you are angry? Like attracts like, ergo you find unhappy people with whom to relate. These people bond with you, ensuring your unhappiness and theirs. You drain energy from each other and anyone within earshot. People avoid you. You may notice, yet don’t know why. So you become resentful about that too. Does this sound like a self-imposed cycle?

Happy CatHappy people are invigorating!

Today, I met a happy soul who just lifted my spirit. A young man (I’ll call him Hap) drove six hours from up Maine to our home in New Hampshire just to look at a car we advertised for sale.
The car is a 1980 VW Diesel Dasher. The vehicle was a favorite of hubby. I saw it as old and pretty much embarrassing to drive. After having it stored for about three years, the mice got to it and made a mess. The ceiling was now stained and the mice had chewed holes in its fabric. And it smelled.
So what did I do? I whined about this ‘ugly, filthy car’ as I cleaned it out. I resented having hubby’s messy car. However, I knew it truly was a great car with lots of room and the diesel engine guaranteed great mileage—50 mpg.

English: VW Dasher Station Wagon Deutsch: VW D...

English: VW Dasher Station Wagon Deutsch: VW Dasher Variant (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My fondness for the VW Dasher  was augmented in 1991. It served to keep me save from harm when a driver in a big semi tried to force me to stop on a long, lonely highway. He continually blocked my path on route 10 from Chattahoochee, FL to St. Augustine, FL as he swayed from side to side at 10-20 mph. Terrifying. Each time I tried to get past, the rig sped up and pulled in ahead of me. Phones were mounted on  poles along the highway. I was too afraid to stop. No one else was on the road. There were no license plates for me to identify the rig. This started at around 10:00 AM. Finally at sundown, a vehicle appeared in my rear-view mirror. It was on the horizon with headlights switched on.  As it traveled pretty fast, it easily caught up with us. It was a little red pick-up and it was going to pass us! My plan was to be one with that red pick-up. I tailgated the pick-up and passed the semi. It worked! I stepped on the accelerator and passed the little truck. Tears of relief followed.

Hours later, I saw the semi pull off the road—perhaps to refuel. On the other hand, I had plenty of fuel and kept going. Not long afterwards, I realized I was lost. Whatever sign posts there were before, the size of the rig blocked them from me as we passed them. I had an interview the next morning in St. Augustine. I needed to get there on time. So I decided to take the next exit—onto a dark, unlit, dirt road. Now what? First a crazy man, and now if I ran out of fuel—alligators would eat me? I had never been to FL by myself. I just followed my instincts and prayed I was on the right path. At 2:00 AM I was across the river from St Augustine! Laughter, more tears and joy in my heart encouraged me on to the nearest motel. A comfortable bed was my reward. Thanks to the Dasher, I hadn’t run out of fuel.

I felt immense gratitude for my reliable Dasher.

happyguy+VWDasher

Hap is happy with his new Dasher. Nice fellow all around. Everyone was happy and what a nice time we had each time Hap came around. God bless

But this one had to go. We sold it within two days to Hap. He exuded delight at finding a Dasher in ‘excellent’ condition. The liner could be mended and he would give the vehicle a complete cleaning. He even bought the parts-car, which was in similar condition, and all of Hubby’s stored parts necessary to put the Dasher parts-car into driving condition. A month later, Hap came back and purchased our 1987 Mitsubishi pick-up. A prized possession of Hubby and me. Hap was happy! So were we. The Dasher was going to a good home and to a positively happy person. 🙂

Leave a comment below. Love to hear from you.

Okay, I’ve Finished the Manuscript

Writing

I’ve written a story. Twelve years in the making.

First it was an idea, then it just grew from a children’s book to “Oh no. Not possible. This is too much information for little kids.” So I decided to keep writing and see what happened.

Twelve years? Well, I was working full time as a teacher, and I also built my own home—with my own hands, sweat and blood. Then I got married, moved out of state, built two more houses and got another job teaching in my new geographic location. But my unfinished story haunted me. So I kept writing whenever I had a chance.

At one point, I got stuck. Or I should say, the children in my story were really stuck and I put them there. How could I get them out without killing the whole story? Writer’s block? Yeah. That was what it was. The symptoms fit.

Then one day, I decided I needed another character just to make it more interesting. Should it be a boy? No. How about a girl? Then I had to give her a name. What name. It was like having a baby all over again—without the labor pains or stretch marks. So I did re-writes to fit her into the story. Much later, the same thing happened. This time I added two more characters and had to fit them in with a re-write.

Eventually I felt the children needed to be older. Teen and pre-teen. I learned that is referred to as “tween genre”. Then the title no longer fit the story. Decisions were always being made and I wonder if I made good decisions for the story.

Photograph shows a young girl dressed in a fur...

Photograph shows a young girl dressed in a fur-trimmed coat and hat, carrying her doll. (Photo credit: Wikipedia) Isn’t she cute?

An idea came as I ate dinner at a restaurant. A pretty, little girl walked to a table with her mom. She had a cute outfit and a beautiful hat. I had to complement her on her hat as I left. I thought, I’d like to paint her. Then it occurred to me. Here was a young girl wearing something special her mom gave her. It was a perceived sign of love by the little girl. My story’s girl needed something to hang on to until her mother came home. So I chose a necklace for my character. It worked for me and for my ‘girl’.

I retired from teaching earlier than planned. My husband was ill once too often and I worried being away all day. Now that I’m home with my happy husband, I have finished my manuscript and have had it reviewed by a critique group. That represents an added two years of critiquing. It was a great experience. The people in the writer’s group were honest and very helpful. I  learned so much more in the last two years. Now my story is so much better thanks to their help and that of a friend who also read the manuscript and made a couple of suggestions.

Now what do I do? Research. I started it a while ago, but had to put it aside to fulfill my obligation to produce new paintings for upcoming art showings and possible  sales. Go to my website at jomorise.com to see my portfolio.

Meanwhile, another story has been brewing in my head for about two years now and I’ve already started writing that as well.

Wish me luck.

Jo

Smile in your mirror every day.

 

 

Stream of Conciousness Writing – The Handi-wipe

(I like to exercise my creativity by just writing. No external cues. Usually. Just write. Try it. You will be surprised that there is a story in there—no matter how silly. Stream of conscious writing. Partly fabricated, partly true.)

TList of Vietnamese ingredientshe apricots are rotten. Jelly rolls are green. John is coming for breakfast. What a treat he’ll have.

__________________

A terrified Alfalfa wins the game in The Pigsk...

Looks like Alfalfa got the ball. Now what?

Did you see the football roll down the alley. All by itself. No one around. It was the weirdest thing. Instead of following the ball, I chose a different path, and it made all the difference.

__________________

The Handi-Wipe

My step-mother sewed my clothing. She was a seamstress and very proud of it. She made our dresses and coats. Speaking of coats, I remember a time before my step-mother. My sister and I sported navy blue coats with white lace at the cuffs and collar. I was five and didn’t know any better, therefore, I had a habit of sniffing or wiping my nose on my handy, dark blue sleeves.

Grammy took offense to that although I don’t remember any conversation about what a young girl does when her nose is runny. Kleenex was not yet a household word and we didn’t have television. So, unless someone told me what was expected, I did what was natural. I believe I invented the ‘handy-wipe’—navy blue. The only trouble with navy blue for a snot-rag (a term I learned later in life) is that snot dried white. I think it was white—I don’t know if I knew my colors at five.

You see, my mom died a few months before and Grammy found herself busy with two little girls she didn’t expect to have around. Well back to my navy blue handy-wipe.

One day Grammy took our coats, which were now encrusted with a good, healthy coat of filth. I read somewhere that kids today are too clean. That is why they are more susceptible to illness than our generation was. I remember one earache, but I’m not sure if that was me or my friend who always complained of earaches. I did get colds. Oh yes. The miserable stuffy nose.

Okay, okay. Back to the blue snot-rag. Grammy presented me with my c-l-e-a-n blue coat. It was no longer sporting my invention. There were no tell-tale signs of there ever being a snot rag on either arms. I was amazed. How was that accomplished. Words bounced around my little brain. “Clean. Dry-Cleaners. No. Handkerchief. Pocket. No. Not.” I understood the words “no” and “not” and “handkerchief” was easy because I had seen my dad honk his large nose in one. When he had one. Other times he grossed me out by placing his thumb and fore-finger at the bridge of his nose and honking his nose to the right or the left, or in front of him. That’s when his slithery, white and other colorful snot flew out and landed on the ground in a splat. I still gag today, just thinking about it. It wasn’t my snot so it was gross. If I ever did that, I probably would be able to stand it.

English: A small box of Kleenex.As a grown-up, I was once stuck without a Kleenex. (Just the word ‘Kleenex’ tells you that many years had passed by now.) I reached into my pockets and found I had neatly thrown all remnants of Kleenex into the trash at home. None in my purse either. I was desperate. My husband’s pockets were empty as well. This was a predicament. What to do.

I remembered my navy blue coat and smiled. I certainly wouldn’t do that again. Then my dad and his honking nose came to mind. I shuddered. Maybe. I could try. A quick look around reassured me I was alone. Good! I’ll try. I placed my thumb and forefinger at the bridge of my nose, leaned over a little and blew a little meekly. A little success. Next I inhaled a great gulp of air through my mouth in preparation for the big-daddy-honk. I blew hard. It worked! I didn’t sound as bad as my dad. It sounded more like an air-hose.

My husband came around the bend just then. I smiled, relieved that I had solved my problem. He smirked a little and presented me with a Kleenex. “You may want to used this. You have snot on your shirt and your shoes.”

Gross!