I’ve been driving since before my feet could reach the pedals. That’s the thing about country living – when there’s hay to be hauled, it’s all hands on deck. Daddy’s old farm trucks were always “granny” geared, so it didn’t matter that I couldn’t reach the pedals. Just dump the clutch, let it roll, steer toward the hay bales and don’t hit any cows.
Once my feet did reach the pedals, I became Daddy’s saving grace on many occasions. There were many afternoons I was sitting at the dining room table when I would see Daddy walking up the road, which meant only one thing. The tractor was stuck. By the time I moved out, I could have started my own Stuck-Tractor-Removal Service. Continue reading From dodging cows to dodging potholes
I’m notorious for posting random lyrics across my various social media accounts. And I have a very select few friends who get all of the lyrics, memes and other funny music-related photos that span all genres and years.
Here’s a few of my favorite flow charts we’ve shared among each other over the years.
I have a steadfast rule: If you don’t poop outside or wipe your own butt, you can’t stay at my house. Thanks to Cheetos, our new four-legged child has not had a poop accident inside.
We have been on the waiting list for a Corgi for nearly a year when I unexpectedly learned one of my mom’s horse show friends had a litter ready to go. And it was after finals. And it was during the Christmas holidays. And we were both off work for four weeks. The timing was perfect.
We had already decided that because we were getting one of the Queen’s dogs, he had to have a pompous British name. And because I’ll never have a son to name after my dad, the puppy would have to have Harrison somewhere in the pompousness.
On December 13, we and Sir Waldorf Harrison Maupin, barn name Harry, made the six hour drive home to New Orleans from DeBerry, Texas, in the pouring rain.
I forgot that having a puppy is like having a 2-year-old kid except we can put him in the kennel for a few hours without facing repercussion of child protective services.
We are completely smitten with Sir Harry and the Corgi breed. We are all too familiar with the sploot now, and his personality is starting to really come out. From hot laps around the coffee table to pulling his toys out of the toy box, we could not be having a more fun time watching him “grow up.”
Housebreaking is even going smoothly – the secret is a kibble-size piece of a Cheeto every time he “gets busy” outside. It’s worked like a charm, though I think he’s got us figured out as he’ll do the minimum and come to me and ask for his prize.
We certainly broke Harry in during the first few weeks. Over Christmas in Pensacola, Fla., we smuggled him in and out of our hotel room in my big purse and he didn’t make a peep. Eddie’s niece carried him all over the house and even tried tuck him into her baby doll’s bed.
During New Year’s, he met horses and Weimeraners at my parents’ house. He even spent the night with my sister and 2-year-old niece. In her toddler dialect, Harry sounded more like Airey in a British accent.
During our first vet visit, the vet techs were fawning all over Harry. I told the Eddie if he ever kicks me out, he’s got the ultimate chick magnet. I am counting down until his last set of shots so we can visit the local dog parks and play fetch at the levee letting our Corgi fully Corg.
Another 18-hour semester is on my horizon – as in 9 a.m. tomorrow. It’s actually 19 if I count my statistics labs, but hey, with 18 who’s counting another hour? When I tell people my semester load, they automatically tell me I’m crazy to take that (and a 20-hour work week) kind of a load. But after 15-years working 60-hour weeks in journalism combined with my “life experience,” it’s really not that difficult. And I will have finished in less than three years.
It took a semester (or two), but now I’ve moved slightly beyond living life by the deadline and stay mostly ahead in my school work to ensure I still have adequate playtime. I have a goal to achieve a 4.0 at least one semester before I graduate, and now that I am truly in my rhythm, this semester should be it. I got close in the fall finishing with five A’s and a B, but the overachiever in me is still strong telling me anything less than best isn’t good enough.
I’ve read a million articles, blog posts, etc. on how to be successful in college, but none have really been tailored to fit my unique situation – over 30, no kids, no previous degree, a high school graduate of the 90s, career changing, etc. So learn from my mistakes and no matter how old you are, follow my top five college success tips. Continue reading Real Good Tips from a Real (Old) College Student
I’m a Dolphins fan. Which means there’s not a lot going for me right now, although Dan Campell at the helm is giving me hope. The internet has had a field day with the turnaround of the Dolphins since he assumed head coach duties.
After his first two weeks on head coach duty, I was ready to make him my third ex-husband.
I don’t realize how old I am. I don’t have kids to gauge my own age, but when I am surrounded by kids (or young adults rather) in a classroom, I see just how “experienced” I truly am.
Case in point. In my accounting class, we were reconciling bank statements. I answered every question aloud in class. The girl beside me whispered, “You’re really good at accounting.”
I wish. I’m a writer because I can’t add. I’m only good at accounting because my first checking account was opened well before online banking and mobile apps. I had to write it all down and check it off at the end of the month – overdrafting was much more of a risk in 1995. Continue reading Adult student woes… Or maybe advantages?
I don’t feel 35. I don’t act 35. But today I am 35, and if my calculations are correct Marty McFly and Doc should arrive just in time for my party tonight. Truthfully, there is no party planned. No friends coming over. That’s the crappy thing about getting older – birthdays go from annual throw downs to a simple get together at the milestone decades. I’ve started to realize I can’t hang like I used to, but neither can my friends. The nights (and wee hours of the morning) in clubs and bars have come to pass, and I look forward to a quiet night in with a glass of wine and the 80s station on the radio.