Postcard from the brink of the edge

Blonde and Blonder

Tiffany came waltzing out of the bathroom at the bar on Friday night, holding a folded wad of twenties and a check written to 'Avon'.

"Look what I found in the bathroom," she said, as she showed me the hard, beer-buying cash.

She wrote her phone number on a bar napkin, with a note to call with the exact dollar amount, and left it with the eye-rolling bartender.

We're fully prepared to hand over a briefcase full of i.o.u.'s if someone ever calls...

Tiffany-berry

My Grandma Hope, who died shortly after my sister's birth, requested that she be buried in a red velvet dress. Finding the material during the summer was no small feat, but the task was accomplished in time for the funeral.

In seventh grade, my sister accompanied her sister to a fortune teller (no doubt to find out if their parents would be out of town in the near future) and asked, "Do I have a guardian angel?"

The wise seer replied, "You are surrounded by red velvet."

Slightly irked bovine

I was able to donate blood today for the first time since our return from Germany in 2000 and am relieved to find out I'm no longer a substantial mad cow risk (though witnessing flabby, old-lady-chicken-arms-from-a-tourniquet-tied-around-an-aging-bicep wasn't such a bonus). Let's just hope the lucky recipient doesn't get a DUI after the donation.

Uncle Sam and Moses

Patrick arrived back home sans truck. Seems a little gratitude and a 'thank you' was required, and he wasn't quite up to the challenge. I don't claim to understand him, and if I could, I'm sure I wouldn't admit it anyway, BUT the good news is he has a new job standing outside Liberty Tax dressed as Uncle Sam for $8/hr. I won't laugh, I won't laugh, I won't laugh.

I went to pick up my military driver's license today as a class of Army soldiers were simultaneously walking in the opposite direction in the hallway. Someone in charge yelled, "let the lady through", as half the soldiers went against one wall, while the other half went against the other. I felt a bit Moses-like, walking through a giant, parted sea of green uniforms.

I'm feeling a bit omnipotent, like I have commandments to write. Thou shall not covet thy father's Dodge truck.

Where was I, and where'd I put that baby?

Seventeen years ago, after the birth of my son Patrick, people (and by "people", I mean meddling women with secret agendas) would say to me, "Oh, the pain of childbirth will fade and you'll be wanting more kids before you know it."

Uh huh. Right.

The memory doesn't fade so much as get replaced by the temper tantrums of a screaming, headstrong toddler, to be followed by interactions with a hormonal, angry teenager. I suppose Bud Light might've induced a bit of memory loss, though: I didn't realize it was Patrick's birthday yesterday because I thought today was March 31st. It's not - it's April 1st. Who's the fool now?

He's in Savannah for the weekend with his dad, getting that black monstah Dodge truck. Surely he'll drive me to the drugstore to pick up some Gingko biloba when he gets back.

P.S. In the wagon above: Patrick and his Uncle David (or 'Trick and 'Vid, as they called each other one year for the sole purpose of being annoying).