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The 1 Thing I’m Not Good At Doing

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The 1 Thing I’m Not Good At Doing

I’m sure there is more than one thing in this world I’m not good at doing. At the moment this is the one that matters. 

I’ve always excelled at reading, learning to do so by the age of five. A few years ago I decided to write and the joy I discovered was out of this world. Now that I’ve got two published books under my belt and another one in the works, nothing’s going to hold me back. 

Sewing comes easily to me and I can’t remember when I didn’t sew. It’s also been a nice source of income in lean times. 

DIYing is at the top of my list these days with adding a faux transom window to the Philadelphia room and chalk painting every piece of old dark furniture I can sneak behind H’s back. (He’s kinda stuck on that dark wood look.) 

Nursing is not my high level of achievement. Don’t ask me to bandage your finger after slicing it open with a knife or ripping the skin off. Changing bandages is not for me. 

Once, Jessie, my youngest daughter, or it could have been Amie, but I really think it was Jessie – they will let me know if I’m wrong – almost tore the tip of her finger off when she caught it in a wire cage. She was playing with her rabbit who was on the inside of the cage and jerked her finger away suddenly, ripping the tip of it. It was a good thing there was another adult there because I was useless. I believe her older sisters changed the bandaid daily.

I’m not good with tending to the needs of the young or old when they are flat on their back in need of healthcare. I never know what to say or do. 

When my daughter, Terri, was sixteen we found out she was diabetic. There was an overnight stay in the hospital and she had to immediately learn how to give herself insulin shots. My mother stayed the night in the hospital with her while I went home to attend to three other well children. 

Now of course Mother was in her glory because nursing was her life. Give her a medical delema and she was on top of it. My children all lived through their cuts and scrapes, and didn’t lose any limbs because their grandmother was a wonderful compassionate nurse. 

H recently had a surgical procedure that included an overnight stay in the hospital. He wasn’t happy about this because the last time he was in the hospital was when he was twelve years old having his tonsils removed. He hardly remembers. I think I remember more of my tonsillectomy than he does of his and I was only two! 

When he hinted that I would be staying overnight in the hospital with him I didn’t think he was really serious – but he was – and I did. I told him if I was ever in the hospital I wanted him to go home. I want to be left alone, and if I don’t have any visitors that will also be fine with me. I don’t think he believes me. Let’s hope I don’t have a hospital stay soon. 

Now I am expected to change his bandage. It’s only a small incision. Breathe…breathe…breathe…


Telemarketers And Junk Mail Go Hand In Hand

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Telemarketers And Junk Mail Go Hand In Hand

A few months ago I shared a story of Joe, my telemarketer nightmare. Joe’s still hanging around trying to sell me something he thinks I need and I know I don’t. Now he’s learned H’s cell phone number. The click of a hang-up in Joe’s ear doesn’t affect his ability to redial often. He also doesn’t attest to the fact all of our numbers are on the Do Not Call Registry. 

Now we have another constant caller. In fact I believe she’s been around longer than Joe. This one goes by many names. There is Amy, Tina, and Audrey for starters. They are all associated with the Native American Indian Council and always ask in a polite voice to speak to H’s mom when I answer. 

H’s mom passed away in 2011 – six years ago! They are still calling. Tina told me once that they haven’t spoken to her since 2010. I wonder why! I’ve told them constantly, the circumstances, and asked them to take our number and her name off their call list. They give their condolences and assure me they will do so immediately. A few days later another call from the Native American Indian Council comes in asking for a donation. 

I’ve come to realize the reason they have our number attached to her name. It’s because her name is attached to our address because we inherited the property and now have a different number than she had, but the same address. These telemarketers go to such lengths to make a sale or get a donation. 

It also doesn’t help that H’s mom was a frequent donator to any person or organization in need – whether they really were in need or not! She was an easy sell as most older people are. It was a full time job for her to sort through her mail, weeding out bills from advertisements, junk, and organizations asking for a handout. She was at the point of exhaustion from trying to keep up. 

Every night of the week you could find her sitting in her chair with stacks of mail surrounding her feet. She would open each envelope and read the entire contents before deciding what to do with it. It’s no wonder she couldn’t keep up! I was always afraid she would slip on a piece of mail and break a hip. What she spent on postage each month would buy us a nice dinner out – with wine! 

When she passed away the mail kept coming, often wrapped in rubber bands, the take-for-the-day always more than what we received in our name each month! I shredded and threw out most before H knew what was there. If he got to it first he would open each piece or add to her growing pile to get to later. Later never came. I threw it all out. 

Finally after six years the requests for more donations has dwindled down to a few pieces of mail a month. But the Indian Council is relentless and continues their vigil. Short of disconnecting my landline to stop the nonsense, I answer, knowing their calls will continue. 

I promised myself years ago I would never let my mail take over my life or my bank account, as some do who answer ever advertisement,  request for donations, or political survey’s. 

Be careful what you respond to through the mail unless you have lots of spare time and spare change! 


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