Ms. Ella Gonna Talk Bout Money!

My last post I waxed philosophical about money from the perspective of listening to wise counsel when your finances are the topic.

Today I post this song, written by the Beatles, sung by Ms. Ella Fitzgerald. The song says it all. Money can't buy me love!

Dig it! Ms. Ella gonna break it down for ya!






(I was just reading some of my older posts. First time I have done that since I started this blog and I thought to myself, I thought, you writes real good, sister, real good!)

Trying To Make A Buck

Not trying to mind anyone's business or anything but learn from me. Make a budget. Stick to it. Save some money! Being very laid back about money has gotten me nowhere fast. Oh it sounds cool! "Money doesn't matter to me that much." Tons of money doesn't matter that much to me, true. Preparing for the future does not end up in that category. Yes, there is a future whether you or I like that or not and it does finally arrive right on time. Folks tried to tell me. But, I was terminally hip and fatally cool (and that is a quote from a book...not my own words). I made jokes, put off paying attention to any sound advice from well-meaning people and here I am today trying to make a buck. I have retirement. I also have too many bills I created while paying no attention to the fact that I might actually live to be 61. Don't get me wrong! I am not angry. I'm cool. I like my job working from home. I can, however, be a warning signal to anyone who is as cavalier as I have been the majority of my life. I don't require much to be happy. I like my life simple. I would like myself a bit better if I had shown better judgement. It's the truth. No skirting around the issue. Folks tell us things for our own good and they are right. I didn't listen. Maybe I was in a psychological funk or incapable of making a life out of what I had chosen for myself. Even a blind person can hear the train whistle blow. I am your train whistle. Listen up when grown folks be talking. Or call me later for the number of the company I work for these days. They are nice people. O.K. Enough of my histrionics...another word for I tend to get a little carried away with myself. All's I'm saying is listen up and try things another way when people try to help you. that's all. love ya. mean it.

It is NOT Saturday!

Retirement creates the illusion that the days of the week are jumbled up and arrive arbitrarily. Many of them seem to be Saturday. Today is Friday and what a Friday, I might add. Even so I  keep getting the impression it is Saturday and I am way behind on everything. I am way behind on everything to be honest but Saturdays are the precursor to Sunday and I clean our church building on Saturdays. Today seeming to be Saturday has given me several mini panic attacks and then, to take the cake, I tried to download something onto my mother's computer that totally whacked up internet explorer and I was working on-line at the same time and trying to get work hours for next week and thinking thoughts that pretty much looked like this: *&&^%$  ((*&^^%. Two and a half hours of not knowing what the heck I had done to this computer were two and a half hours too many. As soon as my shift ended I did the "go back" to earlier today and everything went back to where it was before my exceptionally clever self sat down and created the mess. Oh my! I am not a clever girl when it comes to how things work. I believe I am spatially dyslexic and technologically retarded. That did not stop me from trying, mind you. And on  my mom's computer? What was I thinking? Oh yeah, I wasn't thinking. Actually my thinking went something like this: why not download this program while I am at work, on my mom's computer and don't have a freaking idea what I am doing. Things don't change much. I am stuck in the 5th or 6th grade or maybe even at 7 years old. During this entire experience I clinched up numerous times thinking it is Saturday and I am far behind the curve. My hair is not blonde and I am considered intelligent. Whatever! When the ball starts rolling down the hill it picks up speed,darlings, it picks up a  lot of speed. I'm just saying!

Short and Sweet

The pulmonary doctor I saw today is a man of few words, has a deadpan expression and asks questions to which he anticipates a response with little or no conversation. I believe he is a good doctor but reading my writing has proven to anyone by now that I don't do little or no conversation. I did today though. I met my match when I met this doctor. Fortunately I was working on breathing and feeling better and did not take offense. I  felt more like a monkey who has been given a strange object and is turning it every which way in an effort to understand it. I did not do the monkey thing and take a bite out of the doctor. I got smarts real good bout those kind of things, y'all.

Night!

Midnight and one minute. It is tomorrow. YIPPEE!

Struggling to get my breath. Doctor tomorrow. Another one. My body is an anomaly. (sure hope that is spelled right and used correctly). What I mean to say is that my body evades diagnosis while exhibiting multiple symptoms. I am a medical chameleon. My doctor is bewildered by me. Not a surprise. I have been bewildering folks for a long, long time. But my body will not give up its secrets. There is a suspicion that long term stress is the culprit. Even so it would seem that symptoms would reveal their source. yada, yada, yada! Fiddle-dee-dee! Lousy breathing sucks. I am beginning to think I have asthma/bronchitis that took two weeks to fully develop. and...WAIT A MINUTE...no more talk of my health. I am bored to tears with it, truth to tell. Folks are accustomed to me being physically challenged. It is yesterday's news.

What about the royal baby? Wasn't that precious? I harkened back to the days when I had my babies and I can say in all honesty that I did not look stunning when leaving the hospital. The royal child's mother, Kate, has a lot of nerve looking so beautiful the day after having her baby. 10 hours of labor and looking perfectly lovely the very next day. It isn't human, is it? I quite resent it. I admire the way she appears to be handling royal life. I wonder ( and this  is an aside) if she uses "royal jelly bee balm". Wouldn't that be delicious? Imagine the advertisements. Try to read that word the way the British pronounce it...can't spell it any different but advertisements and aluminum sound so posh when spoken by people in the king's English. So many people waiting for the birth of this baby with happy anticipation. Such pagentry and yet rather simple at the end. Of course I did not pay attention to a minute of it. No, I was too busy doing important things and thinking important thoughts,etc., etc. But, I won't hold it against myself that I became caught up in the wait and the thrill of it all. Beats learning that another politician is a sexual deviant or another 50 to 100 people lost their lives in a number of different ways. For awhile the sheer relief of good, clean excitement over a fairy-tale moment is fine. Just fine, indeed. I promise to carry the burdens of the world again. I won't forget the stream of tragedy and violence the press pours over us each day.  It is my duty to be appropriately appalled. I beg a diversion for a brief interlude of glimpsing the royal baby all cuddly, snuggly in his mum's arms. A breath of fresh air for one and all.

I am going to  take my cue from a certain little train engine I learned of in my childhood. As it climbed the little mountain and struggled to make it to the top it kept saying,"I think I can. I think I  can. I think I can." As a new day has dawned with me finishing my last work shift for the day and headed for bed the truth is..."I think I  can!"

No breath and full of sadness!

A country song about loss, suffering and disappointment would be perfect in this post. I don't write songs. Could if I tried, I guess! Motivation is low because my breathing is short due to one of about six possible things. This is not my first time to this rodeo. Unfortunately I do feel different from other times. I trend to the dramatic when my breath is short. My doctor said it is normal to feel panic when suffocating. At least I am normal yet one more time. No unique in this girl, no sir! If I do it I can bet it has been done. In case the reader does not know it, uniqueness is the lifetime goal of any alcoholic worth their salt. Yes, I am sober and have been for a long time...what seems like an eternity. Yet, the traits followed me through the crucible of sobering up. A desire to be unique and larger than life dogs my steps. So, imagine the disappointment my ego has taken to find out that anyone who is not breathing well feels panic. If I had the energy I would invest some time in building up my panic. My doctor is not fooled and, as a matter of interest, does not think I exaggerate at all. Rats! I am a lousy sober alcoholic. Dang it! What is a girl to do with herself when breath comes at a premium and lethargy and depression lurk around her. Depression is a family gift. A genetic predisposition that has caught up with me in the past year or so. I was arrogantly proud of not being one of the folks in my family with depression. Don't count your chickens before they hatch, y'all.

And then...old nightmares come back to haunt me. I thought they were dead. I thought that fiery hell was over with and done. But, no! There are things that appear to be dead yet can resurrect in a skinny minute. Throw enough fuel on the fire and it will blaze with that hideous flame flickering out setting everything it touches on fire. I have no control over this nightmare. It is not mine. The flames burn me. They frighten me but I am not in charge of the fire. I pray and ask my Father in heaven for the courage to wait out this flaming inferno. I ask Him to help me to love the unloveable in this blaze of hell. One more time I am standing in the gap asking my Father God to protect the ones I love. I ask Him to hold back the Evil One from my family. I stand in the gap with the grace of my Father on one shoulder and the dread of the storm to come on the other.

So, yeah, I have short breath and I am full of sadness but I can't write a song about it. Could if I tried, I guess.

WHEW! I almost posted that blog!

Last night I began a blog that was triggered by a pet peeve of mine. In retrospect it is the height of arrogance to believe that anyone is interested in my pet peeves. The word "peeve" is in and of itself enough to distract me from reading further. Nevertheless I was deep into philosophizing when I was interrupted. Thanks be to God! Were it not for the interruption I would have gone on and on for word after word explaining how I (the magnificent "I") felt regarding a volatile topic. Oh, spare me, from myself. Even I don't want to hear myself expound, pontificate and provide personal experiences adnauseum on the topic. I have no idea if I spelled "adnauseum" correctly. It means I could have gone on until I felt like puking, throwing up, hurling; you get the picture.

I am writing while surrounded by a multitude of tasks that beg doing in my home. My plan was to make a dent in those tasks today. Oops!

The day is hot. Southern hot with insects invading our privacy while brilliant sunlight threatens to blind the naked eye. O.K. You got me on that one. I am exaggerating! But is hot and that's a true fact.

Cleaning calls to me. Oh, goody! I can hardly wait. When, oh when, will my maid show up and insist on cleaning while I pursue my many interests. (guffaw!) That is funny. "many interests". Yeah, right! I am just going to start on my list of tasks without further ado!

Be happy! I could have pontificated on my original topic crushing your nature with the weight of my ponderous musings.