RV Rookies

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So who said you needed to drive an RV on all six wheels? Certainly not my Princess!

 

As one who was accustomed to freeway driving in the San Francisco Bay Area for most of her life, learning to drive a newly acquired, 25 ft. Fleetwood Pulse across three states during a season of raging fires was a piece of cake.

 

There were moments that I felt this cake was gonna be of the upside down, pineapple variety, but I’m happy to report that me and our little blue house-on-wheels are right side up and safely home.

 

I’m currently taking multiple antacids for my stomach and need a new prescription for anti-anxiety medication, after our little road trip. Other than that, life is good on the Olympic Peninsula of Northern WA.

 

During the spring of this year, my oldest brother and his wife decided that tooling around the United States in a 30 ft. RV was something that was worthwhile and adventurous for two young’uns new to retirement. And the Princess and I – getting too old for sleeping on leaky, plastic air mattresses and squatting in poison ivy bushes to pee – decided that maybe my brother and his wife were on to something. After all, there’s something to be said about sleeping on a mattress without a rock, the size of Gibraltar, poking at one’s plump, highly sensitive hinny. And having access to an indoor plumbing facility, minus the thrill of an ivy bush, we felt was just peachy for these two old gals.

 

So we set out on an earnest search in the local area for an RV that we could afford and was to our liking. Unfortunately, after scouring the area and not finding anything we liked (and could afford) we were ready to throw in the towel until next season, when my brother, Anthony, called and got involved in the search… and within hours had us a perfect little house on wheels.

 

The one minor detail: this rolling abode of adventure was located in the state of fry sauce and mini vans (a.k.a. Utah). Other than that, it was a perfect vehicle for the two fur-balls and us.

 

The only thing the Princess and I needed to do was to drive out there – thru 3 smoke-filled states on fire – purchase it, clean it out, learn to drive and operate it, and get it back home before we took off for NY to check on Momma B.

 

And we did just that.

 

In between time, we learned to drive on a 7 lane freeway with wall to wall traffic, navigate tornado-like winds without steering off a cliff, question the quality of mom and pop gas stations selling old diesel fuel; and utilize friendly truckers, when navigating Mt. passes on fire about to get a snow storm.

 

And the mother of all-important things that these RV rookies are truly grateful for learning is that you ALWAYS (Yes, People, ALWAYS!) empty your black water BEFORE your gray water!

Or you may unwittingly find yourself the butt of your fellow RVer’s jokes and campfire conversations.

 

Yep.

 

With the addition of a gas additive the former owner left in the vehicle, the advice of a friendly trucker in Idaho, named Jolene, and all kinds of suggestions and prayers from family members and friends, we made it safely back home; where we were promptly greeted by two sick kitties, who were happy to have their mommies back for some special, bed-time snuggling.

 

Now we just need to figure out why our “Kwikee step” on the RV ain’t so quick to open, and get a local auto dealer here in no man’s land to replace Li’l Blue’s recalled passenger airbag.

 

Other than that, the Princess, Li’l Blue, and I are doing just swell here in the land of long underwear, rain slickers and roundabouts.

 

Hope the Fall Season is finding all of you healthy and happy. Take care and I’ll catch ya the next time, looking at life from my shoes.

 

 

 

 

 

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A Hoarder’s Paradise from Hell!

Garage sale, moving sale, yard sale…they’re all a hoarder’s paradise and most definitely an interesting study of mankind. And the Princess and I, having nothing better to do with our limited time one Saturday, decided that it was time we tried throwing one ourselves.

After all, why not join the hordes of others and hang-out my outgrown biker undies for the world to see? I’m not ashamed of the fact that I’ve put on a few pounds since my mountain biking days. I’ve earned this midriff fluff that I’m sportin’ these days.

So, that’s exactly what the Princess and I did last month – joined the multitudes; gathered everything from clothing and books, to sporting equipment and household goods, and put the whole kit and caboodle out for the world to rummage through.

And rummage, they did!

We meticulously sorted everything – making sure we didn’t confuse anyone by placing a coffee maker next to a pair of biker shorts – and ten minutes before the scheduled 9 a.m. start time, we innocently opened the gates of hell to a stampede of garage-sale-savvy-shoppers, who picked through our meticulously placed items, like frenzied piranhas.

Cazzo (Ot-so)!

The Princess, naively thinking that she’d read the morning newspaper and leisurely enjoy her cup of coffee, choked on her first gulp of hot Joe and spilled it down the front of her shirt as one of the frenetic shoppers elbowed past her and stepped onto her Croc-covered toes. Meanwhile, I stood-by – totally frozen in place – and watched in horror as people magically appeared and ruffled through (what moments before) had been our meticulously organized belongings.

Talk about the trauma of coming out! I’ve changed clothing in our car, many times, while the Princess has been driving on the freeway, but never in my days of freeway strip teasing, have I felt so naked and tossed about.

Geesch!

I never realized how crazy people can get over a pair of well-worn hiking shoes and some padded biker underwear. It’s enough to make you swear-off drinking for a while – or if you’ve never taken it up, START!

The first wave of descenders disappeared as quickly as they showed up, apparently not interested in our high-end merchandise of Barbara Streisand CD’s and Harry Potter books, and I settled into reading the first paragraph of the new Karin Slaughter book, when a new trickle of fellow hoarders dropped by to look over what we had spread out for the world to pick-through. Only this time, we actually had a real customer…or so we thought.

“So,” he began. “What do you want for this book and hat? I’ll give you a buck-fifty for the two of them,” he bargained.

“Hm,” I responded. “The hat is brand new, and as I’m sure you’re aware, is worth over $25.00.”

“I’ll give both to you for $3.00,” I continued. “How does that sound?”

“Well,” he answered. “Sounds to me like you’re gonna be keeping a lot of your stuff today,” he gruffly responded.

“Have a nice day,” he added, and out the gate he marched.

Un-hun.

At that point, there were other potential bargain hunters within our midst, and I looked at the Princess with raised eyebrows and telepathically asked her, “Are we supposed to be paying THEM to take our stuff, or what? I’m not quite sure how this works.”

The Princess, living with me long enough to read my mind, gave me one of her dumb-founded looks and just shrugged her shoulders while mouthing, “Don’t ask me!”

OK.

We got another book buyer interested in our leather-bound, illustrated edition of J.R.R. Tolkien’s, “The Hobbit” with matching slipcase. This isn’t one of my books and I had no idea how much to ask for it. In light of my last negotiation, I figured a buck would be a fair asking price.

“Uh,” guy number two started. “What ‘cha want for this Hobbit edition? Your Harry Potter books, ya know, are going for 25 cents these days?” he coyly added on. “Just thought you should know.”

“Well,” I started out, keenly aware of gentleman number one’s rejection. “How’s a buck sound?”

“Sounds fair to me,” he said. He then quickly handed me the dollar and proceeded to tell me the story of how he and his wife met in her English class over thirty years ago; and the first failed assignment he had with her was an assignment on “The Hobbit”.

“Yep,” he continued. “Gonna give this book to my grandchild for her birthday present this week.”

“Well, what a lovely story and family tradition,” I told him.

“God bless you,” I continued. “Glad to hear that our book will be going to a loving family. Have a great weekend.”

“Yep,” he winked at me. “This book just made my day. You two have a good weekend, too.”

And with that, he got into his truck and high-tailed it down Woodside Avenue.

Now all the while “The Hobbit dude” and I had been talking, the Princess (like the proverbial rancher who closed the barn door after the horse got out) decided to use her smartphone to research the actual price of said “Hobbit book”.

“Well,” the Princess began. “I’m really glad you blessed the dude and he politely thanked you, ‘cuz you know how much MY hobbit book was worth?” she asked, while crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Just guess,” she continued. “Take a wild guess, Lucie.”

“Uh,” I clumsily began. “I haven’t a clue.”

“But,” I continued while raising my voice. “If it’s more than five bucks, I told you to price your stuff! So, it’s not my fault.”

“No Sir-ee!” I persisted. “It’s definitely not my fault.”

“Yah, Babe, you’re right,” she jovially responded. “No biggie, Hun. Karma will bite him in the butt someday and 60 bucks ain’t gonna break us or make us. This is just another day in our storied lives; just another day in Lucie’s Shoes,” she said while winking at me.

And, of course, People, she was right.

Hopefully, this was our FIRST and LAST garage sale. The next time we need to down-size, I think a donation to some well-deserving organization is in order.

In the meantime, be kind to one another, and I’ll catch ya the next time, looking at “Life in Lucie’s Shoes”!

 

 

Shit Happens!

I called my Mom this morning to check-in with her before I started my day and had another one of those Momma Benedetti conversations that had me giggling before too long. Unlike last month, she had now decided that maybe a woman President wouldn’t be so bad for the country because as far as she was concerned, “Men aren’t thinking too clearly, lately, and maybe handing over the reins of the country to a clear-headed woman would actually be good for our country. At least women have the sense that God gave a mule and know that shit in the local waterways isn’t healthy for our local townspeople. Sometimes men are total stoonods, idiots, and need protection from themselves.”

Ok. She got my attention.

Last month she thought BOTH candidates were stoonods, and I was curious as to why she had suddenly changed her mind, so I asked her, “Ma, what’s up with your change of heart in voting this November? I thought you didn’t think a woman could handle running the country and that we were better off with a man? What made you change your mind?” I continued.

“Well,” she started. “The stoonods that are running the Wastewater Treatment Plant in Hoosick Falls, or one of those cities just south of here, allowed over 50 gallons/minute of shit to end up in the Mohawk River on Monday. I don’t hafta be concerned about MY drinking water, because I use a Brita water filter for my water, but can you imagine what those poor people in Hoosick Falls are going through?”

“Cazzo!” she continued. “We don’t hafta worry about enough stuff in our day to day lives, but now we hafta worry about drinking shit in our water. Che schifo! (keh SKEE-foh: how disgusting). Those poor people in Hoosick Falls. They should fire the whole bunch of them and elect some women to run the plant. At least a woman would have the sense that God gave a flea and stop it before it got out of control. Men hafta have a meeting before they do anything and see what department is responsible and who to blame before they do anything. It’s a bunch of shit, if you ask me; a total croc of shit!” she lashed out.

“I’m thinking Hillary won’t be such a bad choice in November. I think she’s dealt with enough shit in her life to take on this job. After this disgusting episode, Hillary definitely has my vote this Fall,” she rattled on.

OK.

By this point, I thought that telling her that her Brita water filter was totally useless for protecting her from the nasty illnesses that she could acquire from drinking shitty water was gonna fall on deaf ears, and I wasn’t quite following her logic as to how this incident in the Mohawk River directly affected her voting choice, but I wasn’t prepared to negate Momma Benedetti’s logic; so I said to her, “I’m pleased to hear that you changed your mind about voting this November, Ma, and that it only took a load of shit in the Mohawk River for you to do that. Good for you. I’m sorry for the poor people in Hoosick Falls, but I’m really glad to hear that you’re re-thinking your stance on who you’re voting for in November.”

“Fa-nabole (get out of here)!” she responded. “I gotta put on my lipstick and meet the girls for cards today. Ciao!” she said and abruptly hung up.

Yep. Another enlightened voter headed for the election polls in November, People. I can now sleep soundly knowing that individuals like my Mother have the fate of our democracy in their hands.

Have a lovely day and I’ll catch ya the next time, looking at life from my shoes.

 

Each Man for Himself!

Years ago, when the Princess and I first met each other, we prudently decided that 10 years of therapy between the two of us was more than sufficient for two people to plan a simple tenting expedition to the local Santa Cruz Mts.

After all, she’d been on a catered backpacking trip to Yosemite in her youth, and I was a former Brownie from the local Girl Scout troop of the Adirondack Mts. in upstate NY.

An inexperienced backpacker and a naïve Girl Scout – we were the perfect pair for camping in the Redwoods of Northern Ca. – or so we thought.

Preparation for food and camping equipment was carefully planned and packed into my Isuzu Rodeo, and a short time later we found ourselves quietly standing in a secluded canyon of dripping redwoods, babbling creeks and various chaparral ecosystems; listening to a pileated red-crested woodpecker chopping away at a dead tree nearby, presumably foraging for carpenter ants for its evening meal.

One minute we were sweating like pigs in a bacon factory, hustling to pack my SUV and get ahead of Friday’s ghastly commute; and the next minute we were staring in total awe – jaws dropped, chilled to the bones – as a blanket of fog slowly immersed the forest of majestic, towering redwoods.

How could we live so close to such a paradise and be so blind to its beauty in our day to day lives?

I didn’t know.

Being the more pragmatic of the two, though, I knew that if we wanted to get our site set-up and dinner started while we still had some daylight, that we’d better stop gazing at nature and start hustling with some practicalities of the tasks at hand.

Yep.

Apparently, I took too long appreciating nature and somehow lost the Princess to the ever-enticing Woody, the Woodpecker, because she was nowhere in sight.

“No biggey,” I told myself. “The tent poles had bungee cords and I’d put it up without assistance before. I could easily do this myself.”

So, I did just that.

I set up the tent, lickety-split, and made everything cozy with sleeping bags, pillows, blankets and a lantern.

Shortly after I set up and prepped the tent, I spotted the Princess lollygagging in the woods nearby and decided that Girl Scout or no Girl Scout, I needed help preparing our dinner that night if we were going to eat before sunset.

So, I shouted to her and asked that she give me a hand.

Yeah.

Well, the Princess being the Princess, she decided that prepping for a simple meal of hamburgers and potato salad was not exactly a herculean feat requiring any expert preparation and brusquely shot back, “What’s the big deal? Slap together some hamburger meat, throw it on the fire and we’re good to go!”

She then stared at me in disbelief, shook her head and asked, “What are you getting your panties all up in a knot over?”

“Just look at how beautiful this is!” she continued, throwing her head back and stretching her arms toward the redwood-crowned-horizon, like Stuart, of the famous Minions cartoon characters.

Yep.

Deciding that a fire was best started sooner than later, to deal with the chill of the blanket of fog enveloping us, my knotted-up panties and I headed into the nearby forest searching for dry kindling in woods that were slowly becoming saturated from the fog and dripping trees.

And, of course, there wasn’t a dry twig to be found.

I wasn’t worried, though.

Girl Scouts are always prepared.

I went into my car, whipped out my little camping stove, set it up under the raised, hatchback door of my Rodeo’s cargo area; and began the arduous task of prepping our simple meal; while continuing to make my case to the Princess for her assistance.

Once again, the Princess informed me that I needed to lighten up and chill-ax.

Uh-Hun.

At that point, I’d had enough chill-axing to last the whole weekend, and decided that it was too soon in our relationship to tell her to “f – herself” and that an each man for himself survival strategy may be the more therapeutic way to go.

So, I carefully made a meal for one, took myself and my hamburger into the tent to get out of the dampness of the night and settled in for an evening of reading and chill-laxing; when I heard the unmistakable sound of the tent zipper opening and the elfin head of the Princess suddenly poked in.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at me.

“I smelled the hamburgers cooking a while ago. Where’s mine?” she innocently continued.

Acutely aware of the fact that it was ME who set up the tent, ME who prepped the inside of the tent, ME who attempted to light a fire for us, and ME who prepped our meal; I decided that a simple constrained statement of, “Tonight’s dinner is an each man for himself kind of meal. Help yourself, Sweetie. If you can see your way around out there, the meat’s in the cooler in the outside storage unit.”

I then proceeded to zip-up my sleeping bag and continued my reading.

After what seemed like forever and a day, the red-headed Minion fumbled around outside, threw some sort of sustenance together and crawled into the tent – wet, tired and looking not too friendly.

Observing that she was not too keen on bed-time conversation, I decided to call it a day, and settled in for the night.

I figured tomorrow would bring with it a new day and hopefully a new attitude by all.

Uh-Hun.

The next day the Princess woke up bright and early, crawled out of the warmth of her sleeping bag, unzipped the tent, rummaged outside for some breakfast goodies, and brought them back to the tent; where she carefully preceded to lay out a verifiable breakfast feast for one, on top of her bag.

Smelling the buns and the sweet, earthy smell of freshly brewed coffee, I woke up and sleepily said, “Smells great, Sweetie. Where’s mine?”

Looking at me like only the Princess can when she’s being the Princess; she smiled and tauntingly said, “Sorry, Hun. It’s an each man for himself kinda meal.”

And on that note, we looked at each other and slowly burst into unbridled laughter!

Be kind to one another today, People, and I’ll catch you the next time, looking at life from my shoes.

Lucie Plays Vanna White at Church

A month ago, Cindy, our church’s Welcome Coordinator, emailed me asking for help with the upcoming church photo directory.

I never know where my various health maladies are going to take me, so I rarely volunteer to help out.

The directory, though, is something that she and I have worked on in the past and I figured, “What the heck? No big deal. We’ve done this before, so it’ll be a slam dunk.”

Yep.

You’d think by this age, I’d know that nothing is a slam-dunk in my life.

I don’t have enough nonsense in my day to day existence living with the Princess and two wacked cats. I need a little more drama in my life to keep my blood pressure up.

We meet with the photo company’s representative and learn that everything now-a-days for church directories is computerized – from setting up the initial appointments for the photographs, to designing the actual church directory.

OK.

No big deal.

Technology comes as easily to me, as swimming to a duck with a 100lb anvil wrapped around his neck.

Yep.

Cindy’s a couple of steps more tech savvy than me, but between the two of us, we’re not exactly Silicon Valley’s version of Bill Gates and the late, Steve Jobs.

So, we decide that we need to get ourselves organized and agree to meet with each other a couple of times to set up a to-do list and get a handle on the situation.

After meeting a couple of times, I was feeling quite competent with what we needed to do and figured the cheat sheet that I meticulously wrote out and placement of the photo company’s web-site as one of my “favorite’s” on my computer would have me totally covered to do a competent job of signing up people after Sunday’s service in no time flat.

Uh-Hun.

You’d think as a retired teacher, with multiple years of teaching experience under my belt, that I’d know better by now.

Unfortunately, wisdom and intelligence does not come with the graying of one’s hair. If it did, I’d be a genius many times over.

Yep.

I got to the church early Sunday morning, so that I would have plenty of time to set-up, get myself settled-in and meet with Henrietta, the other sign-up volunteer, and I discovered that my oh-so-reliable computer (that the Princess lovingly purchased for me for my 60th) did not want to connect with the church’s Wi-Fi.

After an hour of repeated failed attempts by a number of the church’s tech gurus to connect me to our Wi-Fi, I decided that I needed to call the Princess and have her bring her Mac to the church.

Surely, the Mac would work and we would be good to go, as soon as the service had ended and people started heading into the social hall to sign up.

Uh-Hun.

Well, the Princess decided after 6 months of endless nagging by me, that this particular Sunday would be a great day to organize the garage.

And of course, being the little multi-tasker that she is, she threw in a load of laundry, turned on some ear-splitting music to keep her spirits up and the fleas at bay; and started to organize the disaster of a hell-hole that we sometimes refer to as a garage.

All the while she was home innocently singing and cleaning the garage, I was at the church, calling and texting her endless messages and thinking, “When I get ahold of her, I’m gonna ring her scrawny little neck. She’s gotta be taking a shower, but how long can a shower take for a 4 foot, 10 inch smurf?”

Seriously.

Che palle! (keh Pal-leh, loosely translated, “What a pain in the ass!”)

As luck would have it, our church’s Board President takes a crack at my computer difficulties and gets me hooked up just as the church lets out and our table gets swamped with eager attendees.

I started signing up my first parishioner, pressed the bottom to confirm the date, and whoosh, the information went into some tech cloud never to be seen again and my computer screen went totally black.

Madonna!

I had a table swamped with eager parishioners, a computer that I wanted to permanently bury, and a sign-up partner that was calmly and efficiently taking as many of the requests as she could, all the while politely dealing with a couple of parishioners that apparently fell asleep during our Pastor’s sermon on grace, because they weren’t exactly what you’d call graceful while they waited, don’t ‘cha know?

In the meantime, the Princess had gotten my messages and attempted to get ahold of me, only couldn’t because I had my phone on vibrate and conscientiously crammed into my purse while I attempted to sign-up people.

Not knowing what to do and knowing how I freaked I get when I’m “outta my bubble and stressed”, she grabbed her computer and sped to the church, bra-less and in raggy sweat pants.

She then attempted, once again, to get ahold of me by phone from the confines of her automobile. (God forbid someone spotted her walking toward the church with her ta-tas flapping in a stained sweatshirt and shaggy sweat pants.)

Failing in her attempts to connect with me, she decided that nothing was worth our church friends seeing her bra-less and looking like a bag lady, so she headed back home and anxiously waited for me to return.

In the meantime, I was into my Vanna White act talking up the photo shoot, while Henrietta did a stellar job in single-handedly managing the computer sign-ups.

We finally got the last of the parishioners signed up and I looked at Henrietta and commented, “You’re totally amazing, Woman! No matter what anyone threw at you and how crazy it got, you remained totally cool-headed and calm.”

“You’re amazing. Simply amazing,” I continued while shaking my head back and forth in total disbelief.

“What do you do for a living that has you so level-headed and calm in the midst of pure chaos?” I innocently inquired.

Without missing a beat, she slowly turned her head, calmly looked at me and matter-of-factly stated, “I work as an intake counselor for the mental health clinic at Stanford Hospital.”

Uh-Hun.

Yep.

I’m thinking maybe she’s  good at what she does, People. What do you think?

Have a great day and I’ll catch ya next adventure looking at life from my shoes!

Lucie’s Buddha Belly is Outta Control!

 

All righty!

I just finished scarfing down a grilled, medium rare, quarter pound, grass-fed, angus ground beef (no hormones or antibiotics added!), cheese burger; loaded with sweet onions, home-grown tomatoes and lettuce, mustard, ketchup and mayo on a (Northern Ca.) Dutch Crunch roll with a freshly picked ear of white corn smothered in butter!

And I’m thinking that I sure as hell hope my doctor doesn’t read this week’s posting on my blog.

Cazzo!

My Buddha belly has gone berserk and is totally outta control.

I happened to be listening to Dr. Oz’s T.V. show today, while I was doing my daily wifely chores, and heard him mention something about asparagus being a really good food to eat to maintain weight (or some such health nonsense).

For some reason, though, my Buddha belly and I couldn’t get our head around grazing on a grilled asparagus sandwich, minus the Dutch Crunch roll and cheese, when we were already salivating on the strong possibilities of devouring a grilled, quarter-pounder, encapsulated in Havarti cheese, bedded-down on a Dutch Crutch roll.

No siree, Bob!

I may be from health-conscious California, but don’t be messing with my angus fed, cheese burgers.

I don’t care what people claim – a vegetarian/soy burger is not the same as a grass-fed, angus cheese burger!

And besides, People, if you really think about it, isn’t the grass (as in grass-fed angus beef) considered a type of vegetable?

MY logic certainly says it is.

It’s green.

It grows from the ground.

And individuals, on occasion, have been known to fertilize it.

Sounds like a vegetable to moi!

Now understand, People, I have no problem eating asparagus.

I just don’t personally view it as a suitable substitute for a grilled cheese burger.

Once I figured out, years ago, that the odiferous after effects of eating said vegetable weren’t indications of some God-forsaken  weird disease, especially concocted for curing closeted homosexuals teaching special needs children in Northern Ca, I actually started to enjoy the veggie – as long as it had a titch of mayo on it.

It wasn’t until years after I left upstate New York, and had one of my first teaching jobs in inner-city Oakland, that I naively discovered the lovely attributes of said vegetable.

As I was apprehensively walking out of our classroom bathroom, one day, after lunch, my loyal, and highly astute instructional assistant, says, “Girlfriend, you look like you’ve been rode hard and hung up to dry! Wuz up?”

Well,” I reluctantly and ever-so-anxiously start, “I don’t know how to delicately say this, but my urine has the most peculiar smell to it, and I’m not too sure what to make of it.”

“I think something is wrong – something is SERIOUSLY WRONG with me,” I emphatically continue.

Uh-Hun.

At this point, Lea Joy is doubled-over, coughing with laughter, while I’m skeptically staring at her with a raised left eye-brow that says, “Woman! Have you lost your mind, today?!”

Still laughing, but aware of the fact that I’m earnestly concerned with the situation, she slowly and thoughtfully composes herself, and says to me, “Girrrllll! This one of those peculiarities that’s special to YOU, or are all white people from upstate New York one tit short of an utter?!

Did I tell you that Lea Joy was a transplant from the South and had an uncanny ability, at times, to make an otherwise intelligent woman look (and feel!) quite stupid?

Yes-siree, Bob!

Din’t you just eat some spare-gus with your lunch today?” she continues between fits of laughter.

Un-Hun!

I learned a lot, that first year, working with Lea Joy in inner-city Oakland.

And I’ll always…..always be grateful and indebted to this dear, dear woman for taking on one, very naïve, dumb, (highly educated!) white woman from Upstate New York.

Have a great week, People, and may your day be filled with the joy and laughter that comes from knowing you may be one tit short of an utter, but thank goodness you’re not ME!

Catch ya next adventure, looking at life from my shoes!