They tell me I need to post pretty regular on here. So here’s the current situation.
Last week, I walked over to my uncle’s house to pick up the latest installment from Amazon. Since our two enormous dogs tend to poo wherever the mood strikes them, one has to be cautious of land mines scattered throughout the yard. It was past six, therefore, past dark. I dug out my custom flashlight and, out of habit, checked to make sure the light was working.
No dice.
Johnny oh-so-helpfully offered the use of his, which is a chancy privilege indeed. He’s picky about his flashlights. And he has like, two dozen of them. Must be a guy thing.
So grudgingly, I took it. It was one of his better ones, I knew. It sure was heavy, for no bigger than it was. You could screw the end around to get your desired brightness and beam diameter, or you could hold the button down on the end for immediate use. I elected to hold the button, since I wasn’t going far. Once I got on the other side of the fence, I tucked it into the kangaroo pocket on my sweatshirt with my dead one.
I collected my packages after a few minutes of small talk and headed back home.
Now, here’s where things get hazy.
I placed my (non working) flashlight in my sweetgrass basket on the end table, where it resides with other important objects like keys, my chapstick collection, and a plethora of ink pens. I know I deposited it there because it’s there now. I either handed the fancy flashlight back to Shug, or perhaps laid it on his dresser. The jury is still out on this particular detail.
At any rate, a few days ago he asked after the whereabouts of said flashlight.
“I gave it back to you,” I replied automatically.
“I can’t find it.”
“We were downstairs,” I supplied helpfully.
“I know we were downstairs when I gave it to you, but I don’t remember you giving it back to me.”
Nonplussed, I immediately got up and went to my basket. Only my sad little flashlight. I checked the basket underneath the table, where I typically store my growing stockpile of Scentsy bars. Nope. No little black flashlight with a screw end. No little black flashlight at all.
Hmm. “Well, I’m sure I gave it back to you,” I say authoritatively.
“I’ll look downstairs again. I gotta find it. It was two hundred dollars.”
And that was the end of that. For two days.
So, yesterday I no more than get in the door than the question of the flashlight is broached again.
“I can’t find my flashlight,” he says by way of hello.
“Well, I can’t help it. I gave it back to you.”
“I don’t think you did. I looked in both places I keep it and it’s not in either one.”
“This sounds suspiciously like not my problem,” I retort, going about my business of settling into my routine after working all day.
“Babe, I don’t feel like you’re grasping the magnitude of the situation. It’s a tactical flashlight. I’ve had it almost ten years. It was $200 ten years ago when I bought it.”
“I can’t help it. If I made it back with my $5 flashlight, surely to goodness I made it back with your $200 one.”
“Well, I don’t know where it is.”
By this point, I’ve made it as far as the kitchen. “I’m sure I gave it back to you.”
“It was two hundred dollars,” he stressed.
“It sounds like you overpaid.”
“Well, I can’t imagine me keeping up with it all this time and you using it for one night and it’s suddenly mysteriously missing.”
I sigh. “Did you look on your table?”
“Yes.”
“Under all the crap? And under the table?”
“Yes. And in the pouch I keep it in.”
Next thing I know, he’s on the phone with Uncle Dale, inquiring after a flashlight that maybe perhaps had been left over there. My name, of course, is mentioned in conjunction with the missing light source.
“I didn’t lose your flashlight!!” At this point, I have become shrill.
He’s too busy talking about how it was Two Hundred Dollars to notice.
I begin my search. I check my baskets one last time. I methodically search the pockets of my coats in the closet. I check the basket under the coffee table. (Do you think I have a basket problem? I think this affliction affects many southern women). No black flashlight. I pace back to the spare bedroom Shug uses for all his clothes and “man stuff” that’s too important to live in the man cave (and by that, I mean the entirety of downstairs). I scoot some papers around on his dresser and feel underneath piles of clothes. My husband is a bit of a slob for awhile, then he picks everything up and it’s spotless for 48 hours. We’re soon to approach the cleaning duration of his cycle.
Aha!!! I spy a black flashlight of the correct dimension on his desk. I squint. No, that can’t be right.
This one has NRA emblazoned down the side. A freebie, then. My eyes dart to another one on the shelf, near a crusty bandage.
Surefire. Shitfire! It’s the Surefire two hundred dollar flashlight. I pick it up gleefully and prance back to the living room, where Shug is dully staring at the tv, mourning the loss of his treasured tactical flashlight.
I clear my throat.
“The missing flashlight….is it about this long?” I indicate by spacing my hands approximately six inches apart.
“Yes.”
“And it’s black?”
He gives me a look that says “you know damn good and well exactly what the flashlight looks like because you’re the last one who saw it alive”.
“And does it say ‘Surefire’?”
“Yes.”
I whip it out. “Well, lookie here, lookie here what I found on a shelf in your bedroom!”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Mmm-hmmm. So I guess you need to add a third spot where you keep your two hundred dollar flashlight! I’ll just stand here and await my apology.”
To his credit, he immediately set forth with only a somewhat sarcastic apology. I then called Uncle Dale to clear my good name before my reputation was forever tarnished.
And that is how I found the missing flashlight.
Now, I must go try to find his work keys.
You can’t make this stuff up.
At least I haven’t borrowed them. Maybe we need another basket for organizing.
Purina Mills has been around for over a century. In that time they put on the most informative sales meetings (for companies & feed customers alike) I have ever attended. A few stick out in my mind. One was where they showed a tag for a 12% horse feed. It sounded pretty good from a nutritional percentage standpoint. When you got down to the ingredients they were actually motor oil, cardboard, and a whole host of deadly components that carry protein, fat, and fiber ratios.
Purina sets itself apart from competitors by constantly researching. Their private farm is home to over 3000 animals situated on 1200 acres.
Once upon a time, I was attending a training meeting hosted by Purina. This presentation began by telling a story that *I benignly thought* had nothing to do with feeding horses.
Seems that there was this woman that was cooking her Christmas ham. Her husband was in the kitchen, underfoot and watching. He noticed she cut a good two inches off each end of the ham.
“Why’d you do that for?” he wanted to know.
“Do what?”
“Cut the perfectly good ends off.”
The wife reportedly scrunched her brow. “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know. My momma always did it when she fixed the ham.”
The ham was pushed into the oven to bake in pork peace. Later, as it was transferred to the table, the woman asked her mother why she cut the ends off the ham.
“That’s the way my mother did it, so I did too.”
To get to the end of this once and for all, the woman sought out her grandmother for the answer. She was found on the couch, patiently waiting for her Christmas dinner to be brought to her.
“Grandmomma, why do you cut the ends of the ham?”
“What are you talking about, dearie?”
“Well, I’ve been fixing the ham for the last few years, and I cut about an inch from each end. I never thought much about it, but Bill asked me today why I did, and I didn’t really have an answer besides that’s what I remember watching momma do. So I asked her why SHE did it, and she said because that’s what you always did, but she didn’t know why.”
The younger woman waited patiently for the secret to be unlocked and bequeathed to her.
The old woman began to laugh.
“Oh, honey. I used to cut the ends off because the ham was too big for my roasting pan! I couldn’t afford to buy a new one, those disposable ones were unheard of, so I would just cut the ham to fit.”
So, for who knew how many years, these women had been following a tradition without questioning why. They had also been wasting Lord knows how much ham for no good reason.
The same is true for many horse owners. Lots of people feed “A coffee can full of sweet feed with a half a can of corn and oats” with no better reason for doing it than “that’s the way my daddy always did it and he said it was the best.” But Purina nutrition analysts know better. And you can know better, too. You just have to listen, or do your own research.
Before you blindly accept something presented as tradition (which is a fancy way of saying I’m scared of change) find out why you’re doing it the way you always have. It may be the trappings of tradition binding you to a particular unhappiness.
Ask questions, or become a lemming.
This goes for religion, politics, AND cookin’.
I don’t read emails. I mean, I used to. When they were new and novel. But the past fifteen years, I have been inundated with all manner of “chain” emails, sales, and stupid jokes…so along the way I just stopped reading them. Ask Mike Rucks, he will tell you. He was my Farnam rep while I was at Co-op and it took him a year or two to catch on. But see, here’s the thing. If it was really important, he would come by. So technically, I’m a product of my environment.
Well, anyway. Now that I’m a DOMAIN owner, emails evidently have a new level of importance.
You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this on here instead of my sparkling new blog, as promised.
Well, I’m getting to that.
It has to do with reading emails. Or not, if you wanna get technical about it.
So I go to login tonight and I can’t. I thought I had inadvertently reset my password so I hit the little “forgot password” located oh-so-conveniently at the top, just there.
“Email not found” it spat back.
Well, that’s just garbage. WordPress has been nothing but a headache from the get-go. So I moved to step 2. “Check that spelling is correct.” Of course it’s correct. I may not know what 8×7 is, but by George, I can spell!!!
Step 3: Validate that you have a wordpress.com account and not a wordpress.org
Hmmm. Now there’s a possibility. So I try to log in over there. No dice. I keep reading. It instructs me to go to “Recover account”. It asks me all these hard questions about transaction id numbers and url’s and a whole mess of other crap. I scan my emails (alllllll my accounts, which takes some time). I get my credit card bill. I got nothin’ like what they want. I login to Bluehost, they’re good people and have never failed to help me. And I go to the frequently accessed “Help” menu. I know just where it is. I type in my latest problem. So it gives me a variety of reasons why I could potentially be locked out, including something about a validation email. This gives me pause. Seems like I skimmed something about that.
The title, you all will be delighted to learn, included the words “Verification” AND “Action Required.”
How ’bout that.
Turns out, the email expired after two weeks (which was today, even though it seems like I’ve been fooling with this crazy thing for eighteen years) and it instructed me to request a new one.
With no handy link button.
This required further digging. I was well and truly aggravated by this point and it was nobody’s fault but mine. To the help tab I go. Again. And find the steps to take to get the email resent (I mean, is it THAT hard for the computer gurus to give me the link right where it tells me to request it??) and I accomplish getting the second email sent. IT comes over immediately and really, it took less than two seconds to click what I needed to.
Sigh of relief as I sit back and go to sign back into wordpress.
And it still doesn’t recognize me.
I hit the roof. “Nothin’ but problems!! WordPress has been NOTHIN’. BUT. PROBLEMS since the BEGINNING!!” I rage. Bluepress will help me. I dial them up. I select my menu on the automated system while I read more about this validation email.
I’m on hold for the next available associate when I see it: “It may take 24-48 hours for your login information to be recognized after you have been locked out”.
HOW NICE.
I hang up. Somebody in New York probably heaved a sigh of relief. I’m sure they’ve got my account and phone number flagged up there.
So, long story short, I didn’t read a Very Important Email this one time and caused myself a lot of undue stress and aggravation. And I can’t be mad at anybody but myself this once. And I HATE IT when that happens.
I’m having trouble understanding the people who are going to sightsee the ruined areas of Gatlinburg. They ogle, they take pictures, they take souvenirs of ash and more. They are trespassing on all that remains of many people’s homes.
I know people are curious, but melted aluminum isn’t “cool”, what’s left of the Castle isn’t “awesome” and the dregs of the apartments on Ski Mountain aren’t to be gawked at. I’m just sickened by what thrills certain people. I can’t bear to look…I still have trouble digesting how many people lost their jobs, their businesses, and their transportation.
That Monday night I sat in my living room, surrounded by my life’s work. I can’t fathom what I would try to make it out with. I have no doubt that Shug would get the dogs and hopefully a chainsaw. I’ve lived in this very house almost my entire life. It was built by my great-great uncle for my Grandmother when my momma was still a wee tot. I reside on what remains of the original farm. I know every inch.
My town has grown up around me. All these people have moved in and brought with them their restaurants and their way of doing things (namely driving entirely too fast and not waving when they see you working in the yard).
So say my neighborhood caught on fire. Say I had two minutes to grab and git. What would I take from my lifetime of memories? Would I take my sweetgrass basket from Charleston? Would I make a grab for some of my most treasured books? And what about my loads of photo albums and scrapbooks? My collection of Coach bags beckoned me…I finally determined that more than likely I would just have to hope the things in my pocketbook would sustain me for a few days. But what if I didn’t have the presence of mind to even get that much?
The road would be clogged with all the yuppies. I’d hafta put Patsy in 4-wheel dig and hope for the best. We’d make west, towards Knoxville. And I might not stop till I got to the mighty Mississippi.
So that was what I was thinking that Monday evening as I sat paralyzed keeping updated via Facebook. As I prayed for my friends that were trying to get away. As I wondered what would remain of our mountains when I rose the next morning.
I ticked off the known losses in my head. Would downtown survive? It wasn’t looking too good, and Dollywood was in peril. My county was burning down. Evacuations are unheard of here. Our mountains protect us from violent storms but how can we protect our mountains?
It was around this time I thought of my good friend I made while dispatching. I decided to check on her, knowing if she was at work I wouldn’t hear from her. She’d be into it up to her eyeballs.
Again, the news wasn’t reporting much. All the action was on Facebook.
Another friend was curled up on her couch, much as I am now, watching Lifetime movies with her Jack Russell terrier, when her phone began to ping with notifications from friends. They were checking to make sure she was ok. And her response: “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because she lives in Pigeon Forge. And the fires were at the Chimney Tops. And everything was fine at six o’clock. But as she flipped over to the news, finally finding a station that was airing anything about it, it was almost too late. The pounding at the door for evacuation got her moving. She grabbed her dog, her purse, and her laptop and made for the door in her pajamas and houseshoes. No makeup, no bra, and no idea which way to go. The fire was on both sides now. She lives on Wears Valley and Black Bear Falls, across the road, was fully engulfed.
Luckily, my friend’s house was spared. But what if it hadn’t been? What if, one week later, she was finally permitted to go back to see for herself, and was confronted by the sight of people–locals and tourists alike– driving up and around her neighborhood, gaping and taking pictures and pulling over to scuff through the rubble for some artifact to take home and put on their shelf as proof to their grandkids years from now that they got to see Gatlinburg on fire?
Can you imagine, as a local, fighting your way down Ski Mountain Road Monday night? It’s hard enough in the summer in broad daylight. Now set it on fire from both ends & put some burning logs in the middle of the road. Add darkness & people screaming in your ears.
And now imagine you’re on vacation in the mountains for the first time. You’ve driven this road exactly one time: earlier today with the aid of a paper map the check in desk provided you with and your GPS. And now you can’t find your map because the power went out when the lines began to melt and your GPS isn’t working because the smoke is obscuring satellite signals.
Don’t cancel your plans to come to the smokies. We’re just a little bit damaged right now, but don’t feel guilty for coming & enjoying yourself & having a good time. But please, be respectful. Keep your distance. We’re still mourning. You any have lost a piece of your favorite vacation destination but we lost our jobs and homes. We need y’all, almost as badly as we need your prayers.
This blog is killing me.
KILLING ME.
I still haven’t figured out how to link my Amazon affiliate links to my website and posts, even though I have watched no shortage of YouTube videos. They’re all outdated, is the problem.
And I thought all my categories had put themselves in the right drop down menu by the magic of elves, but found out tonight that the elves hate me and nothing had happened.
Sigh.
I did get that worked out.
If anybody has any suggestions that don’t include the words “give up” or “get drunk” I will blindly accept them.
Take advantage of this while you can.
It feels weird to have a website. I’ve been updating my favorite social media sites with my web address. Now I’m one of those people.
Today I’ve done normal things…laundry, made sausage gravy, wrapped Christmas presents, watched Romy and Michelle’s High School reunion-I’d give you the link if it were any count, but it ain’t, so I’m not- {did anybody else just sing Janet Jackson with that? No? Just me then.} and submitted my book review for the library’s blog. Thank God they keep that one updated for me. I was just relieved to finish that book. It’s another’n I’d give you the link to if it was worth reading. But it’s not. Such a shame. I hate it when books and authors disappoint me. My next one is going much better.
I DESPISE wrapping Christmas presents. I much prefer the buying aspect. I even like the buying of the paper. And I continue to buy more every single year, even though we have more than enough to see us through the next decade. My wrapping skills are sorely lacking. Johnny has these precise corners…mine are a wadded up, torn, much-taped, hideous disgrace. It truly is shameful.
Now that is an example of one of my worst case scenarios. The package was too big for my wrapping paper. What choice did I have? You should know the tag read: “Wrapped with love, but not much talent.” So what I normally do in these wrapping situations–and you’re more than welcome to adopt this little nugget for yourself–is put an elaborate bow and ribbon concoction on it to draw attention away from the rest of the mess. I mean, kids don’t care what it looks like…but Southern women are certain to notice and critique. Best to cover up your faults with a good dash or something flashy. And if you splurge for real ribbon and not that tacky curling ribbon you get bonus points. Best to err on the side of caution and buy the wide, wired stuff. Sam’s Club has it for next to nothing for a gigantic roll. And I oh-so-helpfully gave you the direct link right there.
I’m curious about this new curbside pickup service grocery stores are offering. While I don’t have kids, I am lazy by all accounts, and I feel that I could really benefit by saving myself the 800 steps or so (I used to have a Fitbit, I can tell you a lot about distances now). And I’m sure it would save me quite a bit of money. I don’t know what gets into me in the jam aisle, not to mention the cheeses…
And I know that apple butter ain’t gonna be worth the time it took to pick it up; being raised on homemade I do have a discriminating palate. But I had a weak moment. However, the red plum and the strawberry-blackberry are both fantastic. I tried to make homemade freezer jam this summer and that was a train wreck. It’s all runny…I think I let it boil too long but what choice did I have? I was a one woman operation and pouring those jars takes a steady hand (which I don’t have) and patience (which I’m also a little short on). But it did turn out quite a vibrant shade of red. And thanks to several cups of sugar, also quite sweet.
American Pickers is on TV. It’s a good one ~ an old man that’s collected a bunch of crap over the course of his life and now he’s ready to see it off. Maybe get a little pocket money to spend on a cruise with their sweetheart. I could watch these episodes all day. It is nerve wracking when they don’t wanna sell, though. I understand about accumulating crap. I come from a long line of pack rats. My great grandmother lived through the Depression so she saved everything. I LOVED playing in her many closets and trying on all these fabulous hats. My grandmother kept every polyester pants suit she ever had, which were not nearly as enticing.
I just wanted to drop a few lines this evening, stay in the habit, you know. It’s not hard to write, my trouble is getting it to the right place. I don’t think it’s happening yet. But I’m trying.
Thanks for reading. I’m off to bake cookies.
You can ask just about anybody where their first date was with their spouse, and they can generally supply you with the name of the city and the restaurant. ‘Round here, it’s frequently “We went up to Gatlinburg.”
I had already warned him that I wasn’t a girl that ordered salads for a meal. Salads are what tide you over until the beef makes it out. And rolls. Mmmm rolls….
I digress.
It was a pretty normal date, as far as dates go. He kissed me. (!) But I couldn’t tell you much else, I had stars in my eyes, and the fact of the matter is, I’m accustomed to the beauty of the mountains at this stage in my life.
I never thought the sight of pallets would make me cry. I brought 11 from the shop….Food City brought this many:
I suppose that title isn’t exactly fair. But I’m whooped, as we say around here. The litany of problems began as soon as I purchased the theme from WordPress. That was one solid week ago. I volunteered all day Friday from daylight to dark, so what made me think I had the wherewithal to start my blog the very next day, I will never know. I paid fifty bones for a theme (I chose the prettiest one that included the words “simple” and “elegant”), and then I paid another fifty bucks for it to be installed. Now, that’s tricky business. You would think that “installed” would mean you sit back and watch a timebar (is that what those things are called?) slowly build as the program downloads to your host, amiright?
Nope. Iamwrong.
I don’t know how normal people do it, but I had to go to the live chat and plead for help. Live chat with my domain host, to be clear. They are super helpful. They’re like, “It looks like you do not have it downloaded. Shall I do that for you now?” Sooooo….what did I pay for, exactly? I hope the theme is mine forever, because it’s going to take me at least that long to learn it.
Thankfully, of the approximately 5,647 people who have begged me to write a book/ start a blog/ come tell them stories, three have been willing to help me. Maybe more than that, but two have seriously devoted time to holding my hand and commiserating with me over my laptop. One is a retired Air Force Colonel whose forte was website analytics. He helped me from step one. And he was baffled as I was at all this overload. We gave up after a few hours, promising to give it our next best shot very soon.
My Christmas tree had stood nekkid in the corner since Monday night because I hadn’t had the heart to decorate. I still didn’t, but it needed to be done. But I was so emotionally strung out, Christmas lights and my unstable self were not a favorable combination. I felt intense guilt for even having any sorrows for myself after what many of my fellow Sevier County neighbors had seen and endured this week. But, as usual, Johnny got me through it. I don’t know what I’d do without him and my own personal blogging cheerleader, Meg, who is always able to talk me down or up, whatever the situation demands.
On day two, over sausage biscuits, the Colonel and I were able to create three emails. One for business correspondence (that’s for all the Big Time publishers begging me to choose them for publishing rights), a second one for my contact page that all my starry-eyed devoted followers will write their letters of awe and praise to (uhh, that’s y’all, y’all), and the third one is what I will use for sending out response emails and the like. They are on the Outlook format, which I happen to be somewhat familiar with, as that is the type I used at the Co-op. Alrighty roo. My dear sweet cousin had made me the beautiful logo that you see up top there, with the peonies, a southern favorite. However, it was a smidge too big so she adjusted and installed it for me during our session at my creaky dining room table last night. Anyhoo, back to Kent and I last Sunday. So we struggled and cussed and googled and cussed some more while Johnny strolled by occasionally, popping peanut M&Ms in his mouth while somewhat sympathetically eyeing our work over our heads. I got set up with Amazon ads but I’m still waiting for approval with Google. We obviously didn’t get the ads plugged into my theme, so if you’ve got helpful hints on doing so, please leave a comment. I know how to answer them…I learned about an hour ago.
I had put blogging out of my mind this week while I tried to concentrate on work, and being a good Christian servant to those in need, and cooking supper for Shug. Yesterday afternoon, after I finished all my runnin’ (including the fourth and FINAL trip to my cobbler who is twenty miles away) my dear sweet lovely clever talented cousin (you see how badly I need her, right?) came to help me. She hauled her Very Large and Extremely Expensive Apple monitor over here. I had discovered my Outlook trial period had ran out on all the emails I had created precisely five days prior and I was positively freaking out. We were making some progress (or rather, she was, I was chopping onions and praying) when Bluehost crashed. All our headway was potentially lost. And my logo was repeated about fourteen times in the header.
At this time, I began to drink from my rather giant bottle of Riesling.
Like every other blogger (and I use that term loosely when describing myself, for obvious reasons) I called the help desk. I got some poor bloke who was clearly at a loss and was relieved when I invoked all my southern charm on him when I assured myself that “Everything will be fine and reset itself, when y’all get back up and runnin’ right?” Obviously he was taken by my accent and agreed with everything I said. My dear sweet lovely clever talented cousin decided to undertake the Outlook email issue. She got on the horn –I mean, live chat– with some lady who thought the solution to my problem was another $109 dollars to install it. I wasn’t so inclined.
So this morning I get fired up about it all over again and attempt to log in and with fingers crossed and pixie dust, I pulled up this lovely site once more.
And Amy’s Appalachia was displayed about fourteen times across the back.
And when I logged into my dashboard, the background turned black.
And then I burned the toast.
And then I cried.
And then Johnny held me.
And I logged back into live chat with Bluehost. After one hour, and several un-Christianlike thoughts later, I had my email back up! No $109 required by me! Suck it, Microsoft. Unfortunately, she couldn’t help me with the tiled logo look, or the Amazon issue. She said I had to talk to WordPress. Kill me now, they have no 800 number, it’s all forums. Did I tell you that already? I fiddled with it but never got anywhere. I decided to hit the “Go Live” and see what happened.
Well, it became active. I’m here now. So I decided to post my blurb from last night on Facebook. I titled it Honeymoonin’, slapped a picture on there, and posted it. Shazam!
And….you can see the Texas Roadhouse link, and me and hubby smoochin’, and that was it. Where were my WORDS?! My beautiful words!!
Back to the forum I go. They’re suggesting pretty serious stuff, from what I can make out. Like, uninstalling my plugins. No thank you. I only have like, ten, and they look pretty crucial to me. The other solutions used techie words like “limits” and codes that I don’t even understand. But my positively brilliant cousin suggested that perhaps the words were white. That sounds simple, right? But after carefully inspecting my editing page I couldn’t find a thing besides bold or italics. I decided to try the theme page. Once I located the correct place AHA!!! There it was! So I adjusted the text color to a historic grey (can you tell? Does it look like boring black? I promise it’s not).
I think that’s all for now. I’m still in my pajamas (it’s 1:46), my work Christmas party is at six at the upper end of Pigeon Forge, and our bed still isn’t made. And I’m obviously gonna have to do something about my hair. I’m gonna attempt to post this and pray it loads to the right spot, wherever that might be, and hope y’all weren’t too bored reading about my trials and tribulations. Believe me, I feel loads of guilt complaining about anything. But that’s been my Blogging Journey this far. Thanks for reading.
