Put One Foot In Front of the Other

I was given the clearance to start the walking process on Monday - holy hell is it ever a process.  I guess after not putting any pressure onto an appendage for over 10 weeks that it would take a little while to get used to the walking thing again.  
I do okay with the crutches and a little weight - not enough to really hurt, but enough to know that I'm putting some pressure down on something that is completely different than it was a couple of months ago.  I keep reminding myself that it's not going to happen overnight and continue being patient.
I am so anxious to ditch the crutches, because there are so many things I want to do.  I want to dig out my sewing machine, I want to photograph my flowers and the beautiful tortoises that hang out in the front yard every day, and I want to walk my wee little furry friend Murphy.  It's been so long since we walked together - longer than I can remember.  
I want to stop looking like a dummy at the thrift shops with hangers hanging on my crutches.  I want to get back to making my bed every day and helping the love of my life with house chores and dinner.  I want to drive again and I want to stop my daily fight with the restroom door at work. 

Slow and steady, push myself, but know my limitations, right? 


I think I'll sing some Chubby Checker this week when I practice!

Safe Keeping

I was talking with The Head Rat from The Rat's Pack last night and this morning about safely storing some old baseball cards he has up for sale.  
He put the card in in a sandwich bag.  He then put the card in the sandwich bag into an envelope.  I suggested putting the card in the sandwich bag in the envelope into a box just to be on the safe side.  He suggested wrapping the card in the sandwich bag in the envelope in the box in bubble wrap.
And it just got more ridiculous from there.  By the end of it we were both laughing hysterically and the baseball card was safe inside a military tank which was wrapped of course, in bubble wrap.


If you have a minute, check out The Head Rat's booth over on eCrater.  He has some cool stuff that he's getting rid of from his childhood along with some sports memorabilia.  If you are looking for something specific, drop him a line over there or let me know here.  We always run into some crazy stuff down here in The Sunshine State.

Via: The Rat's Pack

What’s In A Name? An Introduction.

I’ve never really introduced myself here, and thought that it was high time I did so.  My name is Tuesday.  Yes, you read that correctly, it’s my real name; it’s what is printed on my birth certificate, and what I have gone by for the last 40 years. 

I’m going to start by answering the first question that probably popped in your head.  No, I was not born on a Tuesday.  I was born in Northern New York, during a massive snow storm, on a Sunday Valentine’s Day afternoon.  I was a week early, and if you listen to my mother, she was convinced I was a boy.  Guess she was pretty surprised when she didn’t see any bits hanging. 

Why Tuesday?  Why not?  My mother’s given name is Kathryn, and she was called Kathy.  She said while growing up, there were always a lot of Kathy’s.  She wanted my name to be unique, something to stand out from the crowd.  Well, Tuesday certainly stands out.  Since I was a boy, the name was already decided on by both of them, William Joseph (thank goodness I was a girl), they didn’t do such a good job of hacking out the girl name.  There was NO WAY my mother was having a girl.  SURPRISE!!!!!

Dad wanted the cutesy names that my mother didn’t like of the very early 1970’s; Melissa or Melanie is what she told me in an email this morning, but I remember her telling me at one time it was Jessica or Jennifer.  Mom wanted Elizabeth or Rachael, of which my dad felt both were too old fashioned.  I guess when push came to more pushing, my mother decided that since she was doing all the work (um, pushing) that she would pick the name.  She chose Tuesday Ann, and told the nuns at the hospital to write it down, and to not allow anyone ("ahem, specifically the father Sister”) change it.

To sum that part of my introduction up, yes I love my name, no, I have never though of changing it (except maybe a brief time when I was 7 years old and wanted to be a Jessica like every other girl in my class or maybe Olivia, because then I could make out with Johnny T in my favorite movie Grease - give me a break I was 7).  It is unique, it does grab a person’s attention, and there’s not very many other’s running around with the same name.  I could bore you to tears with stories about other "unique" names people I've met over the years, but I won't. 

I am a newly minted 40 year-old, and have just recently been able to sputter those words.  They still hurt sometimes though.  I took a different route in life than many do and joined the Navy when I got out of high school.  It enlightened me, I learned from my experience, and I’m glad that I had the opportunity.  I started college when I got out of the Navy and it took me 11 years to finish.  I paid for college myself, took one or two classes at a time, and had a few bumps along the way.  When I finally decided on what I wanted to focus on, I made practically straight A’s.  I graduated with Honors from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock in 2004 with a degree in communication studies (that means I know how to communicate with people…).

Currently I am living in Florida with the love of my life, who I met over 20 years ago on a blind date, and our wee little Cairn Terrier, Murphy MacDonald, Lord of the Isle.  I work in administration at a not-for-profit organization.  One of my favorite things to do, and the inspiration for the blog title, is spending time on the beach.  I love the water, the salty sea air, the sound of the waves, the sand, and especially seashells.  A couple of years ago I started golfing, which is a lot of frustration and fun rolled into one.  If given a choice between shopping and fishing, I’ll beat you to the boat.  I could spend every day for the rest of my life fishing, catch nothing, and be a very happy girl.  I love to read.  I will be honest, I don’t read to better myself (unless I have to), I read because I want that escape from reality, whatever it may be.  I like to sew, though I’m working on perfecting (okay, getting moderately good at) that skill.  I’ve learned to crochet recently, and have all the stuff to knit, but haven’t taken that plunge yet.  I don’t like to shop.  I love thrift stores and yard sales though and can spend hours looking for something special for a small price.  

I would like my blog to be about me, but I also hope to bring my love of books, my love of the sea, my love of golf along with some other surprises to anyone out there who stumbles on it.  I would love nothing more than to see this take off into something amazingly wonderful, but I will be happy the way it is. 

Bitter

I'm bitter, and I feel bad about it.  


I am tired of well-meaning friends calling and asking me what I am up to.  You really want to know?  Well, today, I got out of bed, went to the couch, opened my laptop, and have been watching the Casey Anthony trial streaming on the Internet, pretty much non-stop.  I have not moved from the couch.  I can't tidy up the house, I can't run down to the beach, I can't help the love of my life while he's out sweating do death working in the yard.  You may recall that I am recovering from major ankle surgery.  It's been 2 months since I have walked, and frankly, I am becoming bitter.  I am tired of the rest of the world being able to go on with their lives and not have to worry about swelling and pain and crutches and handicapped parking places and stupid people who disregard someone who is hobbling around on crutches.  I am bitter because I am tired of being like this.


I feel bad because I am snapping at those closest to me when I know they mean well.  I feel bad because I know they aren't rubbing in their good times to me, they are my friends, and they are sharing life with me, as I've shared life with them.  I don't have anything to share with them though, and when I do share, I feel like I am seeking pity about my situation.  


Currently, my life is a lot of waiting.  I'm waiting for bone to fuse, bone to heal, calcification to take place.  I have to sit quietly, stay safe, and do nothing to jeopardize the work that has been done.  Waiting has become bitterness.  Of course this will pass, I will be back to my old self soon, but for now, I want to be bitter and angry.  

Might As Well Face It I’m Addicted to Blogs

There, now you have an ear worm too!

Over the last few weeks, just when I thought that I was finally getting around to reading the end of the Internet, I started reading blogs, lots of blogs.  I’ve had one or two saved over the years that I follow pretty religiously, but this recent craze of mine is, well, blog-a-lishous!  I’ve found stuff that interests me, stuff that doesn’t, people who are living out their dreams, and those who are having a tough time with life.  I’ve learned new ideas, new techniques, and new trends.

The best thing I have found from reading blog after blog after blog is inspiration.  It’s funny that in this world full of billions of people that you can find something to read, by a real person, about something that you are interested in all the while gaining a new and different type of perspective other than the same old boring one you’ve been dragging around for years.

What’s that definition of insanity; doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results?  Is that totally true?  For the most part, yes it is, but in the world of blogging there can be 50 (or even 5000) of the same type of blog, but each one will have a different outcome or result.  Why is that?  I believe that it’s one trait that we are all born with, but some people never realize it while others take it and amazing things happen.  It’s called creativity.  I’m sure there’s some study out there about creativity and the traits that one has to hold to gain maximum potential.  I mean, there really is only one Sistine Chapel, right?

I really want to work on my creative traits that I know are lurking just below the surface.  I want to be able to push back from my desk and look at my blog and see something that probably a gaggle of other people have out there, but is uniquely mine and it stands out for me.  I want to be proud of what has grown out of a whim and hopefully into something great, something that I can cultivate like a garden and watch thrive and grow. 

I want the finished product to be kind of like a piece of sea glass.  You throw broken bottle pieces into the sea, and on a beach somewhere thousands and thousands of miles away the most beautiful piece of tumbled glass that is as unique as I am is found by another creative soul who will use that piece of glass for inspiration.

I’d Like To Tell You About A Man Named Joe

A few weeks ago the love of my life became nostalgic for his late teens and pulled out the old comic book collection.  We’ve been together for just over 21 years now, and I’ve seen this collection less than 5 times.  It was fun to watch and listen to him talk about the books, as if they were old college friends.  I asked him why he stopped collecting them, and he gave the standard reply one would expect, “beer money”.  Makes sense.  My best friend and partner-in-crime used to have holes in the soles of her shoes for that same reason.

The mother of the love of my life was an antique dealer for many, many years.  The love of my life grew up being a part of this collection and selling business and knew the importance of keeping things in good shape that may later have a resale value.  This said mother is still waiting for her resale value with two storage units chocked full of antique store inventory that more than likely will never see the light of day again, but that’s another story.

So the research began.  By Sunday, he was checking out Craigslist and putting out feelers. Phone calls were received from meth’d out folks in desperate need to tell us their life story of baby daddy’s and foreclosed homes who wanted to sell their imprisoned family member’s comic book collection probably for the going rate of a hit of meth.  This little adventure was going to be fun!!!

Two Saturday’s ago the love of my life bribed me with lunch on the beach at Sloppy Joe’s to load up my crutches and a pillow in the car if I would spend the day zigzagging across the St. Petersburg peninsula to look at comic books with him.  Beach?  Food?  Sign me up!!  My only stipulation was that if the person was a hoarder like the ones on TV, I wouldn’t be going inside.  The first stop was to purchase another piece of his childhood that was stolen from him – Dungeon’s and Dragon’s manual.  Success, and he had a smile on his face!  Second stop was not as successful in that it was a young guy who was clearly being pestered by his wife to get rid of the useless comic books a buddy talked him into taking because she needed more room in their 900 square foot bungalow for her shoes.  The dude was clearly of his rocker wanting a C note for two or three boxes full of crapola.  We left without committing, and the guy called later to beg the love of my life for an offer, any offer.  He was offered $20.00, and kindly refused, saying he would be throwing them away.  Too bad, could have taken his wife out for a cocktail.

Our last stop of the day was in the North Tampa area.  We were going to meet Joe, who said he would be home after 3:00 pm.  After riding around trying to find his pad, waiting for him to show up, getting stymied at Target because all of the fatty scooters were taken, we finally met Joe.  Joe lived in the typical Florida mobile home park; tidy little areas, with about 6 streets in it, lots of pinks and greens, and really old people.  We pulled up to Joe’s mobile home, and he greeted us at the front door.  His first words were an apology, because apparently the animal hoarder next door’s cats got into his air conditioner unit, thereby leaving the air conditioning not working.  We were going through an unusual heat wave in Florida with heat indices over a hundred and the humidity hung in the air like a wet blanket.  And that normal breeze off the sea?  What breeze?  We were getting ripped off!

Joe sees that I’m all gimpy about the same time I see the steep assed stairs leading up to the front door.  I kind of peeked around him to see if he might possibly be a hoarder (he told us he had been at the flea market all day and his vehicle was jam packed full of boxes so the possibility was there), saw that it was safe and made the trek up the giant steps.  I entered into the flaming hot mobile home and the sweat instantly started.  Joe offered me a seat at the table while he took the love of my life back to see the comics.  I figured it would be safer if we were not separated, just in case something happened, ya know?  We went to the bowels of the home, to an interior room that was sealed with an eye hook and nail.

The stifling room was filled with more boxes – this must be Joe’s flea market inventory.  He showed us where the comics where, and I tried to figure out where to sit.  Two seconds later, Joe appeared with a chair for me.  Wow!  There are still some decent people in this world.  We go through the 700 plus comic as quickly as we can, sweat pouring out of all cracks and crevices on our bodies; our shirts becoming discolored from the seepage.  Then the boys get to talking.  The love of my life has this uncanny ability to draw all sorts of details from people.  I like to say he has mad skillz – yes, that’s with a Z.  He likes that.

Joe tells us about his days growing up in the Bronx just a few blocks from the Apollo Theater to his time working as an extra for The Punisher.  He said he stood just a few feet from Johnny T (my favorite Scientologist) and was surprised at how tall he is.  Joe said he does other work as an extra, and has been offered more speaking parts, but he doesn’t want to put dentures in, so he turns those down.  Did I not mention Joe only had a couple of teeth?  Yeah, he was pretty gummy with the smiles, but he had an air of confidence about him that showed he could give a rat’s ass if anyone liked it or not.

We finished the transaction without any problems.  Joe carried the comics to the door, the love of my life loaded my little Honda Civic to the hilt with them and I sat in the kitchen.  I have to admit to one moment of holy shit, I’m going to end up this guys sex slave or dart board or loaded into a pet carrier for the next few months until my foot heals enough so I can bust out of the place, but at least with no air conditioning I can lose some weight when the love of my life was outside and I was inside with Joe.  It was a fleeting thought, and quickly passed as both men made sure I was safe getting down the Mt. Everest high steps. 

We chatted a bit more outside where the 90 plus degree temperature felt like a cool breeze in hell, and I took a good look at Joe.  The toupee was a horrible match for his hair and it didn’t go well with his skin tone, but he was probably a decent looking guy when he was younger.  He had a great personality and was fun to hang out with for a bit.  It’s interesting the people you meet in your life and how you come across them.  Joe from Craigslist was memorable and kind and someone I won’t soon forget.  I also won’t ever forget that my hair was not dry from the sweat locker of home he had even with the air conditioning blasting full on for the hour drive back home!

The things we do for our hobbies!

Big shout out to The Rat's Pack of This N That Pack Rat (of www.bonanza.com and www.ecrater.com) for use of the photo!

And My Little Dog, Too

Anyone who knows anything about dog breeds know that the Terrier group can be one of the most stubborn, hard-headed, head-strong, strong-willed group of dogs on the planet.  Did I mention stubborn?
We have a Cairn Terrier.  When we tell people what breed he is they will usually give us a puzzled look.  Then we'll ask them if they remember Toto from The Wizard of Oz.  The light bulb clicks on, but dims somewhat.  Because we are mind readers, we'll say something along the lines of "yeah, betcha thought Toto was a mutt, eh?"  The light bulbs is brighter now.  
Toto was a pure bred Cairn Terrier named Terry.  Terry's first owners were not so fond of her (yes, a girl) terrier-ness, so they booted her to the curb.  You can read about Terry here on the wiki page:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_(dog).  Her biography is also a good read and you can pick it up here from Amazon:  http://tinyurl.com/5twlmxk

Murphy MacDonald, Lord of the Isle came into our home and our hearts in July 2008.  Our beloved Chocolate Lab, Delta Dawn, had died on May 5, and we were very lonely without a four-legged little creature in our lives.  Delta was the most obedient, well-trained dog I have ever known.  She was the love of my life's hunting buddy and my constant companion when she finally retired from duck retrieving.  
Murphy was quite possibly the cutest puppy I have ever come across in my life, and he had the sharpest teeth that rivaled the many sea creatures we've caught fishing over the years.  He was a terror on four legs, but when he would lay his head on our chest or leg and look up at us with "those" eyes, we melted and forgot about the teeth marks on our legs, the hutch, and the Pella window sills.  His cuteness has only increased over the three years of his life.
Murphy is also very smart and knows a ton of commands:  sit, stay, down, sit pretty, give me some paw, high five, speak, roll over, and the best is when we ask  him if he'd rather be a Gator or dead; he'll tip onto his side and stop breathing, playing dead.  He can stand and jump, and will give us a "bump" with his nose, and he'll walk at heel on the leash.  He does not understand the command "come" though.  Oh, he'll do it when there is food involved, but if I want him to move from one spot in the house to where I am at, he'll stand there with the most defiant face and not budge an inch.  Stubborn!
Our lab was never allowed on the furniture.  Murphy, because of the infinite cuteness factor, is pretty much allowed to do whatever pleases him.  He'll sit in the dining room chairs, on the ottoman, on the recliner, on my pillow on the bed, on the back of the chairs.  The only place we have kept him off, for now, is our new couch.  
Murphy is spoiled, and we are okay with that.  We know he's a yappy little dog, and we know he should be forced to mind us better, and we know that people don't like him jumping in their laps, but, honestly, we don't care.  We look into those bright eyes and melt every time.