I’m not sure where to begin in explaining all of the excitement going on around this place lately. Like the four loads of laundry I did Saturday or the hamburger casserole I made last night. Then there was the ever thrilling truck breakdown that caused me to do the dance of despair. It’s just one thrill after another, and I just don’t know where to start. How’s about we start with the truck?
Hubby has a 1983 blue Ford pickup that he acquired before he acquired me. He ordered it new that year and can still describe in great detail where he was when he placed the order, how much he paid for it and the name of the salesman. Me? I can hardly remember the color of the Peeps I bought at the grocery store last weekend, but Hubby is a detail man. He loves that truck. In fact, he has given me strict instructions on what to do with it if he dies before I do, and those instructions do NOT include selling it to the first person who offers me a Ben Franklin.
Its value is more sentimental than fiscal. We paid the taxes on it last month, and they were a grand total of $21. The truck runs fine 95% of the time and is well preserved because he treats it with kid gloves. The downside is that when it quits running it always costs us an arm, a leg and two toes. When something on it finally wears out, it’s usually big. He took it in for maintenance yesterday and apparently the front end is about to fall out. The tab? $800. Now, I know that’s less than a couple of car payments, but I just hate sinking money into something older than my underwear. I don’t want to buy a new car though, and Hubby can’t part with Old Blue, so we’ll fork over the bucks and get it fixed. I’ll just bury him in the thing if he does go first and save the cost of a coffin.
Papa T. has had a bad cold all week long which killed his appetite. He’s eating without tasting, so I was able to sneak a spinach salad in on him last night without him noticing. I swear, feeding him is like having a toddler all over again. I have to hide the nutritious stuff in something cheesy or dense. He may not be able to see, but he can sniff out a green vegetable like a bloodhound.
Things are suddenly busy on the photography front. This evening I’m shooting a cover shot and photos for a new pet publication that’s being put together locally. Photographing dogs and cats over which I have very little control should be challenging, to say the least. I have an engagement shoot this week that came up unexpectedly. Have I mentioned how much I love brides? And this weekend I’m shooting some children’s pictures on a farm that has thousands of daffodils. (More on the daffodils later. MUCH more.) It’s a regular portrait palooza this week.
In the midst of all this, I’m learning to run the new audio visual system we just installed at church. Sunday, I managed to project lyrics and such during the service without messing anything up so I considered that a success. I must admit, the ornery side of me thinks it would be really funny to project bunny ears above the preacher’s head, but I’ll refrain. See? This is why I have to go to church every Sunday. I have trouble reigning in my inner Belushi.
Speaking of my inner Belushi, I have discovered that Hubby, who is still a little crippled from his foot surgery, does NOT like being called The Hobbit. Or Hop-A-Long Cassity. And he really hates it when Teen Angel and I whisper as he limps by us with his crutch, “God bless us everyone.” He has no appreciation for Charles Dickens. Or my sense of humor.
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