Roo the day

A few months ago TG regaled me in his own inimitable fashion about his exploits at Kangaroo Express.

He is such a romantic.

Specifically, he told me what he'd learned when inquiring as to the debut date of the 2013 RooCup.

No, it's not a trophy. It's a plastic cup and as I've told you before, my TG has a natural affinity for plastic cups.

And his story proves once again that nothing excites the American psyche quite like free -- or semi-free -- refills.

The RooCup is a beverage container that you buy -- last year it cost five ninety-nine but it's gone up a dollar, to six ninety-nine -- at a late-spring date set by Kangaroo Express.

Through Labor Day and sometimes even beyond -- like, this year the cutoff date is September 24th -- ownership of a RooCup allows you to fill the practically-quart-sized vessel with any fountain or frozen beverage KE offers, for only a quarter.

You can use your RooCup as many times a day, week, or month you want, through its "expiration" date.

A devotee of the RooCup since its inception -- no, I don't know when that was -- TG upon checkout at a KE sometime this past March, asked the cashier when the new RooCups would be available for sale.

"Oh well, you have to go online and reserve your cup in order to get yours this year," she told him. "You're not going to be able to just walk in and buy one."

I may not be quoting her verbatim -- I was not there -- but that's what TG told me she said.

I do know exactly what he said in response: "You're kidding me."

Said checkout personnel assured TG she would not kid about so serious a matter.

So naturally TG asked me to go online and find out what he had to do in order to roo-serve his cup, which prize item he is unwilling to do without.

(Sometimes he carries his expired 2012 RooCup boldly into a Kangaroo Express, fills it to the brim with ice and fizzy Coke, and takes it to the counter. He doesn't necessarily expect to get his drink for a quarter; he just likes his cup. It's all nice and broken in. One cashier thought it was so funny he still had his last year's cup, she gave him the drink for free.)

Back to our saga. 

I found on the KE website that in order to get a "certificate" good for acquisition of a 2013 RooCup, one had to hop onto the Kangaroo Express facebook page and "like" them.

Except, neither TG nor I have facebook accounts.

And speaking only for myself, it's going to stay that way.

To quote TG on the subject of signing up for a facebook account of his own: "Haaaaa. Never."

So we were stuck until I remembered that three of our four children have facebook accounts.

And why have kids if they cannot help you in your time of direst need?

By that time I had decided I wanted to give my son-in-law a 2013 RooCup for his birthday on May first.

(No that's not all I got him. Step off.)

So we needed not one, but two certificates obtained through the KE facebook page, for making said Roo-servations.

I called Erica and got my own bases covered. 

"Erica," I said. "Go on facebook and sign up for a 2013 RooCup and send me the certificate, okay?"

My daughter was loath to do so because she had deactivated her account. But she gave me her password and said I was welcome to reactivate her account long enough to procure a certificate for a 2013 RooCup.

Which I did, and while I was on the Kangaroo Express facebook page I could not help but notice that people were roo-ing the day they could get only ONE 2013 RooCup.

One lady whined: "But all my kids want their own summer RooCup! Whatever shall I do if I can buy only one?"

I felt sort of sorry for her but I quickly got my own certificate (for Joel) and backed away quietly, leaving Kangaroo Express to deal with their own facebook fallout.

When I mailed Joel's birthday card I tucked in the certificate (bearing Erica's deactivated facebook picture) plus a five and two singles. 

I called Stephanie and told her to tell him, take this paper to a Kangaroo Express and give it to the cashier with the seven dollars, and explain that he doesn't have a facebook account but his sister-in-law does, and she did him a solid and let his mother-in-law use her account to get his certificate, and hand over the 2013 RooCup already and nobody will get hurt.

Steph said OK, don't worry, consider it done.

But that left TG without a certificate for a 2013 RooCup.

So I called my son Andrew -- the only member of our family with an active facebook account -- and asked if he'd mind going onto the Kangaroo Express page and securing a 2013 RooCup certificate for Dear Old Dad.

"Sure," he said.

BUT once he'd done that, he called TG. 

"Wow Dad," said Andrew. "I guess it's a good thing I don't want my own 2013 RooCup, since now I've sent my only certificate to you."

"Sorry son," said TG. That's a direct quote.

So I called Audrey -- kid number three with a facebook account, although hers had also been deactivated and she hadn't been "on" in awhile.

"Hey Audge," I said. "Do me a favor. Go on the Kangaroo Express facebook page and print out your certificate for a 2013 RooCup and give it to Andrew."

(I knew Audrey would not pout for a RooCup of her own. She's trying to drink less soda pop, not more.)

She said she would comply with my request. Later she called me.

"I went on facebook and saw that Andrew already got a certificate for a 2013 RooCup, so I didn't get mine for him to use because obviously he doesn't need it."

I briefly considered moving to Australia.

But: "Noooooo," I said. "Andrew got his certificate for Dad because Erica got her certificate for me to give to Joel, and now Andrew is out of sorts because he can't get his own RooCup, and now it's up to you to save the day."

"Oh," she said.

I still don't know if she got her 2013 RooCup certificate and gave it to Andrew. I'm almost afraid to ask.

One day Coke will run in the streets over this!

Meanwhile TG, having obtained his certificate via Andrew, printed it out. Last week he moseyed into the nearest Kangaroo Express to claim his prize.

He slapped the paper -- bearing a very official bar code and Andrew's facebook picture -- onto the counter and pointed to the staggering array of 2013 RooCups on the wall behind the male cashier.

"I've come to claim my 2013 RooCup," he announced. No need to beat around the bush.

The cashier looked at TG's paper in exactly the way proverbial calves gaze wide-eyed at new gates.

In other words, he did not appear to have the slightest idea what the "certificate" was for.

But he dutifully plucked a 2013 RooCup down from the wall behind him and put it on the counter for TG, who had his debit card out, all ready to swipe for six ninety-nine and applicable state, federal, and welfare entitlement taxes.

There may have been a cosmic drumroll as the cashier scanned the bar code on TG's certificate.

Bleep.

A kangaroo angel got its wings.

"That'll be forty-nine cents," the clerk told TG.

Not seven dollars and forty-eight cents for a whole summer's worth of fizzy Coca-Cola refreshing my TG as he goes hither and yon on his many travels?

No. Forty-nine cents.

TG repeated what he said to the KE cashier back in March: "You're kidding me."

It could be there has been no small amount of misinformation surrounding the 2013 RooCup and various modes of getting yours into your hot little hand, should that be something to which you aspire.

This article may explain it.

To summarize, I think the "certificate" obtained by "liking" the Kangaroo Express on facebook was just for laying claim to your cup a week earlier -- like, on April 24th -- than everyone else who had to wait until the official 2013 RooCup purchase date of May first.

In other words, it was meant as a Pre-Roo-gistration gimmick.

All this sturm und drang over a Machiavellian marketing ploy by Kangaroo Express.

But seriously? The certificate TG thought he needed -- but apparently didn't, after all -- got him his 2013 RooCup for free.

Except for taxes.

We know we'll always pay the taxes.

Hey! I've got seven fifty and all this storytelling has made me thirsty. Going now to find the nearest Kangaroo Express, y'all.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

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p.s.

One more thing.

If I hear or read again that by having her chests lopped off Angelina Jolie has somehow miraculously and singlehandedly "empowered women," I will simultaneously scream and spit up.

I felt it prudent to point that out.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Weekend

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Dear Angelina, allow me to get this off my chest

I'm about to wax exceedingly snark-castic. If that has even a one-percent chance of offending you, kthnxbai. 

You have been warned.

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OK. Wow.

Have you, like, heard?

Angelina Jolie -- nutcase extraordinaire -- is the newly-minted hero of all womandom.

Because she had a double mastectomy and breast reconstruction done by what I am sure were the finest surgical teams money can buy.

And she broke her big "news" the day after Mother's Day, just about the time the hot water in which Dear Leader finds himself, reached his shifty eyeballs.

Why would Angelina deem it necessary to publicize her very private health information at all?

She failed to tell her own father. He found out with the rest of us. 

And Mr. Voight -- now in the loop -- is so proud. Just speechless with admiration for his little girl's bravery.

Is the mere knowledge that a fabulously wealthy, relatively young, undeniably narcissistic, consistently immoral woman had both breasts removed in order to avoid contracting breast cancer, supposed to help someone?

Anyone? Bueller?

It's not like this type of preemptive surgery is a new concept or anything. I've been hearing and reading of women making this momentous decision for years.

But from the media hype and fawning which began the millisecond Angelina's New York Slime Op-Ed hit newsstands both real and virtual, one would think she had not only pioneered the idea, but that she is the only woman who ever had the nerve to go under the knife.

Let's get one thing clear: Angelina Jolie decided on the double mastectomy in order to save not the world, or her sistahs, but her own skin.

And while that's a perfectly good reason, it doesn't make her a hero.

Angelina Jolie can afford any test, any treatment, any procedure, any length of recuperation, and any combination of all of the above that you and I can imagine.

What she spent having the test that purportedly "proved" she had an eighty-seven percent chance of dying of breast cancer and a fifty percent chance of dying of ovarian cancer, didn't even rise to the level of chump change for Angelina.

Several thousand dollars dumped into lots of ordinary, hard-working people's bank accounts, however, would make a difference.

Take me for example. Even if I had the money, I would not have the luxury of spending it on the BRCA1 test.

Also I have news for Angelina, global darling and brightest-ever incarnation of Wonder Woman: Girl, you're still going to die of something. And you don't know what, and you don't know when.

And afterwards you will meet your Creator, for which inevitable experience there is no genetic test, no treatment modality, no foolproof charm, no exotic remedy, no preemptive strike.

It's just going to be: Did you believe on the finished work of My Son Jesus Christ for eternal life, or didn't you?

Period.

I hope Angelina-oh-goddess-of-all-womanhood fares well on that day but I have my doubts.

If my saying that bothers you, please do click out.

Because if weird-gelina were ever going to be my hero -- highly unlikely -- on any point, it most certainly would not be because she had the "courage" to submit to multiple completely elective surgeries.

People undergo surgeries every day, often in the midst of dire and frightening health crises. They put faith in doctors; they endure pain and inconvenience; they smile through their tears and fears.

If they are fortunate enough to have loving families, they hope and pray and grieve with those devoted individuals.

Countless courageous women have faced, are facing now, and will face breast and ovarian cancers. 

The women I admire are those who, cancer diagnosis or no cancer diagnosis, value and promote decency.

Angelina Jolie is not one of those women. Not even close.

Women of all ages need to embrace once again more than just technology. For starters, teach your daughters and granddaughters what it means to be a woman with morals.

It will serve them better in the long run than any genetic test or procedure or treatment or constellation of surgeries ever could.

And yeah. Yeah, I feel better now.

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Happy Wednesday

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Happy Happy Happy

H E Y !

Just stopping by to say I had a pretty spectacular Mother's Day and I hope you did too.

If the sentiment applies, that is.

I didn't have the joy of being with my own mother on the day, but I'll see her soon. I sent her a present.

Or rather, TG mailed my present to her last Wednesday -- because I was out of town all week -- and my mother has yet to receive it.

We live in the same state.

Leave it to the USPS to mess up the delivery of a Mother's Day present less than a two-hour drive away.

At any rate two of my own girls, Erica and Audrey, arrived on Saturday to spend Mother's Day with me.

I thought that was it for the party crowd until ten o'clock that night when the door opened and I heard the clanking of dog tags.

That was Rambo, who had accompanied Andrew over the mountains from Knoxville, to surprise me.

Talk about happy. Three out of four. Not bad at all. And I'll see Stephanie for Memorial Day, two weeks hence.

So anyway what with TG and me, three of the kids, and two dogs, it was lively around here.

On Sunday Andrew treated all of us to Mother's Day brunch at my favorite restaurant here in Columbia: Harper's in Five Points.

We all had chicken and waffles except for TG, who enjoyed a hamburger.

Then we came home to rest up for Sunday night and lo and behold, my kids came forth with all kinds of gifts.

I received a beautiful piece of luggage, which I needed and had been wanting.

Inside the suitcase was a completely awe-inspiring pink-and-camo Duck Commander hat, which I shamelessly model for you above.

Yes: Believe it or not, I along with millions of others have become a fan of Duck Dynasty.

I also got two gift cards to my preferred retail haunt, TJ Maxx; a book; a giant fragrant bar of bath soap; a new coffee mug; coffee; and strawberry preserves that came all the way from FRANCE.

Mercy.

Take that, Smuckers.

But perhaps my best gift of all (besides the nearness of three-fourths of my children) was that for the Sunday evening service at our church, my son had been asked to sing a solo.

And special for Mother's Day he sang his mother's favorite hymn: Zion's Hill.

It made me cry for many reasons, not the least of which is that unless God intervenes with miraculous healing -- which I am aware He can do, if He so chooses -- we will not have my beloved Aunt Linda with us for much longer.

Linda is my mother's younger -- and only -- sister. You may recall they lost a brother last fall, the first of the four children to pass away.

Earlier this year my aunt got a diagnosis as dire as anyone ever dreads to hear. The situation was so far advanced, Aunt Linda decided against traditional treatment.

She is on palliative care and doing pretty well right now -- and looking beautiful, I am sure you will agree -- but she needs your prayers.

Last week when I was in the Atlanta area visiting Erica, we took an evening and went to visit with Aunt Linda.

We also had the opportunity to see my cousin Lori, who had flown in from Ohio to spend some time with her mother.

Lori has been deaf for her entire life. She is the sweetest, most loving person you'd ever want to meet.

I talked to Aunt Linda again today and she had a wonderful Mother's Day, including a special photo session with all four of her children.

Their father, my Uncle Don, passed away in 2001. So there are four more -- and their children, and grandchildren -- who need your prayers.

I made a book for my Aunt Linda last week, of pictures I've taken put together with hymns and verses and poetry.

This was before I knew my son was coming home for Mother's Day and that he would be singing Zion's Hill in church.

Naturally, it being my favorite hymn, I included the lyrics to Zion's Hill in my aunt's book. 

I'm going to share it with you here, along with my favorite verse in the Bible:

But the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.

~Proverbs 4:18~

Also included in her book, along with a funny picture of Rambo, was one of my most treasured Yogi Berra quotes:

It ain't over till it's over.

And it ain't.

And for my aunt, a committed Christian, it will never be over. 

So enjoy your life, enjoy your mother if you still have her, enjoy your children, and enjoy everything you possibly can.

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Zion's Hill

There waits for me a glad tomorrow

Where gates of pearl swing open wide

And when I've passed this vale of sorrow

I'll dwell upon the other side.

Someday, beyond the reach of mortal ken

Someday, God only knows just where and when

The wheels of mortal life shall all stand still

And I shall go to dwell on Zion's Hill.

Someday I'll hear the angels singing

Beyond the shadows of the tomb

And all the bells of heaven ringing

While saints are singing "Home, sweet home."

Someday my labors will be ended,

And all my wand'rings will be o'er

And all earth's broken ties be mended

And I shall sigh and weep no more.

Someday the dark clouds will be rifted

And all the night of gloom be past

And all life's burdens will be lifted

The day of rest shall dawn at last.

Someday, beyond the reach of mortal ken

Someday, God only knows just where and when

The wheels of mortal life shall all stand still,

And I shall go to dwell on Zion's Hill.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

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You really are

I'll be back on Monday. Until then, grab a tissue and watch this.

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Happy Mother's Day

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The answer is NO

So you won't believe. Yesterday, for the second day in a row, I had to go to the dentist.

I have a wonderful dentist whom I trust implicitly. He had been insisting for a whole year that I needed to get a certain thing done, but I was loath to endure it both physically and financially.

On Monday at my routine thrice-yearly cleaning, it was decided amongst me, Doctor Dubya (my dentist) and Beth, an adorable and excellent hygienist who is also my dear little buddy, that the moment had come.

To bite the bullet, as it were.

A time was set for Tuesday morning at eight thirty. I was given a prescription for valium to take when I arrived at the office, to calm my nerves.

I am a complete sissy when it comes to dental work. 

During my appointment on Monday, Beth advised that I also opt to breathe a combination of oxygen and nitrous oxide throughout Tuesday's procedure.

"You'll love it," she promised.

And I must say I did love it. I have had sedation dentistry before -- that's where you don't remember anything -- but never nitrous. Another name for it is laughing gas.

I don't remember laughing but I remember feeling no anxiety -- or pain either, thanks to several injections of novocaine -- and I recall saying some funny things.

For example, I know that several times I mentioned wanting jelly doughnuts. I could just taste a lemon kind and a cherry kind.

The dental practice is situated within spitting distance of a Kroger supermarket and I assured Christina, the assistant who watched over me when Doctor Dubya was out of the room, that after they cut me loose I was going there to secure jelly doughnuts.

Christina, who is most affable, agreed that it sounded like a good plan.

And I did do that, and I got some glazed and some old-fashioned cake and some chocolate with sprinkles too. 

This is not, after all, a dress rehearsal. This is it y'all. Carpe the jelly doughnuts.

Doctor Dubya's procedure rooms feature window walls that look out onto trees and bushes and bird feeders. Naturally there is a constant flow of cute, colorful, and clever birds of many shapes and sizes, from dinky wrens to plump doves to poky pigeons.

When you're not spacing out on nitrous oxide and valium, your eyes stay open and you can watch the birds come and go, interacting on and around the feeders.

At one point through my nitrous fog I heard Doctor Dubya remark that a certain cardinal -- male, flame red -- habitually flies into the plate glass windows of the dental practice, practically knocking himself unconscious.

And he accomplishes this without benefit of pharmaceuticals.

Maybe he's in the market for veneers, I volunteered sleepily.

Doctor Dubya must not have heard me because he next opined that for his own good, the cardinal should weed himself out of the gene pool.

I wanted so much to laugh but I couldn't find the energy. I was that relaxed.

Next, Doctor Dubya told a story about going to a dentistry-type conference and hearing a colleague brag that he could make a patient's choppers "better than God designed them."

Doctor Dubya asserted that his dentist friend, while undeniably skilled, perhaps was suffering from a trifle more ego than was good for him.

But he stopped short of suggesting that his esteemed peer be culled from the gene pool.

I thought but didn't say, the doctor with a god complex may be exhibiting more hubris than the directionally challenged cardinal. Think about it.

Then I heard myself reveal, from the midpoint of a ten-mile tunnel: "It's so Hunter S. Thompson the way you are giving me such good ideas for writing."

Maybe I didn't say it out loud because neither Christina nor Doctor Dubya answered. They may however, have exchanged a lifted eyebrow over my head.

I'll never know for sure because I was studying the insides of my eyelids, which were paisley.

Then I had an epiphany and because it was important, I projected my voice as though I were onstage at Radio City Music Hall:

"The answer is NO. N-O!"

That got a reaction from Doctor Dubya. He chuckled and said: "You mean nitrous oxide?"

"Yes: NO," I agreed silently and meditatively.

The coolest thing is, once they nix the nitrous and deliver only solid oxygen through the nose mask, in no time at all you can see straight again and you're no longer obsessing about jelly doughnuts or contemplating your gonzo writing style.

And you can drive yourself home without colliding with a dumpster or a hamster or even a single red bird who has strayed from his flight path.

I went straight to Kroger and got those doughnuts. Then I went home and got my camera, and before the novocaine wore off, I took these horse pictures for you.

Because I promised.

The takeaway? Next time you visit the dentist, even if it's only for him/her to glance inside your mouth?

Just say NO. It's worth every penny.

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Happy Wednesday ~ Happy May

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Many thanks to the folks at Wescott Acres Luxury Pet Resort for allowing me to shoot their splendid animals.

Waxing purplish

I don't know if you're aware of this, but at I'm Having A Thought Here it's all about fresh, original content.

Unless I get lazy and fall back on YouTubes of dogs utilizing treadmills.

For your enjoyment today, I wanted to bring you pictures of horses that I planned to take over the weekend.

Wait. I did not plan to take horses; I planned to take pictures of horses.

More than likely I would have written something pithy to accompany the photos.

But alas, all it did was rain.

My artistic vision did not extend to soggy equine units. Or soggy photographers, for that matter.

Looking out at the rainy day whle preparing Sunday lunch, I spotted a single bearded iris -- which as we established recently, no way did I plant -- that clearly did not get the yellow memo.

As in, unlike all of the others around it, this single flower was purple.

Purple is my favorite color. Also recently established. The only exception is when my favorite color is black.

Knowing I would not be able to bring you pictures of big soft brown eyes framed by flowing silky manes, I dodged the raindrops to bring you pictures of the lone purple ranger in my back yard.

Then, inspired partially by the droplet-laden purple petals and partially by two bold, inky ravens I spotted by the side of the road on the way to church, I wrote a haiku:

If purple were black

These would be wet raven wings

But purple’s not black

I did not say it was a good haiku. I only said it was a haiku. Five seven five. Count 'em.

Have I ever told you about the haiku I wrote in sixth grade, which earned the praise of my teacher and made me want to be a writer?

No? I didn't think so. Someday I will tell you that story.

Meawhile I make this promise to you: By Wednesday, I will get pictures of horses.

They will not be purple horses. I hope they will at least be dry.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

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Wistful Wiley

Have y'all seen this video of a service dog "crying" at the grave of its handler's grandmother?

Wiley, normally the stoic type, appeared inconsolable at the cemetery.

Oy. Grandma must've been the one who doled out the Milk Bones.

Not for nothing but I had Wiley pegged as a husky. Then I read he's a wolfdog.

I don't know from wolfdogs but I imagine that being part wolf, they are more emotional than huskies.

Some skeptical readers and viewers have opined that Wiley is merely having a reverse sneezing fit -- whatever that is.

His owner denies that Wiley is prone to bouts of sneezing, reverse or otherwise. Also he has never behaved in a lugubrious fashion, either before or since.

It was just that one time, at the grave.

What say you, pirate readers?

While you ponder, to cut the sorrow of Wiley's sneezing grieving I bring you this video of a trio of nimble dachshunds on a treadmill.

When the one on the far left slid back and had to scramble to catch up or else fall off, I almost fell off my bed laughing.

And why do they yawn while they trot? Is simple treadmill fatigue -- exacerbated by short legs -- to blame, or is something more sinister at work here?

As always, your input is welcome.

That is all for now.

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Happy Fridog ~ Happy Weekend

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