I can tell you right now that, if we had an armed intruder, the only reason Mrs. Wigglebottom would rush in from the other room would be to throw me in the line of fire to protect herself. I’d have to shout, “Oh no! That armed intruder is about to take your bone and give it to the cats!!!!!” to get her to take things seriously.
But I’d hate to be him, then.
Ha, but you know her. She’d be all shot three times and she’d be running around like she hadn’t a care in the world. I could pull the bullets out of her with a rusty pair of tweezers and she’d still be like “Is that all you’ve got?”
But god forbid I try to cut her nails.
Let me tell you, you hear all kinds of stuff about why the Fenris wolf bit Tyr’s hand off, but anyone with a pitbull knows the real reason is that Tyr came at him with nail clippers.
So, I have no phone service because they don’t think I’ve paid my bill–since September. This is a great surprise to my checking account, which has seen AT&T cash every check I’ve sent them for the past three months.
I’ve talked to two different people already and I’m now sitting on hold while they try to decide if my “ghost account” is the one who’s been sending me bills.
Possibly. But then, where is that money going? And, why haven’t I gotten a bill from my non-dead account, ever?
I hope they can straighten this out and apply the money to the right account, because I don’t have three months’ worth of money to send them.
Hurray! They seem to have found the money. I’m back on hold.
It’s complicated. Back on hold.
I now am curious about who the woman who does the hold voice-over is. I also wonder how long I could have gone without phone service before I noticed. But you wonder, does she do a lot of hold information or do they just rope one of the more well-spoken operators into it?
The funny thing is that while the person helping me is quietly typing, I can hear the person near her gossiping about what’s for dinner. Italian, in case you’re curious.
It took an hour but I am back in business!!!!
I hesitate to post this for fear it will cause John Lamb to have to post it on the Hispanic Nashville Notebook as it has to do with Mexico and thus Hispanic stuff and a girl in Nashville (me) is talking about it.
Resist, John! Resist.
This morning, I was listening to the radio and there was a Budweiser commercial on and it was all about how, even though Bud is brewed at 12 different places all over the country, every day they fly a sample to the brew master in one central location to so that he can make sure all our crappy beer has the same level of crappiness and you won’t be accidetally surprised to find that Bud Light suddenly has taste.
But I hope they’re FedExing those beers. The tone of the commercial, though, makes it sound like Budweiser has twelve private jets which make one round-trip every day to some central location (I presume St. Louis) to deliver one lone beer. And I couldn’t help but think, “People all over are losing their jobs and you’re talking about how great it is that you fly beer cross-country?”
It just seemed tone-deaf.
And then, over on NPR, they were talking about the lay-offs there.
And now Mrs. B brings up something that nags at the back of my mind:
The really shitty thing is, if Les Moonves or Katie Couric, both multi-bazillionaires gave up just one weeks pay, they could have saved these 40 peoples jobs.
And you wonder, why don’t they?
Okay, I’ll admit, this post has nothing to do with Bob Marley directly. It’s basically announcing that I am marrying Ted Barron’s blog, because I can’t imagine anything making me happier today than hearing Tommy McCook doing “(Music is My) Occupation” back to back with Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” I laughed with delight at that, my friends, believe me.
A post like this is like a snapshot of Nashville’s magic, mid-trick. Where we’re making music of all sorts and sending it out into the world, only to have it sent back to us in forms we never imagined.
The late 40s/early 50s in Nashville, like in much of the country, were a bullshit time. But it was also a time when musical exchanges in town happened like this all the time, that musicians of all stripes who were crazy about jazz would defy the law and social convention to hide away in the back of clubs on Jefferson after hours to play together or all search out the newest Bullet release and memorize it.
And I love knowing that some of that energy was strong enough to carry the music clear to Jamaica and back.
I now formally apologize for being one of those folks who rolled her eyes at Kenny Chesney and the Wailers. Little did I know, Kenny! You were just taking the next step in a long dance.
As I’ve said repeatedly, and will say until I’m convinced otherwise, American music at its best can be summed up in those lyrics shared by Johnson and Jackson, “the woman I love took from my best friend/ Some joker got lucky stole her back again.”
The dog’s knee is almost to the point where she could do what she wanted, if she wanted, but not quite Which means that, if there’s thunder or some other weird noise, she has no problem jumping into my bed, but if she just wants to get up in it, she’s got to pace around and sigh and otherwise try to wake me up without seeming like she’s trying to wake me up so that I will lift her into the bed.
This has been the opposite of pleasant for me because she’s got some boney elbows, let me tell you. And when you’re trying to lift her up, she’s pushing at least one of those elbows right into your arm.
I have finally figured out how to get the dog into the bed with no pain to me.
I put the bathmat down next to the bed. Now, she’s got a little something she can grab onto and–voila!–she can leap up into the bed. My problems solved.