A Pity Party of My Very Own

I was invisible all day. In fact, I think I've been invisible at my office for some time now. I don't whine, I don't make noise, I just go in and do my job. Every day. Day after Day. I'm really good at what I do. But nobody seems to notice. If they have a problem I could help them with, I am invisible. Without exception, they turn to a coworker who has been there longer. I call her the martyr.

Maybe it's because I have such a mundane job. Nobody wants to know how to streamline operations. Nobody cares that I have ideas that might save us money and time. And if I shared my ideas, the first person they would turn to for validation is the martyr. The martyr would then, promptly and energetically, tell them it just can't be done. The conversation would go no further.

Oh, and adding to the drama, our company is on the market. In three or four months, we could have new ownership that eliminates the advertising jobs. I guess that would kind of be the ultimate streamlining move - eliminating the department. Intelligence is not a prerequisite for buying a company. It is only one prerequisite among many for keeping a company profitable.

Hmmm. Money, brains and a vision. I've got two out of three.

Grandpa Woods

Grandpa Woods died Monday, May 17 at 8:50 a.m. He was 90 years old, and he was my sweetheart. He loved Grandma, his kids, his grandkids and great-grandkids, and he loved to fish. He loved being outside, and he had a garden right up until this year.

Grandpa showed people how to love completely and unconditionally. The world is a better place for him having been here.

Have you ever heard a smile in someone's voice? My Grandpa has a voice like that, with a southern accent to match. He was born in January, 1920 in West Point, Mississippi, to Ozella Viola and Lee Bryan Woods.

He's always been one of my best fellas. He had long since passed the top of Grandma's and my Sweetheart Scale, although he has an ornery streak. I think he learned early that if you have a drawl that can melt a girl's heart, she'll forgive you for anything.

One of my favorite stories about Grandpa happened when I was about seven. I was hanging out in the basement workshop with him and my dad while they worked on this outboard motor. I SO wanted to help, and after asking several times, "Can I help now?," Dad finally called me over to the motor. "Okay, hon," he said, "when I tell you, you grab ahold of this spark plug and see if it's firing." I was so excited. "OK!," I said, reaching for the spark plug, only to have Grandpa smack my hand out of the way.

Before I could work up the breath to cry, Grandpa said, "Kirby Lee!" (two words, pronounced as one at the time), "Don't you do that to her!" The "Don't you do that to her" came out at the same time as Dad's "I wasn't going to let her do it!"

I didn't know what was going on, and I had those big old alligator tears welling up. But Grandpa reached down, picked me up, and said "Honey-babe, that would have knocked you plumb flat." You should know, Grandpa was the only man who could - then or now - get away with calling me 'honey-babe' - with the possible exception of my Dad.

Grandpa hit the top of my sweetheart scale when he saved me from being knocked plumb flat, and when he talked to my dad like NOBODY ever talks to my dad.

Earlier that night I had helped Mom make some rolls. I took special care with Grandpa's. A seven-year-old's "special care" involves working the dough so much that any kind of leavening is effectively eradicated. I was so excited to take the rolls downstairs when they were done. I handed Grandpa his roll with such pride, and told him I made it special for him.

Grandpa took a bite of the rock-hard, flat, and slightly burned piece of bread, he said, "I declare, this is one of the finest rolls I have ever eaten.

And with that, he went over the top of the Sweetheart Scale, where he will always be.

Flowers, Flowers

Yesterday my mom came to St. Joe and we planted two flower pots and a planter box for the front of my house. We had so much fun! You should understand, Mom has to do this with me. She can spit out a seed and it will grow and flourish. I can walk by a plant and it will die. The poor little blossoms saw me come out the front door and I swear I heard their tiny screams of fear. Mom says it's all in my head, but I'm not so sure.
We planted some petunias, some pineapple sage, some peppermint and some ginger mint, some basil, and some white and yellow flowers. They look so nice!
I love it when we get together. Thanks MOM!

My Ideal Job

When I grow up I shall be a consultant. What a consultant does is find out what people want to hear, tell them what they want to hear, and get paid for telling them what they want to hear.
Sounds like the ideal position to me.

Waste of PTO

Being sick is a waste of PTO time. I don't feel good. I haven't felt good for a while. My head hurts and I can't make it stop. All I want to do is sleep, and when I'm awake I either want to whine about not feeling good and/or go back to sleep. Bruce has made supper. Not sure what it is but it has noodles, spaghetti sauce, meatballs, sausage balls and velveeta. He also asked me if we had any garlic powder, which we did. Maybe we still do. I don't know. I'm not hungry. Just thirsty. Really thirsty. And sleepy. Maybe I will wake up tomorrow.