Saturdays with Nanny: I Can’t Drive 55 Edition


Mom: It seems like since I’ve gotten this CR-V I don’t drive as fast as I used to. I mean, in my Camry sometimes I’d look down and I’d be flying down the interstate. But right now, here I am going 50 in a 55. (Looks at Nanny) Or is that just me getting old?

Nanny: Yup

Mom: I know you’re one of those who goes 45.

Nanny: 45 is about as fast as I wanna go.


Happy Birthday

What would we have done if we had only eight fingers instead of ten? Would we have lost eight and nine and gone straight from seven to ten? How would we have marked significant milestones that we now note in terms of fives and tens?

These are the questions that popped in my head with so many milestones happening in these current months. I know… How fascinating is it to be inside my head?

Today I turn 43, a nice prime number. Divisible only by itself and one. But less than a month from now is the 25th anniversary of my high school graduation — something that requires five hands to count.

About the same time is the 20th anniversary of me tucking my tail between my legs, dropping out of grad school, and lighting a few bridges from Rock Hill to Greenville as I moved back home.

Then last month, this blog observed its tenth anniversary. No, you didn’t miss the party; I’ve been late throwing one.

Ten years ago, for the second time, I got shuffled out of the writing department at my job because The Powers That Be wanted production instead of creativity. When the creative department was all but dissolved, I got moved back to producing newsletters, again.

When emailing back and forth with a former coworker who had moved to Asheville, I noticed a link in his email signature. I clicked on it and wound up on his own website. I didn’t know it was called a blog, although it was hosted on this site called Blogger. I could have my own website. For free! I could post my own writing? Sign me up!

I felt energized and showed my new site to The Husband and shared my triumph about how I would show them.

And then The Husband said, “You can’t write about work on here?”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he is the big, fat safety pin to my floating, pink balloon.

“Wha-huh?” I asked.

“You start bitching about work on there and someone finds it and you’re fired.”

So with my bubble burst, I found other things to write about. I had a book of writing prompts, and that was a main source at the beginning. Eventually, I posted other stuff I’d written and talked about my struggles with writing my own fiction, but then this blog sort of turned into a chronicle of my life as well — when I had my gall bladder removed, when my grandmother passed, when I lost my job, when my dad was diagnosed with lymphoma, when our sweet dog, Domino passed, and when Dad lost his battle last summer. From the time I was a teenager, writing was an outlet for frustration and sadness. I suppose it should be no different now.

However, for my 43rd birthday, I have given myself a present. Last night, I posted a very early draft of a story on Wattpad. Yes, I’ve posted some of my own original work on this site before, but Wattpad has thousands of users who will see this story and be able to “like” it as well as comment on it. I have metaphorically split myself open for a public feast, and it’s pretty freakin’ scary.

Click here if you want to read it. It’s a young adult/teen fiction kind of thing, so if you have teenagers, they might like it as well. It’s got language (sorry, Mom). I’d give it a strong PG-13.

It’s a present and a commitment to myself that by the time my 44th birthday rolls around, I will have finished a rough draft of this book that I will edit and eventually put up for sale as an ebook. Because screw the whole traditional process of getting published. I’m tired of waiting.

And I’m sure as hell not getting any younger.

Spring Buds


I think I always post a photo like this somewhere on my social media every year. I can’t help it. I’m always so frakkin’ ready to see winter go. I can’t imagine how much anticipation is up north.

I tried to wait until we had some actual sun, but since that won’t happen for three more days, I got impatient and posted. 

Facebook Can Kiss My Ass


No, I’m not rage-quitting Facebook, but I am boycotting the whole “It’s been a great year! Thanks for being a part of it.” thing that keeps popping up on my feed. All apologies to anyone who has had a good year and created their own and shared it, but I just don’t care to relive my 2014.

Don’t get me wrong; I had some good moments.

But there was that horrible morning in July when we had to say good-bye to our sweet Domino, and I really didn’t get much time to grieve for her because Dad went into the hospital a couple of weeks later and passed away a few days after that.

On the one hand, I feel comforted by many thoughts. I imagine him in Heaven, in his cancer-free body, having tomato sandwiches with MaMa Grant. I am grateful to know that he never had to find out the cancer was back in his bone marrow, and I am thankful that he suffers no more. However, the pain from his absence makes even the best days bittersweet. There’s always this unpleasant aftertaste of what can’t be shared with him, and I don’t know if that will ever go away.

Grief sneaks up when you least expect it. It’s on a minivan on the road in front of you that’s decorated with “Happy birthday, Dad!” It’s the movie you didn’t explore enough to know about the lead character’s father having cancer and dying at the end. It’s the photo revealed in a stack of papers that you had forgotten existed.

Still, the Earth turns and revolves around the sun, and even if we wanted to stop moving, we couldn’t.

However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The faultfinder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms house as brightly as from a rich man’s abode; the snow melts before its doors as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace.

— Henry David Thoreau

However, Thoreau doesn’t say anything about Facebook. Screw Zuckerberg and his attempts to pick out what the highlights were to my 2014. I pick my own AND set them to music — in this case, Emerson Hart’s “Green Hills of California.”

Here’s my 2014. It was… a year.

Because I Forgot to Get a Card



To the woman who packs a week early for a two-night Thanksgiving stay…

To the woman who is a breast cancer survivor…

To the woman who just cannot get enough Gaither videos or The Waltons episodes…

To the woman who found a way to carry on after her husband’s passing more than 27 years ago…

To the woman who has a little bit of ice cream for breakfast on Saturday mornings…

To one of the strongest, funniest, classiest women I know…

I say, “Happy 87th birthday, Nanny!”

The word you’re looking for is ‘Rotten’


I’m sending this pic to Webster’s to go beside the word in their next dictionary edition.


My Blog’s New Tagline


Tonight’s dinner conversation…

(Upon hearing that I lost out on a job a couple of years ago because they Googled me and found this blog)
Jill:  WHAT?! It’s not like you bitch about work on your blog! You’re Sappy Chick! You’re all kittens and puppies and shit!