Thursday, November 1, 2012

It's a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!


I think I'll move to Australia...

Ever read that book? Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, by Judith Viorst? Well, I have read it. Many, many times.

Today I am living it, and not only am I wanting to move to Australia (where it's warm), it appears I may have to change my name to Alexander because Shirley is on the fast track to the psych unit.

First, I'm tired. I'm always tired these days (due to a recent battle with a pulmonary embolism), but lately am also struggling with sleep a little, so I'm sleepy. Next, the dog peed on the bathroom rug. AGAIN. It has become a nightly ritual that I do not appreciate. I thoroughly believe her mission in life is a never-ending quest to saturate, with urine, every square inch of my house at some point. Granted she is 16 years old and bladder control can be an issue for the nearly 102-year-old (in dog years), but on the other hand she is 16 years old, and that is plenty old enough to know better! She is a mini-dachshund who has never really taken to potty training, thus my concurrent mental illness for the same 16 years. She makes me crazy! This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

While I am putting the rugs in the washer for the seventy-thousandth time, I discover that for the second time in a week I have no hot water. None. Zippo. The first sign of our water heater's demise (she is only 10 years old and should have many good years left in her, darn it!) was no hot water Sunday morning when I went to get ready for church. Did I mention it hit 16 degrees outside, and since we haven't winterized the swamp cooler, there was no fire for heat? I live in the equivalent of Siberia some days. So I tried to boil enough water to wash my hair and sponge bath, but as soon as I poured it into the icy cold porcelain bathtub, it cooled to less than lukewarm before the next batch would boil. This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, I cried. No one responded.

In the middle of that fiasco, Lloyd discovered that if he turned off the lower element and turned up the upper element we could indeed get hot water. He did not, for some reason, feel the need to mention that to me until I was throwing a fit wondering aloud if I might possibly be freezing to death. So, I eventually got a warm bath and all was well. We had bought ourselves a few days to decide what to do to remedy the situation.

Lloyd's idea of remedying a situation and mine differ greatly, in the Grand Canyon gap kind of way. I want to get in, get it done, get out and get on with things. He wants to think about them. Sometimes for really long periods of time that include time for playing Ipod games and watching silly TV sitcoms. Thus the result this morning, exactly 5 days later: there is again no hot water. And it refuses to be remedied in any kind of temporary way. Lloyd putters with it for a while making himself late for work. I have a meeting at 8:30 am. And thus cannot be late for work. I wash my hair in frigid water. Then I sponge bath the nether regions and put on two layers of warm pajamas to warm up while I do hair and make up. I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, I yell and stomp my feet. The dog glances up at me with tired eyes, and I'm pretty sure a full bladder.

Meanwhile, Lloyd lies on the bed...thinking. With his eyes shut. I go to work, where it is also freezing, and turn on the space heater two inches from my frozen toes. Okay, I am wearing flip flops, but it really is cold! He says he'll be in later to get parts to try and fix it. Of course, as I write it's 11 am. And the hardware stores have been open since 7 am. But who's counting? I am, that's who. Me! It's a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. And I'm not even halfway through it!

Also, my power steering pump has been going out for weeks, and the brakes are squalling about needing new pads, and my car can be heard coming for miles away. Impressive huh? Also my cell phone has been dying a slow death. (Damn, you Sam! ((remember that post?)) ) so I have finally had to order a new one. This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day! Maybe even worse than that!

So the aforementioned book ends with the mommy telling young Alexander that some days are like that...even in Australia.

But I'm still going. Just as soon as I finish paying off the new water heater, car power steering pump and buy a new cell phone.

Just call me Alexander. Shirley has been appropriately restrained and medicated until further notice.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Senior Moments...and I Don't Mean High School...


My husband and I are getting older. It's hard when we still feel young inside but our bodies, and more importantly our minds, don't work like they used to. We both..umm... leak a little when we cough or strain. And one time he glibly commented that we were both so tired that if we wanted to get a little action, we would have to lie there and pray for an earthquake.

It's not quite that bad, but it's close.

For example, today. I am at work, in business attire, visiting with a customer'/client while making a purchase. I reach to put something in my back pocket and feel a flap of fabric that shouldn't be there. I feel around and realize it is my body-shaper that has not been appropriately hooked and is flapping in the breeze. Front and back. And dingy white against my dark jeans and black top. It's not humiliating enough, I guess, that I have to wear such a garment to hold in the middle-age spread I try to pretend I don't have. Now I have to advertise to the world that I wear it, that I'm not a good enough laundress to keep it white, and that I don't have the sense God gave a younger woman to hook the hooks and snap the snaps before I go out to meet the public.

This month alone I have left both my bank card and day planner (which holds all my personal information) in a restaurant and shopping cart respectively. Thankfully I live in a great community and both were returned unsullied and unused.

Two weeks ago I lost my cell phone while shopping with my daughter in St. George. We called every store we'd been in, (including the Best Buy where I bought my husband an iPod to replace the one he shattered by slamming it in the door minutes before because he forgot it was sitting on his lap). No one had seen it. Finally, my daughter, who is younger and much less senile, offered to drive back to those businesses and look around. She was calling it while walking to her car and heard music coming from her garage...where my phone was laying on the ground next to her freezer. I had apparently bent over to get ice for my Coke and the phone fell out of my bra.

Ah! The phone in my bra, now that's a another senior moment story. I actually carry two cell phones in my bra as I am constantly knocking the holster kind off by turning sharp corners as I walk. (I have wide enough hips as it is, what with that aforementioned middle-age spread thing.) When it rings in the middle of a chamber of commerce meeting, it can be a little embarrassing. What is most embarrassing is that I am constantly patting my bosoms in search of a phone...and people don't always realize that is my purpose. *blush* And worse that that? I often feel my phones vibrating in my bra WHEN THEY ARE NOT IN MY BRA!

My kids takes this in stride remembering that a few years ago, while driving a '91 Chevy Beretta, I could hear the theme of “I Love Lucy” when the radio wasn't on. Maybe it's not senility. Maybe it's just me.

I can hope for the best, but I know darker days are on the horizon. Get out the Ginseng , Vitamin E and Aricept. And maybe a straightjacket for good measure.

Hold on a minute...*pats bosoms* ...I think my phone is ringing.




Tuesday, October 16, 2012

A Little Bit o' Twang


I have moved into a new office and it plays the local country music station over a building-wide sound system. It's the only channel we can get. I have the ability to turn it off, but have discovered that most of the time I like the usually happy, slightly sexy beats playing in the background of my hectic, business-like schedule. A little bit o' twang can really lighten the mood when, say, a client tests positive for THC  and loses a job or doesn't quite meet the hiring criteria to get a desired position. It's hard to stay upset while Craig Morgan is belting out “Bonfire”.

Right this minute, however, I am slightly disturbed by it. I find myself typing in that galloping horse rhythm of country music. The cowgirl vibe is starting to take over, I think. Typing in Grand Ol' Opry beats is not totally unexpected. The genre is in my blood. My paternal grandfather played in a western band to supplement his income from farming for years; all the real, old, twangy stuff. He could play any instrument by ear, and all the while my little apple-on-a-stick-shaped grandma would be slapping her knee and stomping a foot to the tune. All my aunts and uncles have beautiful singing voices. One Uncle was pretty famous for his rendition of “A Boy Named Sue.” (Love you Uncle Owen!) My dad always wanted to be able to sing, and to his credit, sincerely tried. So this western music? It's in my DNA.

Also today? I wore cowboy boots. Okay, it is getting colder and flip flops, my preferred footwear (as it is as close to barefoot as I can get on a work day), don't quite cut it. And they are really only half cowboy boots, ankle boots to be precise. But lately, I find myself saying “dang” a lot and calling people “darlin” (not sure that is entirely professional when the darlin in question is a client and construction worker).

Country music definitely has it's plus side, though. As a poet, I love me some cowboy music lyrics like Carrie Underwood's “Before He Cheats”:

“Right now, he's probably slow dancing with a
bleached-blonde tramp
And she's probably getting frisky
Right now he's probably buying her some Fruity little drink
'Cause she can't shoot whiskey
Right now, he's probably up behind her with a pool-stick
Showing her how to shoot a combo
Oh and he don't know...

That I dug my key into the side of his
Pretty little souped up four wheel drive
Carved my name into his leather seat
I took a Louisville slugger to both head lights
Slashed a hole in all four tires
Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats”

There's some gorgeous poetry in lyrics from songs like Dixie Chicks “Landslide”
and LeeAnne Womack's “I Hope you Dance”.

And you can always find a good laugh in lines like:

“Shut my mouth, slap your grandma” or “I bought the shoes that just walked out on me”
One of my English professors, a Chaucer and Shakespeare scholar, kept a quote-a-day calendar of country
music lyrics that was hilarious!

And the CMA Awards are always high on my list for entertainment value. I loved that moment, a few years back,  
when one of the presenters, with a deep country twang, turned to Sting (who was performing that night)
and asked “Is it all right if tonight we call you Stang?” Love this stuff. I truly do.

So, all in all, I'm kinda diggin' the country vibe at work. But in the car, I'm singing my lungs out to the
soundtrack from Les Mis or old 70's classic rock, or shedding tears to Jewel or Sarah Mclachlan.

Maybe my vast and eclectic taste in music will save me from stepping completely over the line that
separates twang from timbre, but don't be surprised if you hear me cry “Yee Haw!” over the next
sale on cowboy boots!





Saturday, October 13, 2012

Underneath, I'm clean

This post is an excerpt from my new book, "High".
Friday, October 12, 2012
Underneath, I’m clean...
I wake up angry. I have another full day’s disgusting work ahead of me and there are other things I’d like to be doing: writing a book, shopping, reading, visiting friends, resting my aching body. Anything but the chore in front of me today.  I am angry that it’s my job; that Caleb has been so disrespectful as to leave this mess to me, let alone having created it in the first place. He told me he’d clean it before he left. He told me…it doesn’t really matter now what he told me. It is what it is.

I remember Bradley at the recovery center telling me I should treat Caleb as if everything he says is a lie. He’s closer to the truth than I knew. I’ve always thought it was unusual Caleb was such an honest addict, always admitting everything he’s done immediately. Now I recognize that as the form of manipulation that it is.

This day of cleaning is much like the first. Our good friends, the Rivers, haul the first load of garbage away and I start filling it again. And a metamorphosis begins to happen. It starts to dawn on me that maybe Heavenly Father wanted me to have this experience. And as I have that thought I remember this one:

“In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me, shaped and perfect in attitude and action. I have only to hew away the rough walls that imprison the lovely apparition to reveal it to the other eyes as mine see it.” - Michelangelo


I think there must be a beautiful clean room underneath this one, and I am just hewing away the roughness in order to set it free. That makes me think of a song I love about addiction. It’s by Terra Naomi and it’s called “Clean”. It’s sung in a breathy, childlike voice that connotes innocence. I’ve played it for addict friends a hundred times.

I’ve included the lyrics for the reader’s reference, but it’s the same thought. Underneath all the lies, the dirt, the drugs, the bad choices, the ugliness: the addict himself – my son—is clean. He is a pure intelligence in a mortal body created by a perfect Heavenly Father. Underneath, he’s clean.

Clean – Terra Naomi

So clean it hurts

You say I did this to myself

It’s not a choice when it’s the only thing

Could help me forget

Hasn’t yet

I’ll call the shots

In my little world I’ll be

The brightest light that this world has ever seen

Behind my stare I’m already there

Help me, I’m in deep

Gardens of green

Dirty Me

Underneath

I’m clean

Put up a fight

That’s what you want me to do

Well I just might

And I’ve got the scars to prove I tried

I’m still alive

Help me, I’m in deep

Gardens of green

Dirty me

Underneath
I’m clean

Friday, August 31, 2012

A Certain Slant of Light


Writing Prompt: The Word: Slant
August 31, 2012

There’s a book called “A Certain Slant of Light” by Laura Whitcomb. I haven’t read it, but I think it’s something about humans and ghosts being able to see each other within the elements of what the title refers to.

I can relate.

In the middle of my unsettled world of adult loved ones struggling with everything from addiction to unemployment, illness to depression and even to psychosis (as well as just the general upheaval of this life they were born into), there is often a somber shadowy feeling to my days. Add to that the chaotic multi-tasking of a staffing manager in a busy branch that covers an entire county and a population of 7,000 people, and well…sometimes the darkness is real and sometimes it is just me shutting my eyes against the sheer overwhelming mass of it all.

But then there are moments, brief but exquisite where in a certain slant of light, I find hope.  I step away from co-dependence in a move that nearly kills me only to find my adult son can run his own life better than I ever could. I visit with friends that seem chosen by God just for me with their life experiences that together, mirror some of my own. I sit with my friend, a former addict herself, while she is taught the missionary discussions and feel the light of Christ like a beacon on a raging sea, calling my storm-tossed and weather worn vessel home. And I surrender the outcome of a hundred burdens to He who has already suffered for them all. 

I guess I’m going to have to read that book since I really LOVE the title, but first there are other more pressing books to read. Like the one He wrote…full of more than just a certain slant of light.



Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Writing Prompt: The Word: Pack


What He's Had...and What He's Lost

He's a beautiful man really. Girls stop us in local restaurants to ask for his phone number. He is never at a loss for female companionship. He even treats them well...for as long as they meet his needs, at least. He has had everything. Beautiful wife. Newly built home. Good job. Benefits. New truck. Family. Friends. Parties. Alcohol. Meth. Adderol. Drug-induced schizophrenia. He has lost everything.

So he comes to us. It's hard for him, I know, to ask a thing that makes him feel less of a man – to take him in and feed him, all the while him with nothing to give. At first it's beautiful. We hadn't seen him in a year, not aware of his dive down the rabbit hole of addiction. So we welcomed the chance to get to know him again. He loves good conversation. He's funny and has just enough swagger that you're proud to be around him. He's confused a lot...can never find his keys, his bills, his cigarettes, wonders if he's in Utah and talks constantly about one conspiracy or another. He's not really a rule follower, which is a little frustrating, but we try to look past it in our love for him and our desire to foster a relationship strong enough to help him back on his feet.

He lets the dog run loose, even though he's been told that the dog bites and must be leashed. He throws cigarette butts, not in the receptacle provided, but all over the yard where our visiting teachers, friends and family walk to the door. He triples the food bill, sneaks alcohol into his room, leaves all the lights on and doesn't clean up after himself ever. He picks up and pockets what he'd like to have whether it's his or not. He always tells us he loves us and gives us hugs. He gets himself applied to college with no prompting, talks about finding a job. He runs out of gas 100 miles away at 2:30 a.m. And wants us to rescue him. He's a subtle bully, poking at the wounded places in us all but not enough to leave bruises.

We become nervous wrecks. It feels like when you are the parent of a lot of kids and your brain is attuned to every little noise and nuance and your brain never gets a minute to rest, only with a dangerous element not present with toddlers.

I find his black body hair in my bed sheets where he lay to shave his chest while we were at work. I find his knife stabbed into the ledge above my sink at my eye level, and again in my bedroom door frame. He thinks its funny or denies it or sulks. It's always someone else, he says. He scrawls his name across his brother's motorcycle in permanent marker. He drinks all day and starts throwing tantrums when we get home. One evening he kicks out his windshield, his side window, rips out his headrests and shatters CD's across the yard. He tries to tear his door off, but proceeds only in bending the hinges till the door stays open a foot. I warn him to stop. He tells me to shut up. He tells his brother he's “going to end him”.

I call 911 – 14 days after his arrival. He is arrested and as he looks up he sees me watching. "I love you," I mouth. "I love you too," he mouths back. "It's okay, it's okay," he is assuring me he understands what I've had to do. I feel hope.
 
He doesn't call us. Calls other family and refers to us as “those people” with a venomous tone. We go to court, bring him home and the cycle starts again. He is on his best behavior. When we were in foster care, we always called that the honeymoon period, that fragment of time it takes a child to get the feel of the place and dare to act out.

His honeymoon period ends when I refuse to give him another penny he hasn't earned somehow, he is ticked off. He abandons a job I set up for him and goes to Ruby's to drink and drug all day. “He will not do such menial work. He's worth $30 dollars an hour”,  he rants. The most he's made is $14.25 an hour. He threatens my job with his behavior. It is all so disrespectful that I'm done. Done doing the same things and expecting a different result. I take a new tack.

I pack everything he has, all purchased by us as he brought only the clothes on his back. I place it by the door and wait for him to walk in and see it. I dread the discussion that will follow.

It breaks my heart. I lay in bed and worry most of the night. At 3 a.m., we see his stuff is gone. We don't know where he is or what he'll do. He needs help we are not allowed to or capable of giving. He is a coward. And a threat.

And yet he is our son. Our bright, beautiful, funny, black-haired boy.

He is our son, but for now at least, he doesn't want to be. He has gone to the enemy who are too dumb to know they are being conned.

It breaks our hearts, drains our energy, occupies most of our thoughts. How does God do it when his children rebel? I can't imagine. I just know I can't bear it.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Fool Creek

Fool Creek

When the deputies found him, he was barefoot and wearing only torn gym shorts and a wife-beater. His right eye was swollen shut and bleeding. He was wrapped in a sodden sleeping bag stumbling through a foot of fresh snow a mile and a half from the main highway on an almost-a-road headed toward the mountains. He told the officers that he thought someone had been with him, but when they found his car, which had gone through a farmer’s fence and into a ditch, there was a single set of shoeprints.

He almost died in a blizzard at four a.m. up Fool Creek Canyon , just a few miles from home as the crow flies. And I’d suspected he was in trouble and I hadn’t called for help.

He’d called me at around 2:30 a.m., the fourth night in a row that I’d been awakened by one child or another in distress…three of those nights, it had been him. I was bone weary, what with two days of serious detox this 30-year-old alcoholic son of mine had been through, and the resulting relapse on the third day. We’ve been on this roller coaster since he was 12, and have seen the heights his soul can reach, and watched, with horror, the depths to which this disease can take a family. This time, we’re in the deep again.

“Mom, I’m going to stop at Wayne’s because the snow is too bad to drive home.” I felt the breath go out of me. Wayne was an ongoing provider of the beverage that was killing my son.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re almost home.” I looked out the window and it only looked like a few inches on the road to me.

“Mom, I’m scared. I can’t see the road. I’m going to sleep at Wayne’s. He’s not even home.” It’s funny that he uses the same lines he used as a teen and thinks I can’t see through them.

“Well, did he take all his alcohol with him?”

Silence. Then anger.

“I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.” Click.

It wasn’t five seconds until the phone rang again.

“Mom, whatever prayer you just prayed will you un-pray it? My headlights just went out!” He was beyond angry and thought I was responsible. If I’d had that kind of power, he’d be sober.

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

But the jonesing for more alcohol was too strong. “I’m fine mom. I can see enough to get to Wayne’s house.”

Seriously?

“Where are you?”

“I don’t even know where I am.” That was a lie as transparent as the icicles forming outside my bedroom window. “I can get to Wayne’s, Mom. Don’t worry. I hate it when you worry.”
Then don’t give me so much to worry about, I thought. I knew better than to speak those kinds of words aloud.

“I don’t feel good about it, Chris.”

“I know, Mom.”

It was in the middle of a desperate prayer that he called again. (I’d been praying what I called the prayer of Alma on behalf of my son. I wanted the angel…the miracle…)

“Mom, I went off the road.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know where I am.”

“Well, you must be close to the main highway.”

“I’m just going to sleep in my car.” He didn’t sound drunk. He was a little slow, disoriented maybe. That could just be tired. I had told him during the last drunk driving call that if I thought he was drinking and driving again I would call and turn him in. But I wasn’t sure. Or maybe I knew and didn’t want to know. Looking back it’s easier to tell than it was in the dead of night reality I was experiencing.

“Chris, it’s snowing. It’s cold. You can’t sleep in your car.”

“Mom, I’ve winter camped a hundred times! I have a sub-zero sleeping bag in my car. I have lots of gas. It’ll be light in a couple of hours. I’ll be fine.” I know it’s hard to believe, but it made sense at the time. I told him it scared me, which annoyed him.

“You’re an adult. You do what you need to do,” I finally said, which I’m sure he took as permission. Honestly, I was tired. I thought it was tough love. He hung up.

Here’s what really happened. He had been drinking the previous evening, but had worn out the alcohol supply and his freeloading welcome at this particular friend’s house, so he was seeking another. I had taken control of his money, but addicts are creative and charming and extremely resourceful. He was on his way to another drinking buddy’s house. He’d been stressed out by the drive and had taken enough Xanax to safely relax five or six people. He’d driven off the road, through a fence and sustained a concussion among other injuries.

While I thought he was safely asleep in his subzero bag, he was climbing out of the wreckage of his car, and heading in what he thought was the direction of Wayne’s house. He had climbed a fence, crossed the highway, climbed another fence and headed up Fool Creek Canyon toward the mountains. How he didn’t realize he wasn’t on a highway? Who knows? Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his shoes. A couple of times he’d fallen asleep and felt someone wake him. The last time, he’d heard that same man tell him to call 911. His phone battery was dying as he asked dispatch if they could find him by GPS. And they had. The sheriff’s had breathalized him, but he only blew .02 so they didn’t charge him.

It’s a miracle he didn’t die. Another miracle that the man he insisted had helped him didn’t exist. One set of footprints.

A third miracle? He is alive in my kitchen.

He’d almost died, and I hadn’t called 911.

How does a mother live with that? Or with the fact that, hours later, he would be drinking again, more than 100 beers in three days? What does a mother do to try to save a son who insists on trying to destroy himself?


Sunday, February 12, 2012

Writing Goal

My goal is to write 1,000 words a day. It can be any type of writing. I can write journal entries, work on my novels or my non-fiction books, blog or poetry. I am trying to develop the habit of writing! Hold my feet to the fire!

Today: 1057 (journal)
Yesterday: 1015 (novel)

Friday: 1213 (Blog)

Friday, February 10, 2012

Writing Prompt: The Word: Talk

Lately, I can’t talk. I know what I want to say, but usually I have to use several sentences to describe the word that will not come to my middle-aged, hormone-depleted mind. Like today, I was trying to tell Lloyd that a lady cop, I mean, female peace officer looked like both a man and a woman, but really neither one and what is that word again?!


The word was androgynous, and it landed on my tongue about 20 minutes later during an entirely unrelated discussion debating the advantages of being over 50 and out of shape and its relevance to the ability to even find someone worth cheating with.
Don’t ask. (Not because o f the ridiculousness of the discussion itself, to which I cheerfully stipulate, but because it’s been a few hours since that discussion and I really can’t remember any more about the conversation than that…hormone depletion again!) *

And like right now! See that asterisk left dangling above? It’s not a typo, It’s...well… I was going to put the syllable representing the sound of the ba-dum-DUM that comes right after a bad joke. It has a name, I know it does, but I can’t think of it to save my life. Okay, Ba Da Bing is a better syllabic representation….but what is it called….oh oh…I know this one…. Ummmmmm. Oh yeah, *Rimshot!!!
See what I mean? It takes so much work….and language…to get to a single word, that sometimes I wonder if it’s really worth it, you know?

Here’s another example that illustrates my point: I used to play Jeopardy with the TV. I’m pretty good, and can come up with a lot of the answers/questions/whatever. But these days I have to cheat. I have to hit pause right after the answer is read so that I can take the 10-15 minutes to think of the word(s) that are required and form it/them into the correct question.
It’s a real problem. A conundrum.(I’m not saying how long it may or may not have taken me to come up with that particular word…) Especially for a writer for whom the right word at the right time feels as  crucial as drawing breath!

I remind myself of my mom, who had a stroke when I was junior in high school. She calls us all the wrong names, can’t for the life of her correctly refer to our gender and can get really close to saying what she means, but not quite. Like once, she was trying to tell me that my little brother popped the question. She kept saying things like “pushed the button” and “pulled the plug”. She had the right idea, but the wrong verbs and nouns.
Nouns are mostly my problem too, but I haven’t had a stroke.

That I know of.
So if you’re listening to me try to get to the word I really want to find, thanks for your patience in advance, and feel free to offer suggestions. When I finally get the word I’m looking for it’s like a hit of pure oxygen or endorphins. It’s a Thesaurus lover’s high, and let’s face it, at my age? I’ll take those experiences any way I can get them.

And, also,  I know that to keep challenging my mind is important in keeping…you know…that one disease where you forget everything you used to know and call people other people’s names…and drive to a job you haven’t worked for in 12 years…you know the one….what is the name of that….?
Ummmm…..don’t worry, I’ll think of it eventually!

I hope.
 Next week’s word: foil