Wizard Of Oz in Columbus!

Growing up in England I never experienced a storm, well that is, not a REAL storm.  We’re very protected and sheltered in the good old British Isles.  Our idea of a storm is a little wind and rain, the occasional roll of thunder, and the odd flash of lightening.  Here in the USA it’s quite different, here we have MEGA storms, its like the world is ending.  We get hail the size of golf balls, winds so strong they tear trees out of the ground, pick up school bus’s, and demolish houses, although the demolishing of houses is not really surprising as most houses here are made of sticks, and can be blown down in a light breeze.  I don’t think the American house builders are familiar with the story of the three little pigs.

The week we moved to America from England a tornado tore through the little town of Kingsport, Tennessee, causing horrendous damage, and putting fear into the hearts of all the occupants, including us, Kingsport was the town we had just moved to.  I remember Mum and I watching the storm from one of our upstairs windows, all the trees were bent almost in half, tree branches were flying through the air, sirens were wailing all around, and we had absolutely no idea at that time what the sirens meant; the television programs were interrupted with messages telling us to take cover in a basement or get into the bath.  I was very confused by that, why exactly was it that we had to get into the bath?  We brought the dogs and cat inside, I made hot chocolate, and Mum baked a cake, we really had no idea how serious the storm actually was, well that is until the next morning when the television showed all the damage, it was as if a giant had gone across the town with a 200 yard wide strimmer (bush whacker in American).  It had been the first tornado to hit the town in 64 years; naturally it chose to do so the week we arrived. We had been very lucky that our house hadn’t been in its path.  Through the experience our education was kicked up a notch and we very quickly came to understand the seriousness of the storms here. 

A year later we moved North to Cincinnati, we were staying in a hotel for a night as our furniture was being delivered the next day.  That night another tornado hit the town, we were all evacuated from our hotel rooms into the hotel basement for the duration of the storm, and at 5am when we were allowed to leave we immediately drove out to our new house to check on our dogs who were in the garage.  As we drove the 3 miles from the hotel to the house we were astonished by the devastation we saw; trucks and cars littered the highway upside down or on their side, debris was everywhere, there were whole trees laying across the road that had literally been torn out of the ground and hurled through the air. I remember how as we weaved through all the debris everyone in the car was silent, we were all completely shocked by what we were seeing, but also terrified at what we might find at our new house. 

We were so lucky, the dogs and the house were fine, the tornado had missed us by only one mile.  Even though the house was undamaged, and thankfully the dogs were OK, the storm must have been frightening for them because from that day forward for the rest of her life little Skye was absolutely terrified whenever she heard thunder.

Last week Danni and I were trapped in a barn with our horses during a tornado warning. The barn had a tin roof and the huge hail caused a deafening noise. Between the 60 mile an hour winds, thunder so loud the ground shook, and lightening that lit up the night sky like daylight, it was truly frightening, I was in a right old panic being all too familiar with just how much damage a tornado could do.  With my relentlessly vivid imagination working overtime, I was having disturbing visions of all of us, the horses, Danni, the barn and me, being lifted up like Dorothy  and spun around as if in a blender, and landing unceremoniously with one almighty bloody crash in Kansas.

Danni had been riding Travis in the indoor arena when the storm hit, and even with the incredible noise of the hail he didn’t bat an eye, he’s such an amazing horse.  She dismounted, un-tacked and put him in the stall while we waited out the storm, I can honestly say I was petrified. I was pacing up and down the barn isle wringing my hands together like a demented person.

Then last night on my way home from Danni’s condo, I drove white knuckled through another tornado warning, with sirens blaring, radio warnings, and torrential rain that was so bad I could only drive 15 miles an hour on the highway (along with everyone else), the roads were flooded, and once again the lightening was scaring me half to death.  I know that being in a car is supposed to be a safe place in a storm, but I didn’t feel very safe last night, I've decided that I’m now officially terrified of storms.

They say everything is bigger and better in America, and I can, without hesitation confirm that America has bigger, (and depending upon how you look at it) better storms than England.

13th Move, More Bitterness!

As I prepare for the 13th move in my life, I can't help but wonder whether life would have been easier had I been born a gypsy, and simply spent my life on the move traveling in a caravan, and trailing the horses behind, it would have saved a great deal of packing and unpacking, not to mention all the related stress that goes along with that.  Each move seems harder than the last, and this one is really going to be hard to beat.  "Moving shouldn't be that hard" I hear you thinking, and you're right, unless you're faced with the complications that I'm trying to manage; the logistics of this move or moves would boggle your mind. 

To make matters worse we have the added stress of needing to find a new barn for our horses, I'm not going to elaborate on the circumstances that brought that particular complication about, because I don't want to be facing a law suit for slander, not that it would be slander, it would be the truth, but when you're dealing with… well I won't say anymore, other than you always need to watch your back, and never trust anyone in the horse world. 

We had to move the horses twice last year; once because the barn was starving one of our horse's to death, and it made absolutely no difference how many times the vet came out and said the horse was starving, all our pleads and requests to please feed him edible hay fell on deaf ears, so we were once again forced to move them.  

The next barn didn't bother to refill the water buckets when we were having 95 degree heat, and Danni ended up having to leave school and drive out 2 or 3 times a day to fill water buckets.  

So this last move was hopefully going to be one where we didn't need to worry about the well being of our horses, and in truth we didn't have to, they were taken care of, fed, watered, turned out etc… the problem here was the people, God help me I really dislike horse people, I can count on one hand the number of people I know involved with horses that I can truthfully say I like and trust, and I know hundreds of people involved with horses, so what does that tell you. 

Yes you could say I'm bitter,  but I'm also terribly disappointed. OH how I miss having my own farm! No wonder Bob wants us to run away to sea.

So here we are, this weekend Danni has to not only move into her new condo, but move the horses to another barn as well, all while she's in school, and anyone who has horses knows that moving to a new barn is almost as bad as moving house.  We had planned to do both these things during her Spring break, so it wouldn't interfere with her her school work, but once again people let us down; it really makes me feel stupid to have believed that I could rely on people to actually do what they say they're going to do.

Once Danni has moved, and the horses are situated, I have to get Edi's stuff ready for him to take to California, then find a house in Atlanta, move numerous vehicles, pack up the house, clear out, and all within the next 8 weeks; one move is bad enough, four moves to negotiate in a few weeks is a huge headache.

The World is Broken!

Just be aware before you read any further that this is an angry post!

I am so tired, really, really tired, sick, fed up and tired, fed up to the point of wanting to stick my head in the sand (or a bottle)  and hope its all really just a bad dream, and it will all just go away… WHY, Why, why does everyone think that life owes them a living?
Who has the right to think  that way, what gives them the right, honestly?

I'm sick and tired of the inefficiency, incompetence, rudeness, and sometimes downright stupidity and laziness of the average person.

Do people really believe they go to work to do someone a favor? When you're paid to do something, HEY "It's not a favor its a job!"  Does no one actually realize that they're being paid (hard earned money) to perform a task, or tasks; tasks which they agreed to do when they took the job in the first place.

Wake up!  Life's not easy, life owes no one a living, "life is what you make it" but sadly today it seems that every Tom, Dick and Harry out there thinks that its their God given right to have an easy life, and that life owes them a living, their belief of never having to actually do anything to earn their money I find incomprehensible! And this is why I am sick and tired.

It's not just here in the US, it's worldwide.  And I would like to know when it was that everyone suddenly started thinking that life owed them a living, and what on earth happened to good manners, etiquette, consideration and integrity?  Would someone please let me know because I'm confused...

Silence of the Lambs!

During my search for an apartment for Danni I've looked at some really nice places, although nothing yet has been exactly right,  I've had plenty of time, and not been under pressure to find anything quickly, so I've taken my time with the search, wanting to find exactly the right place for her.  

I scour the Internet, make lists, do map search for directions, and make appointments to view, when Danni can grab a free hour from school she's joined me in viewing the ones that I thought she would like. 

The requirements are, safe location, close to school, with a garage or off street parking, and of course a nice apartment.  We've looked at some lovely modern lofts downtown, but we've come across a few places that   were decidedly sketchy!  The descriptions used to advertise apartments can sometimes be quite misleading to say the least, and the terminology colorful!

Yesterday I had an appointment to view an apartment described as "Lovely one bedroom loft, with all modern conveniences, including spacious living area, walk in wardrobe, dishwasher, washer, dryer, bathroom with tub and shower, magnificent views over the city, quiet neighborhood walking distance to local bars, restaurants and clubs, and only minutes from OSU"  It sounded perfect, and was in an area that  Danni liked.

Because of Danni's other commitments I ended up going to view this one alone.  The appointment was at 3pm.  My GPS directed me straight to the location, which was indeed only minutes from OSU, good start; I drove along a pretty cherry blossomed street, with well cared for houses and lovely yards, people were walking their dogs, children were playing on bikes, and a couple of teenagers with i-pods jogged past  as I pulled up outside the address at 2:55pm.  The house was the only one on the street that I didn't like the look of, all the other houses were brightly painted, and had yards full of flowers and shrubs, this house had a bare concrete yard and looked "dark"!

I was told that the house was not numbered and I would probably have trouble locating it, so I should call when I arrived in the street. I had no problems finding the house, even without the number on the letterbox, but as instructed I called the number, and waited for the landlord to come out. As I walked across the road to meet him, I felt really uneasy as though I should turn and run.  He walked out onto his porch and waved at me, he was dressed in a grubby t shirt with long shorts, with a large tear in the side, he had odd socks that pulled up almost to his knees, and dirty trainers.  

Now I know this will sound silly but he looked like Ted Levine (the serial killer "Buffalo Bill" in the movie Silence of the lambs).  We shook hands and I smiled and looked over my shoulder at all the people walking in the street, trying to make eye contact with one of them hoping they would notice me going into this creepy house.  I had already decided that under no circumstances was this going to be suitable for Danni, but I didn't wish to appear rude, so I had no choice other than to view the apartment.

We walked into the house through the front door, and he explained that he lived on the ground floor, meaning that anyone living in the apartment would have to pass him on their way in.  The hallway was dark even though it was a bright sunny day outside, the floor boards were a dark wood and creaked under my feet, there was litter strewn about, and through the half open doors I could see into his part of the house, it was cluttered with sheets thrown over the furniture,  bags and boxes were piled up everywhere. We walked up the first set of stairs, the stairway was dark and smelt odd like stale fat and body odor, all the floorboards creaked, everywhere was filthy, the plaster on the walls and ceiling were cracked and pealing off in places, crumbled plaster lay over the floor, the walls looked moldy in places.  On the second floor there were three doors, one appeared to be hanging on only one hinge, bare wires poked out of the wall where the light switch should have been, he saw me looking at it and said "OH I'm fixing that".  Like everything else in this place I thought.  The windows were so dirty that barely any light shone through, and the frames were in desperate need of a coat of paint, the wood looked rotten.  A couple of the doors were ajar and I could see into the rooms beyond, more mess and clutter, the smell was starting to make me gag.

He opened a door at the far end of the hallway "this is the entrance to the apartment" he said.  As he opened the door it was totally dark inside, "OH he's still here, I'll call him" he said starting to dial a number on his mobile, I could hear the phone ringing above me, it rang about 6 or 7 times then stopped, then there were footsteps.  He called again and the person answered this time "the 3 O'clock is here" he said.  I couldn't hear what the person on the phone was saying, but I hoped it would be something that would mean he couldn't show the apartment.  "He'll just be 5 minutes, he was in the shower" he said;  well isn't that nice I thought, didn't he know I was coming?

We walked back downstairs and out onto the front porch to wait for the person in the apartment to leave. This was my opportunity to make a run for it, but without having actually seen the apartment I couldn't think of a polite excuse.  After about 5 minutes a young guy carrying a bike came out.  We headed back into the house and up the creepy stairs, this time when he opened the door there was some light, we climbed up the steep, narrow staircase into a loft, and as soon as I stepped into the room the man reached over and closed the trapdoor behind me which covered the staircase.  We were standing in the tiny attic of the house; a bed stood in one corner of the room, a stove, dishwasher and sink in the other, and the only floorspace was over the trapdoor.  I have to say I was more than a little uncomfortable in that room, it was dark because the windows were small and dirty, there were clothes scattered all over the floor and bed, I was feeling quite claustrophobic. The pitched ceiling meant there was only standing room in the center part of the room The tiny, tiny bathroom was more disgusting than I can begin to describe, and the "walk in closet" was a large hole knocked through the wall opening up a space under the rafters, the bare bricks were exposed, and I could see daylight through the gaps in the roof…  

I thanked him and said I would talk to my daughter about it, but that we did have a few other properties to look at.  My relief when he opened the trapdoor for me to leave was immense.  The place reminded me of a dark cellar, but instead of being underground it was in a loft, and for all this he was only asking $800 a month!

Admitting your wrong…

I grew up in England, a country where ( I'm always saying) "what you see is what you get".  A country of solid, well built houses.  Houses that will still be standing centuries after we have passed on.  Estates that are passed down from generation to generation, and won't blow away in a strong gust of wind. The people of England are on the whole strong like the houses. For the most part the houses in general are not as grand, or showy as American houses,  they're usually much smaller, but then the country is smaller and so the space allocated is smaller.  

British people don't have blindingly bright parchment white teeth,  perfect hair, or surgically enhanced faces or bodies like we (the we is not including me) do here in America, consequently we're not a race of 'perfect' looking people.  But... in England (mostly) everything is real, and it lasts.  It's a place where if someone makes a mistake they can say "sorry" and genuinely mean it.  People are able to say "I was wrong,  I made a mistake or I shouldn't have done that". Maybe that's something thats seen here as making one less than perfect, and that's unacceptable,  I have yet to meet anyone who is actually perfect, or even close to it.

I love America, I really do love living here, America is an amazing country, and most of my friends now happen to be American, two of my children are now American citizen's, but one thing that I have always struggled with is that an American can never admit to being wrong, they will fight to the death, or pay any price, sacrifice just about anything, love, friendship, work anything rather than admit to having made a mistake, large or small… WHAT'S WITH THAT?  Everyone makes mistakes, its human to do so, its nothing to be ashamed of.  Whereas, as I see it lying to cover up mistakes is totally something to be ashamed of.

I have so much respect for people who are able to say sorry, or 'that was wrong of me'. There have been a couple of times with people that I previously had so much respect for, where they were so obviously in the wrong and yet insisted upon arguing until they were blue in the face rather than admit it, I stopped arguing, and they lost my respect.  It really does take an honest, decent, special person with integrity to admit when they are wrong.

 I believe that everyone here is brought up to believe they're the best, they're absoutly perfect, and  can do no wrong, so admitting to a wrong doing or a mistake is admitting to the world that they are less than perfect. In England we're taught that there's no shame in admitting to a mistake, or having accidentally done something wrong, one learns through mistakes, it takes a strong person to say "I'm sorry I was wrong".  I hate being wrong, and I often am, but I'm not ashamed to admit it, I hope that makes me a good person!

mugglefuzzledditzyblond WHAT!

Following a couple of weeks of almost losing it, wallowing in a deep pool of self pity and depression, Danni finally gave me a stiff kick in the pants, telling me to get a grip and get on with my life positively. “We make our own happiness, and can’t blame the world for our problems” she reprimanded me; I then spent a sleepless night tossing and turning and wrestling with my pillows, a pastime I’ve become inordinately good at lately, while the mixing pot of negative thoughts churned around in my brain like clothes in a tumble dryer. I wondered exactly how I was going to reclaim my positive, happy attitude and stop worrying myself into an early grave.  The anxiety attacks I had been experiencing over the last couple of months were getting worse and worse, and my sleepless nights were really beginning to take their toll on me Danni’s words rattled around in my brain, and I couldn’t escape the truth in them, I had to make some serious mental adjustments, I was seeing negative in everything, and crying most of the time, how could I have allowed myself to become this pathetic, emotional wreck?

I did finally manage a couple of hours sleep that night, not because I was able to still my overactive brain, but because exhaustion took over and I fell into a zombie like coma.

I woke the next morning and just decided that I was going to be happy, and look for the positive in everything instead of the negative.  Miraculously it worked, I felt as if a weight had been lifted and a bright ray of light had replaced the black aura that had engulfed me over the last few weeks.

I started my day with a smile, and a determination that nothing was going to wipe it off my face or get me down.

This next incident would have quickly sent me spiraling into another emotional breakdown a couple of days ago, but today I had convinced myself to see only the positive…

I had been driving Bob’s Porsche over the last couple of days, Danni’s car was at the shop, so she had been using mine.  I don’t usually like driving Bob’s car I’m always nervous something is going to happen. I’ll accidentally scratch it or do something to spoil its immaculate, pristine, showroom condition, but if I wanted to get about I had no choice.  So there I was driving to the store when I had a call from someone who was interested in some furniture I had put on Craig’s list the night before, could they come and see it right now, they inquired; I said I would go right back and meet them at the house, so I immediately turned around and headed home. I had to wait at the train tracks, something I’ve never had to do before, but I enjoyed watching the train roling past,  realizing I was going to be late back, as soon as I was past the tracks I flew (something that’s quite easy to do in a Porsche) right past a waiting police car… “Crap, crap, crap I exclaimed, now I was not only going to be late but probably pick up a ticket as well. Sure enough there was the flashing lights and siren pulling up behind me, I pulled over and wound the window down.  In my wing mirror I saw the policeman walking towards me.  “How are you doing today?” he said with a smile.  “Fine thank you” I replied sheepishly.  “I pulled you over because you don’t have a front license plate, which is required by Ohio law.” He actually smiled at me as he said it, and it wasn’t a sarcastic smile but a genuine one.  “I’m so sorry, it’s not my car, and I’m moving to Atlanta.”  Quite why I said that I don’t know, it was the truth, but still a weird statement to make.  “Can I see your license and registration please?”  I fumbled around and gave him my license, but couldn’t find the registration.  “OH dear I can’t find it,” I said, as he looked at my license, “Is this your home address?”  OH more crap, crap, crap, “No, I moved, but I haven’t changed it yet because I don’t know where I’m going, I’m sort of in between, OH here’s my car insurance,” I said handing him my card.   “This is for another vehicle” he said,  “yes I know that’s my car, this is my husbands car, but its in our son’s name, because my husband doesn’t live here, so its been off the road for 2 years, I just drove it today because my daughters car is in the shop so she’s using mine, but I did insure it, you can check.”  I noticed he was starting to look confused,  “OH look here’s the insurance card for this car,” I said excitedly handing him the card.  He took it and scratched his head, “this is out of date!” crap, crap, crap… “OH yes but I promise you the car is insured, you can check.”  Why did I keep saying that?  “So where do you live?” he asked looking as if he really didn’t want to know the answer.  Previously this question would have quickly reduced me to tears.  “All over the place, actually, I don’t have an actual home, I’ve been staying with my youngest daughter here, but I’m moving to Atlanta with my other daughter, and I’m going to be living with her, but I actually live on a boat in Panama or rather I have been, so that’s sort of where I live, but I’m on my way to Atlanta.” 

He smiled, “I have a friend moving to Panama.”  “Really! That’s nice, will you get to visit?” I asked.  Our conversation then went on to discuss Panama for a few minutes.  “I was actually on my way home to meet someone, I’m selling furniture and I have to meet the buyer.”  I said hoping that he would let me go quickly before I missed my buyer, I was already so late.  “I’m going to Atlanta.”  He looked confused again; “you’re driving to Atlanta now!”  “OH no, not till the end of next month, I don’t have a house yet!” I smiled my prettiest smile, I could tell it was all a bit too much for him; he was really starting to look confused. “Tell you what, it seems as though you have a lot going on right now, and since you’re moving to another State, I’m going to let you off with a warning, I’m going to go and write it up now.”  I watched him walk back to the police car, and waited while he wrote up my warning ticket, then I called Danni to let her know I was running late.

The policeman give me my warning ticket and I thanked him for his kindness.  He smiled and wished me luck, happy to see the back of me I’m sure.

I think I got away without a ticket because of my happy, positive attitude, but it could also have been because I confused the crap out of him, we will never know.