Priceless words from the Crack Babies.

He loves his costumes. Batman, Spiderman, Superman. When he is dressed as them he is invincible. And when you have had the life he has had, it must be terribly important to be invincible. He wants to wear them everywhere, and every day. Zowie has chose not battle this one, and just lets him be Superman if he wants to be one. Today they were at the grocery store and crack baby one was dressed in his finest batman garb. He was wondering off, and dispite her instance he was not retuning to his Mommy pro tem. She was getting aggravated, and through clenched teeth, made a final plea. He turned an pointed his little three year old finger at her and said “you are no match for Batman.”

Balsamic Vinaigrette for Everyone!

The dogs had tried their best to get me up this morning, but my intuition must have realized it was not a good move. Half hour after I should have been up I stumbled to the door to let the dogs out and they would not go. It was not that wet out, but I did not have time to argue. They barked their way to the kitchen, where I discovered why they no longer needed to go out, they had already done their business - on the floor-- of my kitchen. By the time I cleaned up, the cat was completely freaked out and screaming for breakfast. I feed her, then realized I had not shut the door tight enough and the dogs had ran her off and eaten her food while I was trying to get theirs in the dish. I fed her again. Now I am really running late, but did pause to note there was a giant bottle of balsamic vinaigrette on my dining room table. I ‘cliff note’ my morning routine and thank heaven it is casual Friday. I grab my purse, my quick lunch, my keys, ponder the giant bottle of balsamic vinaigrette and bolt out the door.
Now, the grass was still wet from nightly rain and I was wearing a cute little pair of canvas tennis shoes. But at my age, running with that combination was cursed. I hit square on my behind, which I thank heaven is more padded that it used to be and I just got up with my big wet behind and drove down the road. At the light, I pulled my soda from my lunch back for a dose of caffeine and actually had the thought of the fall right as I opened the shaken beverage and blasted myself a little before recapping it. I managed to stagger into my desk only two minutes late and began my day.
My office is actually in the middle of a very dirty very hot very loud repair shop that was originally built during world war II. ( We have updated some things, like a sign on the door that says “US Citizen’s Only!“ Yeah, that is right - my boss had the sign made to her direct specifications. Tat includes the punctuation. Go back and look at it again. It is exactly as I typed it, we citizens are terribly amused. ) There are giant aircraft tires and huge piles of used steel and rivet machines and vats of acid and paint booths and general filth. The office part is small, there are 6 cells enclosed in an air-conditioned box with a door that sticks and one locked office for the main boss. Tow motors hit the box frequently and it sounds as if it is going to cave in. There are tire explosions from over inflation and paint fumes. (thank heavens for the paint fumes, or it would be totally intolerable) I coordinate repairs and keep customers from driving to the facility and strangling people with their bare hands. It is not a job for the light hearted. This is important to have this picture to really grasp the absurdity of the next point.
I am called over to my boss’s cell, where she explains to me how she is tired of getting complaints (maybe the citizen’s are complaining) about the condition of my desk. She expresses that I lack organization and I need to get it straightened up. She tells me it is getting really old that she has to go over this again and again. Great, there is nothing else for her to bitch about but my stacks of work. Not that I am doing the job that 3 people used to do or anything. The whole time she is talking all I can think about is that my butt is still wet.
So by 9 am my day was completely trashed. I did nothing the rest of the day but clean. While my phone ran (I did answer the phone when my house showed up on the caller ID, to ask if I could have someone run me up some brownies and if anyone knew where the giant balsamic vinaigrette came from) , my emails stacked , and faxes piled up, I cleaned my desk, my floor, my cabinets, my drawers. I have no knickknacks or pictures or personal items to get dusty so I really had to try hard to clean for 7 hours.
I left on time, I could not in good conscious work over, with all the dust shoved into other cells, and not much other cleaning to do, and that Balsamic Vinaigrette mystery going on. Home was surprisingly calm and quiet. I threw my baggage on the table, and left the Balsamic vinaigrette remain as an odd large centerpiece. I really did not care any more how it got there, it suddenly seems very appropriate for the day.

Stand Back Ladies, He is all Mine!!!!

Dad has an obsession with switch blades. When ever we go to the flea market, he wanders over to the booths that sell them and plays. He loves everything about them, they way they feel in his hand, they razor sharp blades, the fast action. Absolutely everything. He has debated (mainly awaiting my blessing before purchasing) the price and haggled a few down close to what he seems to think I would agree with. This weekend he could not stand it a moment longer and sprung for one. He got the guy down to $15 and as we left the both there was a warning, ‘be careful ,I just sharpened that one this morning.’ He played with it all afternoon, whipping it out and dancing around like a Jet in West Side Story. Overjoyed, I tell you. A kid at Christmas. Then I saw his eyes pop open wide .

ME: What happened?
HIM: My knife just opened in my pocket.

The blade being razor sharp, very close to his manhood, scared him a little. He claims it was because he did not close it tightly after one of his flaying about episodes. He gingerly removed it and closed it securely. He went back to his fondling of the blade. Then today, while he and Tank worked in the back yard, he stuck his hand in his pocket and stabbed his finder a good one. He tried really hard not to let Tank see it, but the blood filling his pocket (note, he was working in his only pair of very light gray shorts) was a dead give away. He came into the house and got the knife out of his pocket flopping the blood coated thing on the table.

HIM: Tank , you want this thing?
TANK: Hell no, I would like to keep my testicles, thank you.

NO MORE MISSIONS

Received a call from our soldier, who sounded extremely good for having actually been diagnosed with PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder, which I miss pronounced while I was on the phone with him, and called it post dramatic stress disorder, where upon he told me he did not have that illness, it was me that has PDSD - ha ha funny boy) He has been moved from his housing to a temporary tent and will soon be shipping out for the home land. God forbid the Army give him any exact dates and we all know my boss has zero tolerance for 'spur of the moment' vacation requests (because 'you should be able to plan your vacation at the beginning of the year when you are making your flight and hotel reservation - REAL WORLD- I cannot afford flight and hotel reservations.), so I am a little concerned we will not be able to get there when he gets off the bus. (he is not aware at this time that his birth mother and her mother are going to be staying at his house that week, my poor daughter in law says 'I do not mean to be gross, but I really do not want them in the house the days my husband is first home.' I am not going to be the one that tell him.) He also tells me that because he is close to boarding the plane, he will not be put on any more missions! Yeah! I will now be able to watch the news again! He is worried about his PTSD, because he has it, I would be worried if he didn't. He is in a war and that is pretty traumatic. They told him - no crowds, no situations where he experiencing stress or fear. (And again I refer to his mother and her mother living with him for a week, note, his mother and wife are bitter enemies) So he tells me for the 589th time he does not want a party with random people that he has met only once or twice. I reassured him, no party, which, as hard as it is, I am not having a welcome home party, I am just going to let him come home and let him and his family just visit. Then he goes off on a tangent about how the insurgents are using dead bodies (animal or human) to hide explosives and I say a little mini prayer to help him get over the trauma. And he tells me how much he loves me and how great I am, and I say another little prayer about how thankful I am for him and his being alive. So we ended the call on the love fest, and the fact that he really would like to just come home and spend a week just being here. (He is under the impression that being here is less stressful than Baghdad, obviously the war has messed with his memory) A week will be great, I should be able to actually stop crying by then!

I Got Your Tip, Buddy

HIM: He gets a roll of those things, you like , those saga-deas, that isn’t right, what are those things?
ME: I am not sure what you are talking about.
HIM: Those things you like they are round…
ME: Quesadilla’s?
HIM: Yeah, that is them, he gets a roll of Quesadilla’s.

The salad comes.

HIM: Now, this is how you should get salad dressing, in this gravy boat thing! Perfect , I hate those places where you get an entire head of lettuce for a salad and they give you a paper thimble full of dressing. And you have to say, ’can I have 8 more of these please?’ , I mean what are they thinking,
ME: So why does he take Quesadilla’s to the bar? I don’t understand
HIM: So he can leave them as a tip for the bar maid
ME: He leaves a chicken Quesadillas as a tip for the bar maid?
HIM: What the hell are you talking about? He leaves them as a tip, they are money, just different, he goes to the bank and gets a whole roll
ME: Quesadillas are rolled up appetizers
HIM: That is what you f&^^%&^%ing call them, you are the only person that calls them f^%&^ing Quesadilla’s, you had a ton of them from the G^%&^D*&^%^^^ post office machine
ME: Do you mean Sacagawea?
HIM I don’t know, it is what you f&^%&^%ing call them, the coins
ME Sacagawea -- Quesadilla’s are food
HIM I do not know what the f^%$^%$^ they are, I told you the coin, those gold coins
ME You never said a type of coin,
HIM Well I never said he takes a chicken roll to the bar to give the waitress

Dinner comes

ME So I was at work and I had just talked to Tank on the phone and I put it my pocket, and I was leaning against some shelves trying to get the numbers off these parts
HIM I don’t think Sacagawea’s are rolled up, I think they are flat, with cheese in them, I think you made them once
ME I made Quesadillas once and yes , I made flat ones but I was thinking about the ones you buy that are pre-made -- wait, you are not going to drag me into this again, let me tell you my story. So these are metal shelves and there are some wires and I am trying to not get too dirty or hurt myself. And I get shocked, like bad, I screamed really loud and jumped back. And then I was shocked again like someone tazered my butt.
HIM Someone tasted your butt?
ME Tazered, shocked
HIM oh
ME Anyway it was my phone, it was on vibrate and I thought I was getting shocked
HIM Great, people were staring at you, weren’t they?

The check comes

ME I think I am going to leave a chicken Quesadillas as a tip.
HIM What?

Samatoes

I am not ready to go into the fun and festivities of my weekend because I am not finding the humor in it yet. But I am just going to let you know I spent hours trying to think of wonderful dishes that contained tomatoes. As luck would have it everone is still okay. I have absolutely no luck.

The 10 most important lessons I have learned ,were from a man with Alzheimer’s.

10. Childhood fears carry throughout your life.-- All we could figure was he must have been cold as a child. He had wood stored in two sheds, a garage, a basement and every nook and cranny you could find. He would build fires in the fireplace, even on warm days. I used to think of him and his brothers scrapping together wood for fires to keep warm in a home that was continuously cold to the heart. I watch my children for their fears and can see it in my friends. It is that fear that constantly will haunt them, and knowing that fear will always help you understand them and yourself. We all have stacks of firewood ready for the cold in some way or another.

9. Don’t ‘water’ plants with Gasoline - Although it seems as if this is a lesson I should not have had to learn, but it is actually note worthy if a) they are not your plants and the person who loves the plants will want to replace your water with gasoline and / or b) if you have a daughter who goes outside to smoke and nearly incinerates herself with the lighting of one match.

8. It is wonderful to hear “I love you.”- He never said it ,not once, until the disease hit. I could not get enough. I would say it and he would say it back every time, with all the warmth and adulation that the words were created for. I realized how powerful it is, I say it all the time to my children, maybe they think I am silly now, but I want them not to just ‘know’ it, I want them to hear it, remember me saying it. I say it to everyone I love as often as I can, because I want them to hear me say it. Because that makes it real.

7. Don’t play with Cheaters.- There were signs he was becoming ill. He played poker almost every day of his life. He loved it. He loved to gamble, on horses, dogs, what color Mr. Roger’s sweater would be, just about anything. But he was having a bad streak. Then he caught them. I can count on one hand the times I saw him mad, and this one was the biggest. He had the cards, he had the proof, and he never forgave them, he never understood it. It taught me that cheating, not playing by the rules, was just about the worst thing you could do. I have never forgotten.

6. Home is the most important place in your life -towards the end it was getting worse, and my sister put him in a rest home. But he remembered his phone number, and he knew he was not home. And he called me , begging me to come and get him. Sometimes in the middle of the night. I will never tell anyone they cannot come ‘home’ again. I cannot do it, I have never forgiven myself for telling him he could not come home. Home is the place you belong, you start to die the minute you are told you no longer belong.

5. Watch where you spit - he hated his meds, I think they made his mind even more cloudy than it was, but they did slow him down, which, since he could sprint up the street before you realized it, was a much needed item. So at dinner he would put it in his mouth and then when my back was turned, pit-tuey, right into the cat food dish. The cat would hear it and run, thinking it was getting some sort of a treat, and start licking the very powerful anti-psychotic pill. The poor thing developed a very strong affinity for them. The worst was when I did not hear the tablet hit, when the dish was full, because I would think he actually took it. Then he would wonder the house all night. You have to be careful with spitting.

4. Sometimes it is better to just walk away from a fight-- My parents had a stormy marriage, and my mother was the thunder cloud. She raged. Primarily at him. But he never fought back. I think it actually drove her anger more, and maybe he knew it. Even as he progressed he did not fight with her, I asked him once, “you don’t like to fight with her, do you?” He simply said, “ I can’t win.” Maybe it was 54 years of marriage, maybe he was just playing the odds. But he was right, there are just some fights you have to seize up and decide you are just not going to win, then let them go. That is a very hard lesson to learn.

3. You can love someone as if they are your own - when he met my mother she had two sons. Very few people ever knew he was not their father. We were a blended family before it was common place, it was just how it was. They did not call him Dad, they had a father, but it worked, their relationship. He taught me how a step-parent has to step back sometimes, and step up other times. It was his example that has held my family together now.

2. When you open the door, you can never be sure who you are letting in.- on the nights when he would not take his pills, I found he had a little secret. He would hear his cat meow to come in and open the door. The cat would come in. He would feed it and then let it back out. This would go on sporadically throughout the night. Until I realized that it was not always his cat, usually it was some other cat, then another cat, then another cat. They would come in, eat, leave. One at a time. I really could not tell you for sure that he knew they were not all his cats. But there was a pattern to it, the cats knew he would open the door. They knew he would feed them. And all parties seemed to be enjoying it. But he refused to check first, to see if it was his cat , he just let them in. I learned to look before I let a meowing cat into the house. Or anyone into the house.

1. You are sometimes NOT the only one that thinks you are funny - He was not big on talking, you could not pull a lot of conversation out of him, but he had this habit of saying and doing things that were absolutely hilarious. He would buy some tough leather meat, my mother would pound the heck out of it boil it for hours and make a great meal. He would say, “ I buy great meat.” and laugh. He called my sister’s boyfriend Leo, Zero, and laugh. He told my brother to give his wife $2.00 and she would leave, implying not only was she a whore but a cheap one, and he would laugh. His humor stayed intact for a long time, a lot of it barbed at my mother. She always said he was going to put, ‘he was the only one that thought he was funny’ on his tomb stone. She didn’t. Because the truth was he could always make her laugh.

Your memories still make me giggle, Poppa, I will love you forever. Happy Father’s Day.

All for the love of a grilled braut

Seems that ornate bead work is a fantastic back scratcher, if you are covered in fur (don’t tell my husband as he may want to try it) as the cat has well established the fact. So there is now white and black cat hair intertwined in the bead work of THE dress and I cannot bring myself to do anything about it. To the degree of frustration that I would rather scrub down all my cupboards with hot bleach and soap water in 90 degree temperatures (we have no air, it is the 1970’s here ) than sit and pick the fur off THE dress. My cupboards are wonderfully clean though. And just before I drag my butt to bed, my dear husband asks if I would get the wrap for his wrist cast. I asked why was it off, he responded that it was dirty. “Oh,” I said in my never ending hope that things are going to some day get better, “did you wash it out in the sink?”
“No, actually it is on the floor in the bedroom” he responded in his never ending resolve to never change. Upon seeing the obvious pain that washed over my face, he said, “ I guess I just thought if I did that it would get washed.” Sort of like his socks, which too are always on the floor. I actually had a vision of taking the wrap and putting it around and around and around his neck, pretty sure that a woman judge may just let me off. But instead I just walked away, and the wrap will stay on the floor until one of the dogs drags it off or it rots into dust. Had he not actually cooked dinner for me tonight and let me have the remote for the evening, he just may have had a long long sleep!

GET OFF THAT!

The cat jumped on the dining room table and took THE dress that was stretched out on said table, nested THE dress into a nice pile and was sleeping peacefully when I came down stairs this morning! I was afraid to scream, her claws could come out and I was afraid to pick her up, her claws may come out. And I certainly do not want to tell my friend, her claws may come out. So I went to work! I may not go home.

UBER-RIFFIC!

What I hate about myself the very most is my complete need to ‘uber’ everything. I cannot do anything just simply, no I over-do, over-react, over-achieve, over-eat, blah blah blah. My husband is of course ‘uber’ also, but not exactly in the same direction. He has managed to find, after numerous appointments, a doctor who would actually find something wrong. Seems that he has carpal tunnel. In his defense he had spent 30 years at a job that did have repetitive motion and I am sure he may have damaged his carpals. (Personally I think it is from lighting 80 plus cigarettes a day, and I am absolutely sure it is not from folding laundry. And I will admit, I am a little jealous, my freaking hands pull up like claws after about 10 hours of work at the terminal, and I cannot take of 6 weeks for care) So he had surgery, and is now completely unable to do anything at all, and has had to change hands to light his cigarettes. But I am off the subject. Me. Me and my uber-self.

I have taken on a project that I am way under qualified to do. I have a dear friend (who I love, and if I did not love her so much, I would be jumping up and down on this project right now) that requested a favor. And since our relationship is hugely unbalanced, this woman has given me furniture, presents, lavish gifts and has even helped me clean my house! I have done precious little in return other than listen and make her laugh. She needed a dress for her son’s wedding, and found the PERFECT dress on line, and feel head over heels in love. But it is too short and a little tight in the caboose area. So she gets a larger size and it fits in the caboose perfectly, but is too large up top where she is not very large. Do you see where this is going? She has two dresses, the top of one fits perfect, the bottom of one fits perfect. A professional seamstress refuses to do it, because it is impossible to merge the two dresses. That is like throwing a challenge down in front of me, and when she asked. I agreed. So here we are two months later and I am still working on this. And the wrap I made from the unused half, and the clutch purse I made from the other unused part. Did I mention the dress is covered in bead work? I have taken the thing apart about 4 times. My goal is to have it completed Wednesday for her birthday. I also want to make her some of the chocoates I make that she loves, and maybe some chocolate covered Orea’s.

My God, stop me before I go completely overboard!!!!

LIONS!

There is not one thing funnier, than Pomeranians shaved like lions! I used my little check book bonus to fund a spa visit for the dogs. Hopefully this will prevent the heat rash they get every year ( that leaves them with bald spots ) and having to wash the poo off of them semi daily (or everyone waiting for me to get home to clean them). And they look hilarious!

Sometimes You Just Have to Find the Fun in Your Day

Bizarre happenings today--
1. No one took out the trash, even though I had requested my husband take it out right before I went to bed last night. Therefore I had to go out in the rain and drag the trash out. But the actual part that was good, was I had not gathered up all the trash in the house, so I had a second chance and managed to get it all out. Which is not my normal trash day.
2. My boss’s evil minion pointed out that my tennis bracelet looked just like the one that my boss lost. Which I find extremely funny because my boss came running over thinking she was going to see her several thousand dollar tennis bracelet but only to see my $199.00 bracelet. The fun part is that I know she wanted to say that was obviously not her bracelet and was insulted and then I actually said that it was a fake I picked up at Wal-Mart. Then I actually said, ‘your bracelet looks just like this one?“ I could almost smell her fuming.
3. I left work an hour early and got some 'me' time.
4. I made the best bacon pickle sandwich ever.
5. I balanced my checkbook, which is one of the funniest parts of the month for me, because of course I balanced (I am so the nerd) and found $100!!! Yeah! A mistake in my favor!
Pretty good for a Tuesday!

God Saves Broken Woman, Delivery Guy Saves Broken Man

Okay this is going to get confusing so get out your playbill for reference and hold on, it has been a very crazy weekend!.
I have been so freaking sick - coughing up my body weight (big number ,don’t ask) in phlegm and so depressed because I cannot let go of any pathetic injustice I have encountered ever, that my mental health has seriously been in question. I am asked to watch my grandson, George, who as we all know is my favorite 10 year old on the planet, Friday night. And since I have not even had the intestinal fortitude to get a shower lately, I really was not sure I was going to be able to be the Meemaw I want to be. But Dad picked him up (note - dad also thinks he is the greatest 10 year old ever, so he was sitting by the phone for the ‘go ‘ signal and the feeling is mutual, ever since Dad made a fart machine and hilarity ensued) and when I came home from work I was greeted with the biggest smiles ever and, of course, fart noises. We went to the skate park and we talked while watching this agile bundle of energy leap around the concrete. I actually heard myself being negative and heard myself dwelling on ridiculous petty self absorbed nonsense All the while I watched this boy, this obviously African American 10 year old, marching himself up to total tattooed skating young men, and asking for help, for direction, for lessons. Not one refused him, not one. They showed him tricks and encouraged him. I just shut my mouth and watched. How brave, I thought, he did not look like he fit in, but he did, he amazed me.
Within an hour of getting home we were blasted with intense phone calls. There was a message from Iraq that did not sound good. The strain in our soldiers voice was so evident that I immediately called his wife. What had him so upset? She did not want to say, but she did not know what to say. Seems that Butterfly has rekindled a relationship with her boyfriend Coney Island ( he has this nickname by dad because he belongs in a freak show - tattoo sleeves and piercings and a raging habit of smoking heroin). Now he is out of state, because of legal issues we think, and she was in rehab to get through the drug withdrawal and to get over her adiction to him. Our soldier had seen it on line, on My Space, and flipped the heck out because he loves his sister and he is so far away and she will not answer his calls. His wife is totally upset, because we had all explained to Butterfly that she needs to watch what she posts on line, because it makes him freak the heck out when he reads that she is doing idiotic things. (note, I personally have not seen her since this lecture, nor have we seen her long enough to give her the gifts Dad bought her when we were with the soldier in April). I wanted to scream. We are within weeks now, the soldier has to keep his head in the game and not be worrying about the antics of his sisters. Then I find out Bo Peep has placed lovely pictures on My Space of herself drinking from a beer bong and getting ‘wasted’. What a great thing to put out there for her brother to see, not to mention the rest of the world. I felt so sick, so angry, so embarrassed. And I am told, the computer is down, and we have lost contact with our soldier. So he is there, dwelling on this chaos, in the war zone.
I was wallowing in my anger when Tank arrived home with his own dilemma. His most resent lady friend has a sister that is an exotic dancer. Not a huge deal considering we are not unfamiliar with the dancer community but a fact that he was made aware of early in the relationship. Having a friend that was recently removed from his girlfriends apartment and slightly in need of female companionship, Tank and he had headed off to the strip club. And yes, as it turns out to the very place that his lady friend’s sister happens to be employed. In his defense, he told the young lady he was going to a club, and she did not let him know which club her sister was at. But in her defense, it was probably too embarrassing to really talk about. She claims he should have recognized her from a picture, which is a head shot and he claims he did not recognize her face. (Hmm, he probably did not look at her face ) Oh my god, I can’t believe my son. I am not sure that he and I should have had this conversation. I wallow in my lack of parental skills. Deciding that perhaps I need to bake something and find myself staring at my cookbook which was published by a local church about a million years ago. Using my trusty lap top , I found them, and thought maybe when my daughter in law is up here next month, maybe she would go with me. It would be nice to do together and she had always went as a child and misses it.
I wake up unbelievably early (Thank you, stupid dogs) and just decided to treat myself to God treatment. I really do not know why, but I got dressed and left my sleeping family and went to a church I found in a cook book - alone. I cannot begin to tell you how absolutely comfortable I felt. And I - with a voice that sounds like a cat in heat- but who loves to sing, sang my little heart out (the woman behind me said to her husband - why so much singing today?) - I smiled. I loved it. Then the sermon was about letting go and forgiving. (Hmm, coincidence?) It was sort of like a full soul massage. I felt great and refreshed. I needed it. I got it.
I am all happy and smiles when I return, which of course had to be short lived because my husband is absolutely sure I was ‘meeting’ someone for breakfast. Yeah, that’s it, I am having an affair because all my past relationships have worked out so famously that I long to enter another. Priceless I tell you, but it really did not bother me that bad, I just thought it was ridiculous and an effort to give him a reason to feel self pity. I was buzzing around pretty much all day. He was getting buzzed up all day. (Note, he was invited people over all day that I do not like, so that he could show me that he was in charge. Between my boss ‘showing’ me she is in charge and him, I have really felt very out of control) But this day, I felt great. I am not going to be a zealot or anything, and I have no desire to plaster my car with Jesus fish. I do not feel like cloking my cube at work with God posters, and God calendars, and crosses, like my boss. (note, this is the same married boss that is huddled up with her married boss, giggling and hugging, HMMM) One dose does not a cure make, I just needed to know I was okay, and it did the job. Maybe I needed to hear the lesson and get a chance to sing where dogs would not start howling. Then the evening came.
“Mom, I just had to help a guy.” Tank bellowed into the phone. “I came up on the accident, no one was reacting. I thought he was dead, mom, his jaw was gone. There was blood everywhere. I could barely find a pulse.” He was delivering a pizza and then he had to be there, for this man that was hit and slipping away. He shouted orders, got people helping, and assisted the ambulance when it arrived. But most importantly, he held the hand of someone who was leaving his life behind. He kept him calm and alive. The paramedics told him if the guy made it, it was because of him. Then we had to hang up because he was at the delivery spot (I can just hear the 911 calls “this guy just got hit, but the pizza guy has got it under control”, “the pizza guy told me to call and tell you the guy is going into shock” and the next house “hey, our pizza is cold what is the matter with your delivery guy” “our pizza box has blood on it, do we have to pay?”)
Tank swears he will never get on a motorcycle again after seeing this. Which is a huge relief for me, to be honest. He realized exactly what a great policeman he would make, which made him go in and work on getting some more applications. And all the sudden, the soldier appeared on line again! They had fixed the computer and are up and running again! Angel said, ‘what exactly did you pray for, Mom? Can I put a request in?” It may not be a miracle, but I will take it as a sign. A sign that there are so many things bigger than ourselves. And that God really must not care how you sound when singing; He just wants to hear the song.