Friday, January 13, 2017

Holy Cow!!!

It's been a long time since I blogged! Time sure flies when you're being unproductive. I was going to open this post with today's near death experience, but that's kinda where I left you. I'd like to say I've become more graceful in my advanced age, but that would be a lie. A dirty, dirty lie.

So what have I done with myself these last two years, you ask? I'd tell you, but frankly, I'm embarrassed. Also, I don't remember. It's been two years.

Anyways, if any one was still waiting around for the emerging of D.P. Davidson...I've emerged.

That's all I gots for right now.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

D.P. The Graceless Wonder...

I am accident prone. Like give myself a black eye with the toilet seat prone, or kick a stump and break my foot in three places prone, or step on a drill and skewer my foot.

That one happened last week.

It was a Thursday and it started out like any other day. That's our elective day at Front Room Academy which basically means I play chauffeur all day. We finally arrived home and I walked through my bedroom and into my bathroom where I saw that my closet had, once again, vomited it's contents all over the floor.

Lemme 'splain somethin'. I have rehung that dang rod and it's stupid counterpart, the shelf, no less than three times. The first time the closet collapsed in the middle of the night. Scared the ever loving beans out of me. I cried and cursed (G rated) and then hammered and nailed that bugger back into place.

The second time, it fell while we were in class. Once again, I jumped at the noise and upon studying the mess cried less and cursed more (PG this time). I changed out the rod and reinforced the shelf with an extra piece of wood and three angled rod holders.

The third time it fell while we were out, but that time I didn't cry. I did move on to a PG-13 rant. I drilled, and screwed so many holes into the wall it was ridiculous. I even GLUED the shelf into place, and added two more rod thingers. There was no way that thing was falling down without taking half the wall with it, but I was prideful. I over estimated my skill in the face of the closets sheer will...and it fell again.

I would like to state here, that this time there were no tears or sentence enhancers, no sir. There was steely resolve. This time I was doing something completely different.

Mr. D and I went to the hardware store and picked out a closet shelving set. We brought it home and I set to work putting it together the next day. I enlisted Meenie to help me in the task, for bonding. Things were clicking along quite nicely. This closet kit was wondrous! It had dry wall anchors and the rods were fastened to a shelving unit in the middle, distributing the weight of my swag more evenly. It was wonderful.

So Meenie and I brought the first half of the unit into the closet and fastened it to the wall. I put my drill on the floor and we walked the second half of the shelf in. At some point the drill fell over. I hit it with my foot and shoved it back until it hit the wall at which point it had now where else to go but my foot. In the meaty sensitive part. Also, it was the 1/16 size drill bit which is pretty much needle thin. The cussing I had avoided before came streaming forth and I moved into R-rated territory. I'm ashamed to admit I kiss my husband with this mouth. I have soiled my lips with sailor talk, but it hurt so bad. I couldn't decide if I wanted to pass out or scream. My daughters tried to be helpful, but I wanted an adult so I called for my sister. She came and cleaned and bandaged my wound, and I spent half the day with my foot elevated before I could suck it up and continue with my task.

The poke was small but it hurt for days, mostly because of the inexplicable bruises that now cover the bottom and side of my foot. My sister and my friend felt I was being a pansy until the bruises showed up. Bruises hurt, too, people!

I've had several near misses as of late so I guess it was time for an epic clusterfudge. Maybe I should start wearing armor.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished...

Let me tell you a little bit about my upbringing. My mom had the worst habit of running out of gas. My brothers and I learned to wear shoes every time we went out because the chances were good that we'd be walking back. Most people wear shoes anyway, but that's beside the point. It came to the point that I never worried about running out of gas because it was pretty much a given: if we were in the car, we'd soon be walking though my mom had a knack for making it fun..ish.

As an adult I've run out of gas once, yet my oldest was constantly worried it would happen. When it finally did we were half a mile from home, and a gas station, had a gas can in the back, and a daddy four minutes away. Also, there was a dude outside mowing his lawn, and he gave us the tablespoon of gas we needed to get around the corner. We never had it that good as kids.

Anyway, I was heading to a friends house a month back when I had a flashback to my childhood as I passed a van stopped on the shoulder. I flipped a u-y and headed back around. Eight children with no shoes (amateurs) spilled out of the van which had run out of gas. They'd been on the side of the road for ten minutes, and the mom had just decided to gather her chick and walk to the nearest gas station (five miles up the road) when I showed up. I loaded the van with offspring (one was an infant-there was no car seat) and took the kids home where we also picked up a gas can.

We left the kids in the car of the oldest boy and went to fill the gas can. At the gas station I offered to fill the three gallon can as it was clear they were low on funds, and I'm glad I did because that gas can had a faulty cap which I found out after we reached her van.

I started to smell gas as we neared her van, and when I opened my trunk to get the gas, I found that the can had tipped over. This shouldn't have been a problem as the cap should have kept the contents inside of the can, but it didn't so most of the gas spilled into the back of my van.

It was awesome.

Thankfully there was enough left that she could get her van to the gas station, but I was out of luck. I scrubbed the back with soap and water, covered it in baking soda, vacuumed it out and tried kitty litter, pulled out the foam under the carpet, scrubbed with soap and water again, tried Fabreeze, left the windows rolled down...My last option was to pull out the carpet, but that's a level of white trash I never want to revisit.

All hope was abandoned as I had just about made my peace with my new gasoline perfume when a friend showed up with an ozone machine. This machine is used to remove the smell of smoke and pets from a house. Wouldn't you know, it removed the smell of gasoline, too!

Every once in a while I still catch a whiff of gas, but I think it might be because the smell is burned into my olfactory.

Or maybe it's just there as a reminder to never help anyone ever again.

Just kidding...mostly.

Thanksgiving. Months Later...

So it's been a couple of months, (almost a year) but I believe that feeling sorry for ones self is better done in private. I think I'm done now.

Anyway, Thanksgiving.

First off let me say that I love my Gramma. She is feisty, and independent, and the only reason we still see our family at least once a year.

But she cannot cook a turkey. She obliterates it.

It's always been dry, but this year I almost choked to death. Deserts have more moisture. We've all tried to help take some of the "responsibility" for the meal off of her shoulders, and she has agreed to a point. The turkey and stuffing are hers. She refuses to hand them over. The stuffing was a frightening brown this time. I wouldn't touch it to save my life. We drive to my gramma's house every Thanksgiving without fail. We don't go for the food.

This year our day at Gramma's was cut short as we had to get on the road. My mother-in-law's uncle had passed (the first week of October) and we were headed to N.C. for the funeral. We made it to our first destination without a problem. We left 80 degree weather and the next morning it was forty. That was fun. And that was when the adventure began.

The van wouldn't start the next morning. We made a new friend so we could get a jump start. By the time we were on the way home, Mr.D. refused to turn the van off even when we stopped for gas. I was certain we would die in a fiery explosion of unnecessary caution.We had jumper cables, man! On the plus side the trip home was filled to the gills with anticipation. Also, it took six forevers to get home.

Words Are Hard...

That's my new motto which is ironic because I'm a writer.

I've been having a difficulty with words for some time now. I just can't get them out, or I can't remember the word I'm trying to use. It usually shows up when I'm tired, or anxious, or awake. It can be frustrating. Sometimes when the word won't come I end up describing it instead. For example "stop with the thing!" I find the kids usually know what "the thing" is so further explanation is unwarranted.

Apparently words are hard for everyone.

My kid sister is in college. She came home in a tizzy of frustration the other day, and explained that one of her classmates had asked "what is Grot-es-que?".

"We're in college!" she exclaimed. "We're only at TCC! It's not that hard!" Ha!

Another of my favorites happened on my trip to Utah wherein I noticed that the people of the state have some kind of grudge against the letter T. They live in the moun-ains, and wear shirts with brown bu-uns. I went to a store for some quil-ing supplies. T's were not meant to be ignored. T is so impor-ant that button has two and yet both are ignored.

Then there are the words that somehow collect letters like "warsh". Or how about the words that just get mangled completely. Realator. R-E-A-L-L-Y? Homer Simpson works at a nucular power plant. How about when someone calls in the Calvary. They call in the...mountain is Israel?

I understand sometimes words just come out wrong, but how about when they're said that way on T.V. How do they miss that? Lines are gone over multiple times with multiple shots of each scene. C'mon guys! You're making us look bad.

My sweet Minney has creative ways of saying words. Chipalot (Chipotle) or chipotle for Gringos, gibberish with a hard g, other ones I can't remember right now. That kid cracks me up.

Here's another thought. Last names. I mangle last names as frequently as I mangle other parts of the English language, but have you ever heard a character ask another character how to say their last name. I was watching a program the other day and one of the characters' last name was Gerace. Everyone could say the name without hesitation. I can think of at least three ways I would have said that name and none of them would have been correct. So they can say strange last names without a problem, but other words...not so much.

This isn't a rant so much as a comical observation. I find it amusing. Almost as amusing as I find people who lose their minds over the same thing.

Let me end with the funniest thing I've ever heard come out of my father-laws mouth. One day, he and his older son were sparing as they do. His son (not my husband) was giving him grief about not having a job. This son was in the same boat of unemployment, a fact that seemed to have escaped him. I watched from the sidelines as I make it a policy not to get involved in other people's arguments because I do all my own stunts.

Anyway, after several minutes he'd had enough, and in the middle of his son's tirade he blurts, "what's that, pot boy!" I died laughing.

Therefore, I am not calling the kettle black so much as observing just how cracked we all are.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014


I can't believe I almost forgot the most awesomest news!

My fourth book, Stan, is now available in e-book and paperback at

Stop in and take a look!

P.S. The covers come in matte format now, and they look A-MAZE-ING. Check it out if you're looking for something to read, and then leave a review.

I do love reviews.

Epic Fail...

Disclaimer *Gross things will be discussed. Those with weak constitutions are hereby warned in advance*

My youngest daughter, Minney, hasn't had much luck with her ear piercings. Her ears get infected in part because she requires quality earrings, but also because she tends to push the backs of her earring so close to the ear that hair and other grossness gets caught around the post, creating more grossness.

We've taken her earrings out several times, we've cleaned them thoroughly, but when she's left to her own devices they are neglected. It been a circus.

This last round of infection occurred after she lost the back of her earring.

Mr. D. and I were out, trekking through the wilderness while wearing pioneer garb and pulling a handcart with eight tired teens, a story for another day, and left the children with a friend who noticed that Minney's ear lobe was red and swollen. She removed the earring, with some difficulty, and set about cleaning the wound.

She cleaned Minney's ear two days in a row with antiseptic, and then would squeeze her lobe to try and clean out the infection. When we got home on the third day, my friend gave me the 411. I studied my child's earlobe and then gave it a squeeze (it's the little things that make life great) and she howled in pain. I noticed something in the piercing but didn't want to dig any further because gross.

The next morning I checked her ear confused as to why her ear lobe was so hard. So I squeezed her ear again and out popped...the missing back of the earring. I warned you at the beginning.

She's done with earrings for now, but has learned a valuable lesson.

There is such a thing as too tight.