Work Wednesday—Flippin’ Rocks

No, no. We are not “flipping” rocks, although we certainly have enough that we could apply almost any meaning to that term and still have plenty of leftover rocks; we ordered gravel for our driveway.

Talk about a fiasco.

My insurance agent recommended we call this guy, so we did. He was supposed to come out Tuesday around five o’clock, but never showed. The next night, his DAD came over around 8:00 p.m. when it was getting dark.

So far, so good. Sorta.

My husband went out to talk to the dad; we’d already discussed what we needed, which was gravel to top off the road. Period.

The two of them walked the driveway and my husband came in and asked me what color I wanted . . .

Um, gravel-colored? I didn’t care. Really. Brown or white, what was the difference?

The next night, the dad showed up around 4, not 5 as he’d said, and I was down in the woods when I heard the truck start dumping. They left shortly after spreading the entire drive, and I went to take a closer look.

O. M. G.

Repeat. Several times.

Throw in a few cuss words.

Repeat again.

They had dumped road-bed sized rocks—boulders, compared to gravel—all over the driveway. ALL the way down.

I was furious. FURIOUS.

I paced. I bitched. I moaned.

Okay, actually, when I came back inside and my husband said, “What do you think?” I replied with “fine.”

And we all know what THAT means . . .

So I expanded on that. A lot. Several times.

Honestly, I thought I would cry—and I never cry—and why? Because it’s a done deed. The solution? Use the blade and then—oh, Lord—use rakes.

Because we don’t have enough to do around here, right?

So I called “the guy” and naturally had to a leave a message. Okay, I left two. I was pissed.

The next day, the guy shows up around 5:00 with a load of gravel, even though I’d told him to CALL ME. My husband was at the barn and called me down there to meet the guy and talk to him.

I was loaded for bear.

And then—

Then I saw the guy. Close to seven feet tall, yes, really, and probably 300 pounds. I’m guessing. Holy crap. Maybe I should have tempered those messages a little, right? Yikes!

Of course, turns out he’s a really, really nice guy and we finally determined that my husband was confused or clueless and that his dad is blind or clueless.

Long story short—oh, wait, maybe I should have started here? Anyway, the guy brought gravel, now in two piles until we finish RAKING the damn drive and mashing it down into the existing roadbed.

I figure it’ll be September before we can lay the gravel.

Good grief.


RHP: Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Today, I want to tell you a story:


Almost a year ago, June 19, 2013 to be exact, author Julie Young wrote on my FB author page just to say “hello.” So I went to her page and holy cow—there’s a picture of her WITH GENE SIMMONS! Naturally, I had to know more.


So we got to chatting and OMG—is she cool, or what? Anyway, in September she told me she was looking for a book publisher, and asked me about RHP. One thing led to another, and here it is:




This is really a fantastic book—the discovery, the journey, behind-the-scenes, the personal touch and the inner thoughts and emotion—all about plain ol’ Megan Taylor and her incredible musical talents. YOU HAVE TO READ THIS!


Okay, okay, enough of the caps and m dashes and the exclamations:


She sold her soul to rock and roll.


It was the story that rocked the music world. After five years, four Grammy Award-winning albums, numerous number one singles, and outselling every other act in the music industry, entertainment icon MonAmi was a walking case of burnout. When her plans for rest and relaxation were derailed on the final night of what was supposed to be her Farewell Tour, the enigmatic singer took matters into her own hands, running away from her career, her manager, and the mysterious identity that made her into a superstar.


Now a rocker gone rogue, MonAmi returns to her hometown of Kentwood, Indiana where, as 15-year-old Megan Taylor, she was plucked from obscurity and molded into rock and roll royalty with a new name, a lucrative recording contract, and a carefully crafted Hanna Montana-like image. However, what started as a teenage dream quickly turned into a living nightmare as her label gradually controlled every aspect of her life.


And you can get HERE or HERE!