Give me something good to eat!! Back in the day, Halloween was a huge deal at my elementary school. I won the costume contest one year, dressed as a cotton bale made by my Mama. There was always a spaghetti supper in the basement cafeteria attended by students and their families. The classrooms were converted into dark scary pits of evil for us to wander through holding hands while squealing in delightful horror. The highlight of the evening came when we banded together as pirates, ghosts and gypsies to comb the streets that surrounded the school looking for candy handouts. That was before the crazies decided to put razor blades in stuff and ruin it for everybody. Inevitably, some cool lady would dress up as a witch and sit in the dark of the front porch waiting to scare the bejesus out of us when we timidly walked forward to knock on the door. I had two grandmothers living on that street, so we usually made out like bandits in the treat department. Chocolate always was...and still remains, my favorite treat. Add a little caramel and my taste buds are in heaven. I've never quite figured out why those miniature candy bars taste so much better than the full size ones.

By the time Babygirl got to that age, Halloween had gone all politically correct and it was no longer a Halloween carnival but a "fall festival." Same concept with cheap plastic spider rings and such, just a different name. We carried gangs of kids around in cars from one subdivision to the next and watched warily from the street as they marched up to the homes of strangers to do the traditional Halloween thing.

Rolling yards with toilet paper was another popular seasonal activity, but never on trick-or-treat night because it was too easy to get caught with all those people out and about. The perfectly rolled yard would be a masterpiece created by a gang of pre-teens out on the prowl with contraband Charmin' and a statement to make to a particular teacher or sweetheart. It was considered a high honor in my book to get your yard rolled, but parents saw little humor in it and insisted that we go out and do the dirty work of pulling it down if...and it was a BIG if...it didn't rain and plaster it all over the place where it would stay stuck until it dried up and blew away in the winter wind. Smart folks bought yard rolling "insurance" from the local high school fraternity for easy clean-up.

Y'all have a Happy Halloweenie. And if you find your trees draped in toilet paper tomorrow morning, I swear I didn't do it.

I get a call at work now and then from a friend who shall remain anonymous, known only to my co-workers as "the voice." He/she is a true friend in every sense of the word and I always step a bit lighter when I hear the smartass putting on a happy tone to make me smile. " How's your day going? What's up with the kids? Can you *believe* that shit really happened?!" In the midst of the stress of puttin' up with physician's extra-large egos that voice is a welcome sound to the old Poopster's ears.

I tend to be quite straightforward with how I feel about things, and that puts some folks off...most especially men. It's the whole Mars and Venus and cave and rubberband thing I reckon. One thing that I've learned through decades of saying what I think and engaging in "healthy debate" is that what goes around comes around. Never before have I felt that as strongly as I do now, one week pre-election. I admire Oprah for not kicking Bill O'Reilly's pompous ass but giving pissed off Americans the chance to do it instead. Kudos to Jon Stewart for taking the high road with Ashcroft and injecting a bit of humor with a guy who's trying to wrap it all up with a lucrative book. I can't think of anything nice to say about Cheney. People who profit from war contracting are lower than a snake's belly in my book..so sue me.

I was at the Kudzu bar Saturday night when a group of folks came in that I joined for meet-n-greet. One of the group was a beautiful young girl, pregnant as a goose, who had just returned from duty in Iraq leaving her husband there to fight the "war on terror." Halfway across the world in the middle of a civil war that has always been thus and so, she sang Journey's Open Arms to her Mama on the computer when she was scared for her life. Now she was here all fat and sassy and knocked up singing karaoke to her parents...safe and sound back on US soil. Everybody around that table had something to say about the politics of war, but I felt that she should have a voice since she was the only one who had actually been-there-done-that. When I asked her how she felt about the whole deal, her reply was simple: "We need to get out."

My Daddy has a friend who served in WWII and has kept a wallet that he lifted off of a dead German soldier. Daddy is researching the contents of that antique leather pouch...four black and white pictures. One is of a very young man in uniform. The others are a family shot and a couple of pics of he and his buddies during happy times. I have been imagining what his name might have been and how his voice sounded since he spoke to us from his Bavarian grave there just recently. Call me a dreamer, but I think I heard him say "Give peace a chance." Could just be the liberal utopian in me and a flashback from LSD.

Time will tell.

^j^

For as long as I can remember I have had this demon inside that insists on writing or talking things out. The catharsis associated with telling a story somehow lessens the pain and multiplies the joy of the whole thing and gives the listener....or reader, a different perspective to ponder while affording the storyteller some amount of comfort in letting the cat out of the bag. There's a trunk full of handwritten journals here at Casa Poopie that detail every single emotion of most every day up to the point where I got married to the keyboard. Unless the house burns or Osama bombs the farm, I have a history of my life to sift through when I get to the nursing home.

Like many Southern girls, I was raised to believe that you don't tell secrets because, Lord have mercy, people might talk about your business. Bless their hearts, they ain't got nothing better to do I reckon. If they're talkin' about you and yours, just remember that somebody else is getting a break and they probably need it. As for me, I don't give a rat's ass what people say. I know who my friends are when crunch time comes around.

The attic is mostly vacant now with the important pieces of the past sifted through and boxed up to pass onto the next generation. As you can imagine, there were plenty of books there. Nancy Drew was my hero as a pre-teen looking for adventure and there are several of hers in the collection. There's a vintage version of Pinocchio with a hand written inscription from my baby-sitter "To Janie, On your 4th birthday. May you have many more. With love always, Cricket" I found the plastic statues of Bach, Chopin and Beethoven that I earned by working at piano lessons week after week with my aunt and uncle. There are dolls...a bride who walked once upon a time and Raggedy Ann. Barbie got sold to a collector a few years ago for rent money, but I've still got Skipper and Ken and a couple of Madame Alexanders that I love with all my heart. I washed and ironed the baby clothes that Mama saved for me and even the tiny little sweatshirt from my elementary school days that made me officially an Alice Thurmond Chief.

to be continued...

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

You can't beat the view around here with a stick. Farmers Neely and Joey are busy pickin' and baling a record cotton crop here on the farm. Long gone are the days when cotton was picked in sacks or even bound up in burlap and tin straps. Now it's high tech business....the picker picks it, dumps it into a trailer and then it's emptied into a big old thing that makes it into huge bales that are covered with colored tarps. White gold! Next time you enjoy the comfort of wearing cotton, thank a farmer.

There were several hours at the sawmill in between the first picture and the last. We stay busy these days so it passes quickly. Got my flu shot yesterday and it kicked in right about twenty four hours later giving me a sore,hot,red arm and an I-think-I'm-gonna-die feeling. Beats the heck out of being that way for a week, is all I'm saying. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.

Me and my "little" friend, The General, were outside yesterday when the cutest little beagle mix came walkin' right up to us in the parking lot looking for some love. She strongly resembled a dawg I know named Molly and we carried her inside and fed her some treats while I made some phone calls about missing critters. Turns out Molly was with her Daddy and a passer-by said he had seen this one a couple of streets over earlier in the day so we put her out to find her way home. I hope they realize she's had a taste of bacon and likes it. A lot.

Me and my dawgs rambled on over to our favorite sunset spot this afternoon to soak it up. I'm sure you can't see them in this picture, but the deer family was out having supper in the remains of a soybean field. The turkeys were over closer to the river.

Just another day in paradise.

It was a very busy wedding weekend for this old gal. Lori's nuptials prompted a Poopie post over at Dew on the Kudzu about Southern tradition.

Yes indeed...I am a glutton for punishment. As I have often mentioned, my procrastination gets in the way of the best of intentions. So what do I do? Sign up to write a novel in a month. Umm hmm. A couple of years in the past I have half-heartedly attempted it but never got anywhere close to 50,000 words. This year, I'm gonna give it my best effort. I'll be workin' on it over at my other home so as not to bore those of you who come here for the fun stuff. *snort*

If you are not from Tennessee or Alabama, this is just another Saturday to you. HOWEVER, the third Saturday in October is the day held sacred among UT Vol and Bama Tide fans as smackdown time in SEC football. The rivalry is intense, to put it mildly. If we win, you'll hear Rocky Top all the way up in Michigan. If we don't, well...it'll be quiet in the Volunteer State for several days of mourning. Time will tell.

Saturday is also the day of the first "real live" wedding of any of the group of girls that were a constant fixture at my house when Babygirl was growing up. I will be cooking my special cheese biscuits for the reception that will follow all the snot slinging by us parents who raised them from babies. Her parents shared with me the other day that they're choosing music carefully so as not to make it a big sobfest for us old folks :)

I did the early voting thing today and the folks there said that turnout has been heavy thus far, as I expected. There is a hotly contested mayoral election in this little 'burg and a Senate race that should be close as well. In many ways, I think that this election is more important than any in my recent memory. There seems to be an undercurrent of unrest among the people in this country that begs a closer look at candidates and the person behind the media spin. Y'all go sling a ballot for the candidate of your choice. It's the thing our forefathers fought and died for.

It's officially cold here. The temp dropped about thirty degrees with the passage of a rainy make-you-wanna-curl-up-with-a-blanket kind of front that officially ends warm weather in the Southeast. That's not to say that you might not be sweatin' in your Halloween costume, but for the most part we've turned the corner on the summer of '06. Praise the Lord and lower the electric bill...I'm ready for snuggling by the fire with Sugardaddy. Pecan Lane is changing colors hourly with a lot of gold and burgandy and orange replacing the green. The pecan crop looks *meh* so-so this year and the squirrels are going nuts on the treasure hunt. Good thing Hoss and Vicki got theirs off of last year's bounty.

Who woulda thunk it? Hat tip to Alice.

No "catption" needed for this picture of mother and daughter diva kitties. They are all that and a bag of chips, and they know it. Cali, on the left, gave birth to Chunk, the deaf yellow girl, and her three siblings back in May. She's already knocked up AGAIN. She's seen more action in the past six months than I have in six years!

Meanwhile, back at the cotton patch, the farmers missed a good chance to bale it up before the monsoon hit yesterday. Looks like that will have to wait until the next dry spell. That's okay with me though. It makes for a nice backdrop to Pecan Lane pictures.

Keep smiling...tomorrow is hump day.

I am so easily amused, it ain't even funny. My previous week on vacation is case in point. The original dream was to travel to Virginia to visit my brother and sis-in-law to bask in the glory that is full blown autumn in the mountains. Plan B was to visit Phyllis in South Carolina. Plan C was to drive to Memphis to the Southern Festival of Books at the end of the week after resting up a bit.

Plan Poopie, the real thing, turned into a piddle-fest. I slept ten hours a day with the cats and dogs. BabyGirl brought me flowers on day one and they're still just as fresh as when she whipped 'em out from behind her back with a big grin. Went out to dinner with Redneck Friend and had a sleepover at YaYa's when she came home from Florida. Went through shit stuff in the attic and pitched a lot of it out the window to burn when the pyro mood strikes me. Long story short, I did whatever the heck I felt like doing whenever I felt like it. There was very little money and even less of an agenda. Pure heaven.

I've never quite understood that thing about people who keep showing up for the day job when they win the lottery or those folks who get depressed when they retire. Sure, I'd go back to visit but it wouldn't hurt my feelings a bit to be an ex-employee of the sawmill. Maybe that's because it's my turn for a break that lasts longer than 15 minutes or a three day weekend.

Come to Poopie, Sugardaddy.

One of the reasons that I have stayed in the same job for twenty nine years is that it affords me the luxury of being personally and professionally involved in the healthcare of my family, and that has included the deaths of more than a few. Prior to my employment in 1979 I had never been really aware of what was going on during the last days, but I learned pretty quickly.

The first was my paternal grandmother who had cancer. In one of those freak timing things, Daddy didn't make it there before she died, so it was me and his sisters and the surgeon around her bed when she gave it up. It was a peaceful event for the most part. She was tired of fighting it and ready to rest. It wasn't until I started therapy in my early thirties that I realized that I had never really grieved that experience fully. I had stuffed all the sadness and fear back down so I could go back to where I had to work to pay the bills. A young uncle came after that, an addict who was a fairly intelligent Mama's boy and helped her run through the family fortune. His liver went quickly and so did he. I was there with my grandmother...my mother and her sister were awhile away. A paternal uncle with emphysema was admitted to ICCU on a ventilator against his wishes. He pulled that sucker out and died on his own terms, with my Daddy by his side. Luckily, the doc on call had some compassion and didn't put the tube back in. Both of these were ghosts that I dealt with during therapy.

My favorite uncle Jimbo had prostate cancer at the young age of 54. Even though he already had bone mets, the cancer responded well to treatment and he had four good years with a normal PSA before it turned aggressive. The last six months he was dependent on blood and platelet transfusions as tumors filled his bone marrow. The frequent blood counts between transfusions became too much for him so I would go to the house and draw his blood. He spent three days in the hospital at the end, still getting blood and fighting with all of his might to either stay alive or give it up. Dying is hard work, physically. In his hallucinations he would work his hands busily with his eyes shut "making platelets." Hospice was consulted at my request when he was admitted, which was way too late...and typical.

Gaga was my maternal grandmother and all I can is that I was "the shit" in her eyes. As the first grandchild on that side of the family, the whole show was mine for a year or so. Her husband died when I was just 3 and he was only 45, of heart disease. Today a stent or two would take care of what killed him back in '58. I never remember Gaga having a boyfriend, even though she was still young. She did fun things like bridge club and garden club and spoiling all of us grandkids rotten to the core. We adored her. COPD almost got her several times, but she soldiered on and quit smoking. Some time after she moved to assisted living, she got colon cancer and had a re-section. Did well..went to the nursing home for post-op rehab. About a week later, she started getting sick and was sent to the hospital for admission with peritonitis. Her large belly didn't tolerate the incision very well and had pulled it loose. A colostomy was next, with her belly left open for the peritonitis to drain. Her surgeon's partner was covering while he was on vacation. The narcotics that eased the pain of the peritonitis depressed her breathing to the point that the order was given to put her back on a venilator. My mother and aunt, decided against that and the anesthesiologist on call was very supportive and understanding. It would still take a few days. For some ungodly reason the surgeon on call decided to adminster Narcan in the hope that HE wouldn't have to take the mortality hit by the numbers crunchers. This little old LPN student came and got me and said "If it was MY grandma, I'd want to know!" I found her writhing and screaming in pain because the drugs were completely neutralized by the Narcan. *this is where Poopie goes apeshit wild nuts on everybody and their brothers* Long story short, a pulmonologist put her on a non-invasive thing and gave her back the morphine. She died the day her surgeon got back from vacation and he came to the ICU to be with us. Later that morning at church, he told me that he "felt like I thought he had killed my grandmother." That struck me as odd, since we worked together and I thought he knew that I respected him. I was sad, yes. But I had been through it enough to know that stuff happens. Doctors aren't gods ( even though they try to act like 'em sometimes ) and often, patients die. Guess you can figure out who was the good guy(s) in this little scenario. That one took me a looooooooooong time to forgive.

My aunt, with a strong family history of colon cancer, never scoped, was diagnosed a few years after that. She was on coumadin at home the last six months, so I was back to vampire making housecalls. I took just one shift during her last few days and my eyes were opened to what all is involved in caring for those who choose to die at home. That is also hard work, especially for the family members.

All of this happened within a brilliant timeframe, perfectly orchestrated by Big Ernie where I would be able to recover and learn from one experience before the next one came around. If I had not talked about it and sought help, I'd have never made it. That is where my initial interest in hospice and palliative care began...with my own family and friends. Babygirl wrote her senior term paper on the subject and we bonded like a mug during that time. I think that was beginning of her desire to become an LCSW. Sharing the family history has always been up front and center with us.

A week away from reality has prepared me to make a decision about what I need to do with this segment of my life. I'm not sure exactly how it will happen...or when. But it will.

Y'all have a good weekend.

^j^

Three days of sleeping and trifling and drinkin' beer have revived the old soul that gave up the ghost sometime during the blur of last week. I'm nowhere near 100% but things look a bit better in that I can focus on GMST *gettin' my shit together* instead of sobbing and such. I do so hate to face life with puffy crying eyes..it destroys my image as a smartass and makes me humble. YaYa is workin' on her tan blending families in Florida and her fat black cat Rasputin needed some looking after because Carney is also down on the Gulf Coast doing some work with the United Methodist Women helping out Katrina survivors. 'Putin lost his longtime choco-lab friend Mocha a few months ago and has been pissy ever since. So I say "Hey, self...you've got a brown lab that plays well with cats so load her up for the next run!" Bad move. That cat whined and growled from the back of the recliner until Faith laid by the door begging to go home where the cats are nicer and my bed is available for naps. When I went in to feed him today he was sweet as pie 'cuz I was dogless. I think he misses his YaYa.
Stopped by to see Redneck Friend on the way home and we chatted about life and love and poison oak. We both agree that sometimes it sucks a big one and friends are all that get you through the hard times. I'm a sucker for the magic of a sunset, and today looked good for a trip to my "special place" with Faith and Butterbean. It's right across the road and down the cowpath to the slough. The girls swam and I enjoyed the cool breeze while I snapped a few pictures. Sometimes, when I'm least expecting it, the deer family goes runnin' across the pasture towards the river with their little white tails flashing. I don't reckon the cows mind..they never seem to look up from chewing and following each other in a herd to the next meal.The sun sets about ten minutes earlier down there than on the lowest point of Pecan Lane. Lucikily, I made it in time.


Do I hear an amen?

My mother turned me onto Jan Karon some years back and we traded her books back and forth like junkies lookin' for a fix. Her series of Mitford books featured a lively cast of characters led by Father Tim, a fiercely caring minister, and the people in his small town life. One particular character, Dooley, is a young boy from a broken home with plenty of dysfunction. Father Tim "adopts" the boy and takes on the task of building trust with someone who doesn't begin to know the meaning of the word. During the series, Dooley grows into a young man dealing with all the growing up stuff that boys have to deal with. One of those things was learning to say "I love you" without fear. His adopted father would always reply: "I love you back."

That is the way I feel about those of you who have expressed concern for me during the past week with either a comment, email or phone call. I've seen some valleys in my life thus far, but this week was a turning point. I tend to be one of those who will soldier on until the troops are wore ass out. I may whine about it or rant and bitch, but I'll keep on with what has to be done. That particular character trait landed me in the bottom of the deepest valley I've ever known this past week. I'm talkin' hit-the-canyon-floor low with a loud boom like in Road Runner! It hurt...damn painful to be letting go of control of the universe, ya know? I've been jumping that hurdle all my life only somebody keeps changing the height of the bar. I know the intense relief that comes from saying "F it" and letting Big Ernie take over. And I feel that now, thanks to your prayers. Don't ever let anybody try to make you believe it doesn't make a difference.

I've been saving up vacation hours all summer so I could be off this week, during my favorite time of year. The weather looks decent and I've got a few bucks to go dollar store shopping when I'm not reading. There's a running list in my head of things like pansies and paint and pictures of Pecan Lane. I'm going where the spirit leads me this time, with faith.

And I warn you...there will be pictures ^j^

Y'all have seen a lot of different sides of the old Poopster here day after day. In spite of the hardships, I have tried to put a funny face on things when I felt like cryin'. My rants have been reserved for things that are near and dear to my heart involving honesty, truth and justice. This blog is more than a place to pass time for me...it is my companion and gateway to others out there who know and care about me simply from what I share about myself in words and pictures. Ninety nine percent of it is pure Poopie Jane, redneck rebellious keeper of the faith. The other one percent is probably me exploring the evil twin, but she doesn't get much play because I can honestly say my motives are almost always altruistic. Not that I'm Joan of Arc or anything like that, but..um. You get my drift. Do no harm applies to med techs too.

Times have been very very difficult financially since my decision to end the marriage almost five years ago. Because of that I have stayed close to home and hearth and kept my nose to the grindstone instead of running around lookin' for boytoys or seeing the world. My life has consisted of working hard and soulfully, doing the grief work that accompanies the ending of a twenty year marriage and helping my daughter through the passages that come to a late teen early twenty something with a father who was hell bent on self destruction.

All I ask of you is this...a prayer, sent from the heart in a quiet moment, for direction in my life. I have tough decisions to make regarding my future and I'm afraid. Please ask Big Ernie to give me clarity and purpose, and to show me where I need to put my talents. I won't be around here for awhile. Go and see some of those genius whizzes on the blogroll over there on the left and tell 'em Poopie sent you.

And keep the faith.



^j^

Laura started this meme where you take pictures of where you live and what you see every day and tell about it. I kinda sorta do that anyway but I thought it would be a kick to put a timeline on it and show y'all the view from Pecan Lane. These are today's shots of sleeping dawgs on my bed, where they truly love to snuggle up to Mama. They also enjoy snacks and head rubs. They chase squirrels and rabbits for fun and get a bath about once a year. The lab has the swimming gene in her, but is kind of timid and young..twenty one in dog years.

That might explain why SugarDaddy hasn't come around to spend the night.

We're almost 3/4 through with the presidency that seems to have no end. The latest e-mail leaks don't surprise me at all...I put them on the same level with Monica's dress, PR wise. It never ceases to amaze me to what lengths political parties will go to smash each other in the MSM. The drunken old fool who's cooling his Republican heels in rehab is nothing more than the sacrificial lamb in an election year where the people of America, the USA..by the way, are sick and tired of being sick and tired. "The war on terror" has moved from being something we weren't quite sure about to a travesty that everybody endures because we have no voice. I support the troops...and my supportive opinion is to bring their asses home with a tickertape parade and a keg party and call it a war. They signed up to protect our country from a bunch of jihad idiots who need some prozac or quick vaporization to the land of a bazillion virgins or something. I'd much rather have our armed forces here, on our home turf doing homeland security detail. *insert waving flag here*

War is hell, but it's also a moneymaker. The fine line that exists between profiteering and fighting with a strategy was lost about two months into this "conflict." When those charred bodies went swinging on the bridge in Fallujah, it was time to kick ass or get out of the game. When retired National Guardsmen and women got sent halfway around the world without the proper equipment, only Big Ernie watched their backs. You can be sure that the US government wasn't and doesn't to this day. When Cindy Sheehan acted up in Crawford Texas and the entourage ignored her pain, our country saw one if its' saddest moments. The same can be said for Terry Schiavo's painful death at the hands of "compassionate" physician/politician/healthcare profiteer Bill Frist. *insert stock market here*

The way I see it, we want to have a voice in what our government does and that hasn't been the case in quite some time. The only way to do that is to watch the voting records of the candidates and ignore them'n'their'mamas on the TV commercials. Somebody who stands for preservation of the environment with a strong bent toward pro-active programs that don't smack of entitlement has my vote. The other one, who doesn't pander to lobbyists with special interests in the pharmaceutical industry, is my hero. There's a cure for most every disease available right.damn.now yet the FDA and those who stand to profit from long term treatment stand in the way because they want the money to support their extravagant lifestyles. And we continue to let them do it on our tax dollars while Ma and Pa survive on Medicare money. *insert DeLay and Cheney here*

I feel sorry for the children of Iraq and Afghanistan. Their precious little lives have been made richer by the presence of American troops dying in pursuit of their freedom. A significant number of those children and their families have died in the process. Meanwhile, children in America die every minute of every day due to the failure of our government to meet their needs for nurture and a future. That, my friends, is a tragedy. In one of the richest countries in the world today, kids are shooting each other and gettin' fucked up and spending their parents money because nobody cares about their neighbor. Who is my neighbor?

*insert ?? here*

Peace has to start somewhere. Give it a chance.

^j^

Umm..that would me, the Poopster. After visiting with friends and stopping by the store to get some gas for the mower, I proceed on down Pecan Lane singin' Bonnie Raitt's "Let's Give 'em Something to Talk About" in true karaoke fashion. I eased by the firepile which was cleaned up this weekend with all trash delivered to a dumpster. I hop out of the car to grab the gas can from the back seat and the car starts easing down the slight incline next to the shed. Instinct tells one to stop the damn thing so I'm holding onto the door in a futile effort to stop a car that weighs a ton with my bare hands. And it runs over my foot. And keeps going until it runs smack into the pole of the barbed wire fence. I'm yelling "ohshitohshitohshit" now because if the ancient fence doesn't hold, the car is headed straight to the barn where it WILL stop when it crashes. Luckily, the metal pole just dented the front fender..on the same side where BabyGirl had added had some previous little dings so at least it's got one good side left. And the fence stopped a total wipe out from hittin' the barn. And my foot's not broken only a little sore. And I will surely never again be in such a hurry that I forget to put the car in park before I get out of the blasted thing.

Damned good thing I'm not a rocket scientist. I'm just sayin'.