HIDING BEHIND MYSELF – Marilyn Armstrong

#FOWC — Hidden Identity

When I first started blogging on WordPress more than six years ago, I was still very into the book I wrote, so I took as my online address part of the name of my book and I called myself “Teepee 12” because the book is called “The 12-foot Teepee.”

A couple of years down the road of blogging, after I’d broken through and had an audience and all that, one day I realized no one knew my name. Everyone called me “Teepee.” I had never intended to be anonymous. I’d been writing publicly since I was a very young woman, so my name was published in a lot of places. If I’d sought anonymity, I should have done it a lot sooner.

So way back then, I switched and started using my own name. Why? Because I got really tired of being called Teepee. The book became old news and I seriously wish I’d taken Serendipity as the address for this blog because it would have saved me from WordPress’s shenanigans when a couple of months ago they decided to not bother to protect site names anymore. I’ve had to dig myself out of that hole. If my address had matched my site name, it wouldn’t have been an issue, but they were different and Serendipity was no longer an option.

So I had a secret identity entirely accidentally. Which was silly because I was at that point still a published writer under my own name, so having a secret name as a blogger while publishing as myself in magazines seemed a bit peculiar.

Thus I became me. A lot of people decloaked and became themselves at that point. It turned out that being yourself made you no more of a target than not being yourself because any hacker who wants to really know who you are will find out quickly enough. I could do it, but I don’t want to bother.

Hacking is like, you know, WORK. And as Maynard G. Krebbs used to say: “Work is a 4-letter word.”

Amen, Maynard. Amen.

RDP #9 – HE WAS A RAGABASH, BUT WE LOVED HIM ANYWAY – Marilyn Armstrong

RDP #9 – The Ragabash Puppy

He had been raised in a truck. His owners drove a truck and that’s where he lived. At some point, they got The Duke. Who knows from where?

“What is he?” people ask and all I can say is “I have no idea.” He looks like a Border Collie crossed with some kind of Asian flat-faced dog — or maybe a Boston Terrier. Every day, I thank heaven for the availability of Prozac because, without it, he is just a wee bit difficult to control.

I’m sure his original owners were sure he was going to be a much smaller dog and he was smaller, even when we got him almost a year ago. When he got to be really difficult to handle — that Border Collie in there makes him a handful — they passed him to another owner who couldn’t manage him and put him in a crate where he was living when we took him in.

This is a dog about whom it is frequently said: “He needs a job.”

He does. He could rewire the house. Pave the driveway. Do some masonry on the roof.

He can seem to be quite the tough little scoundrel. A blatant ragamuffin, although no more idle or worthless than any other “what is he?” mutt of a dog. I suppose one could consider him disrespectful.

Photo: Garry Armstrong

He does as he pleases which can be maddening, but I think he has shaped us up pretty well and we behave much better than we did in the beginning. We tell him he’s a good boy, but really, he’s terrible and hilarious.

We are his third home and although we know we could easily rehome him, I think that would be cruel. He has had enough homes. I don’t think he would benefit from a different future. We’ve got him and he’s got us. We promised him he could stay here.

Here he will stay.

JUNE IS SQUARE – ROOF 9 – Marilyn Armstrong

It’s that time of year again and squares are back! 

Down the road in Mendon, they have a diner. It’s a fully restored Worcester Dining Car from 1950.

Miss Mendon began her journey in 1950 as a hand-drawn sketch at the desk of a designer at the Worcester dining car company in Worcester, MA. Since then she has had a storied history and has made a number of stops on her way to the little town of Mendon, MA. She has been painted, re-tiled and seen her share of characters come and go over the years. She has seen good times and not so good times, heard stories of times gone by and secrets never to be repeated but managed to come through the years with grace and character.


Miss Mendon actually started her life as Miss Newport and her car number was #823. Even though her car number is 823 she was actually the 623 car built since they began their numbering sequence at 200. She was delivered on May 16, 1950, to her first owner. They still have the original hand sketches of the designer’s impressions of the car.

Not much has changed after all these years. The car layout remains the same as it did in 1950; we have modernized it a little bit, added a new dining area onto the side, and built a professional kitchen onto the back of the car and, re-chromed the seats and cleaned up and restored all of the finishes.


I especially love the curved ceiling. You can get more information and all the original hand sketches at:

http://www.missmendondiner.com/about-us.php


Well, the theme is ROOFS (or rooves if you prefer). Your roof can be;

A – any type, any condition, any size, and in any location.
B – it could be a shot across rooftops, of one roof like today or even a macro
C – you might prefer to spend some time under the eaves and in the attic, or enjoy the view from above as Brian has already done today.


See you tomorrow!

TRAGICALLY LOST YET MAGICALLY FOUND – Garry Armstrong

Photos: Garry Armstrong


Back in the day (I hate that cliché), I used to do features like this for slow TV news days. It’s been a week of family soap opera, spawned by disciples of “Ozzie and Harriet”, “Father Knows Best” and “Modern Family.” Oh, the angst!

Today figured to be a reprieve. Lunch with an old pal from my working days. I looked forward to sharing stories about baseball, favorite TV shows, and guy gossip. Perfect weather. Tee shirt weather. Ready to roll. But, as Columbo would say, “… just one more thing, Sir.”

I couldn’t find my shoulder bag. My shoulder bag which contains my driver’s license, Social Security card, medical, and credit cards. Marilyn joined me in the household search, from casual to frantic. Car searches turned up nothing.

I stared accusingly at the dogs. Visions of a conspiracy grew. Why me?

Marilyn tried to calm me down as my grumbling grew louder, laced with profanity and anger. Why me?

She tried to call my friend to cancel lunch but his contact numbers were out-of-date. I had failed to update the contact information. Why me?

I dashed off an email to my pal, explaining the situation and apologizing for the last minute lunch cancellation. My anger was growing. Except, I was the perp.

Finally, I decided to retrace my movements of the past 24 to 36 hours. Local deli to the supermarket. I kept thinking of what potentially lay ahead if my ID and credit cards were really lost … or even worse, had been stolen.

Dammit!

The supermarket folks were kind. They knew me. One of the perks of living in a small town is that everyone knows your name. One of the managers smiled and indicated they had it — even before I could get the question out.

I gulped and stepped back, taking a deep breath. They searched high and low, assuring me my bag was safe, under lock and key.

The long wait. Finally, with deep apologies, they said my bag was at the police station. Why were they apologizing?? I was the one who’d lost the bag. I gave myself a Gibbs’ head slap.

The police station is only a couple of minutes away, but season-long road work has the middle of town in a virtual freeze frame. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the police station parking lot. I counted to ten and got out of the car. I took a few steps, then got back into the car … to turn the engine off. Another count from one-to-ten. Then I advanced into the police station.

They greeted me with smiles. Yes, they had my bag!! They recognized my police badge. Actually, it’s an auxiliary police badge given to me back in my working days. Yes, I still like to flip the holder cover open, casually revealing the badge. I’m admittedly an aging ham.

My bag was returned to me. I signed a release form with a BIG “Thank You”. The station personnel kept smiling. I wanted to slowly back out, feeling very stupid. They wouldn’t let me leave. Why me??

It seems they wanted to take pictures with me. To show off to their family and friends. Who used to watch me on television. Very weird.

I kept thinking … they shoot horses, don’t they?