Gangster's Paradise

I realized something important: God's called me to hand out Bibles in Gangster's Paradise.  He uses me all kinds of ways - today I gave a Prison Bible to a lady who's visiting a loved one in jail.  I hand them out to drivers, to salesmen, but primarily to people in areas that make people pale. 

God's chosen to have me live in a nice middle class neighborhood.  The average Houston home is about 300K.  The average home in my neighborhood is 90K.  My home is valued around 50K.  Yes, we have a mortgage!   So, while I feel safe, and it's quiet, my home is about 15% the average home value.  It's simple, modest, and mine.  Thank you God. 

I got up, shower, God Time.  Found out the Bibles did arrive in South Dakota and are on their way to disaster relief. Good. 

I loved seeing the photos of Frosty and Bubba up during my God Time and computer time.  I love my boys, and I miss them.  I don't know how they'll look in Heaven - will they be balls of light?  Or look like cats?  Who knows. But they're in God's care and that's the best place. 

In the meantime I take care of my two girls, best I can.  When I came home from work Torbie emerged from a cozy cardboard box I'd placed on the kitchen table.  Not only is it completely enclosed (but for one side), it has catnip!   Baby Girl wanted her tummy rub, as usual, when I produced Ron off the vehicle. 

We had a lot of very long rides today.  One of them, with a guy who had gossiped a lot about the driver who got in the wreck.  "I almost knelt down and kissed the ground" I told Ron.  "When we finally got out."  He's a terrible driver!  [big sigh] 

We went to the warehouse, went to work, went home.  All 3 were very long rides.  The paratransit system sees more traffic on the weekend.  I get that.  I understand it's a shared ride service.  But that one guy has got to go. 

No, I won't report him.  The way he's driving it's just a matter of time before he gets in a wreck, and fired.  If anything, he was going slower than the other cars so it would probably be a fender-bender.  It just makes me uncomfortable so close to the accident.  I could have been mangled. 

God's got plans, it didn't happen.  It could have, though, and that's what freaks me out.  That's the hard part of PTSD, the original trauma, whatever it is, is long gone, but it follows me around and haunts me (this is not my first flare). 

I might talk to Doc about this - he knows my other issues, but not this.  Maybe he can adjust something and help. 

Anyway, sigh.  Busy at work.  We had a coin jam. Ron stocked drinks.  I did snacks and food.  I was busy.  What I got today will hold us 'till Monday, and I have my all-important list. 

Monday I get a delivery, stock, and guy-with-a-truck.  Then, I presume, a lot of stocking. 

Busy, busy. 

Tomorrow we check out the "new" church.  That should be fun. 

I found it interesting.  Ron had called and left a message asking about church hours.  Someone (a man) called him back.  They chatted.  "My wife doesn't drive" Ron shared "Because she has Fetal Alcohol Syndrome..." 

"Oh, I know about that," the guy replied.  "That's tough."  Oh, awesome, someone who gets it.  I don't have to explain, and get the looks...

If I was looking for an omen I guess I found it. 

Other than the terrifyingly bad driving, I only had one problem.  We have a "bigmouth" customer who's always trying to tell me how to run the business.  I had taken out my trash (a long walk both ways) and was coming back. 

A group of clerks were standing around, waiting to start work.  The guy corralled me and started complaining.  "Why did you take out the Moon pies?" 

First of all, I took them out weeks ago.  You see me at least twice a week.  You just now noticed?  They were terrible sellers, for one.  I told him "They were hanging up in the machine and ripping people off.  I won't stock a product that rips people off." 

He kept complaining.  I waved at his coworkers.  "Which ones would you like ripped off?"  I had raised my voice just a little so they heard me.  They waited for his reply.  He had to mumble, he didn't want that to happen to anyone. 

"You don't have any plain chips!" he complained. 

"Yes I do" I replied, and started to tick them off. 

"I meant plain fritos."  I should add here, I don't worry too much about sales to this guy.  He brings in a rolling luncbox the size of a kitchen cabinet, every day. 

I'm not selling them, I told him.  They don't sell.  He whined.  "You're the only one buying them.  I'm in business to make money and I can't afford to stock something that doesn't sell." 

Next time, and he'll bug me again, I'll suggest he "talk" to the other vendor, or leave a note on their machines.  He can pester them for plain fritos. 

Plain Fritos, by the way: I sold 10, in about 15 days. 

I sell 15 Flaming Hot Cheetos, a day. 

Which one would you stock?