Wine Fueled

Saturday came with its easy vibe, cloaked in laziness and splendor.

A chaise lounge beckoned, and I reclined, the better to revel bodaciously.

A glass of red in hand, the radio on a slow, low, sexy jam, stretch out your hand

And touch me there, and here. Oh, the wine might fuel me, but it’s you who

Moves me, every time, every single time. Come closer, and kiss me.

Can I Get A— “What About Her Emails?!”

All of this!

A lot from Lydia

Which title to use? There are so many possibilities:

  • Donald Trump— “I Alone Can Fix It.”
  • Irony, hypocrisy, and the GOP
  • “So Much Winning”
  • A GOP Day… Without Government
  • America, the Worlds New Shithole.
  • “So Much Winning!”
  • The Government is Closed for Business

You get the idea. Today felt like Christmas morning… in that I didn’t know what I would find when I woke up.

After GOP leaders locked Democrats out of negotiations and instead sat with lobbyists to write tax legislation, that they passed on their own, they demanded Democrats sign the check. This standstill continued when I fell asleep… face in popcorn.

I awoke weary in anticipation, and looked at the news headlines on my phone with some satisfaction. I found the Democrats did not completely roll over to enable the failure that is Donald Trump to continue.

In fact, this was not a vote that went along…

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Do I Look Like a Twinkle to You?

I’ve been called by a variety of names over the course of my 61 years on earth: Leslie, Sis, Mommy, Mom, Nana, Boobsie (don’t ask), and a few less flattering ones I’m not going to mention. But a couple of days ago I was offered a new moniker.

On Thursday afternoon I had volunteered to transport a meal to a group of young single moms in Tallahassee. The coordinator paired me with someone named Robin who would prepare a meal, and my task was to meet up with Robin and then deliver the meal to the meeting in a timely fashion.

In spite of numerous texts and emails between Robin and me, we managed to get our wires crossed and ended up at two different locations. I was at one truck stop and Robin was at another just down the road. Before we resolved the issue I was standing outside the Flying J restaurant looking for someone who might be Robin. Since we’d never met I scrutinized everyone.

A car pulled up beside me and a middle-aged man rolled down his window. I thought, “Hmmm, maybe Robin is a man.” I have a male cousin named Robin, so it was a possibility.

Before I could say anything the man asked, “Say, are you Twinkle?”

Briefly taken aback, I retorted, “Hell no. Do I look like a Twinkle to you?”

He quickly rolled up his window and sped away. I got the giggles. I believe he thought I was a prostitute! Me! In my mom jeans and Star Wars t-shirt. Then it occurred to me that the “Twinkle” he was looking for was likely to be a trans prostitute. Guess I fooled him all around. Studly doesn’t call me “Boobsie” for nothing!

Trumplewocky

Brilliant!

SLHARPERPOETRY

trumplewocky1‘Twas feckish, and the irkly grobes
Did fark and fistle in the slade;
All dingly were the rectiprobes
And the dampnuts updrade.

“Beware the Trumplewock, my friend!
The bigly mouth, those puny mitts!
Beware the Tweet bird, and off-fend
The cronious Perkletits!”

She packed her poisal voice and went:
Fat chance the vapid imp she’d spare—
So quivered he ‘neath his Cheato tree,
And feebly cried, “Unfair!”

And, as the greelish light grew pale,
The Trumplewock, with wits of wood,
Came grabbling through the femly vale
Because he thought he could!

Eins, zwei! Eins, zwei! And quick as pie
The poisal voice sliced fierce and true:
“Go flay yourself, you mawkish elf,
And burn the residue!”

The Trumplewock would rue the day
He left his diddlepot of lack.
The frankish words would haunt him ‘til
He went galumphing back.

‘Twas feckish, and the irkly grobes
Did fark and fistle in…

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A Lizardless Winter

We’ve been living at Doright Manor for four years now, and I believe this is the first winter we haven’t had a small lizard living in the mailbox. Every day I open the mailbox with anticipation and a bit of trepidation, and every day that there’s no lizard I feel a little let down, but also a bit relieved. Sometimes those guys scared the crap out of me.

The temperatures have been colder than usual this year, so I’m not sure if it’s simply too cold for the lizards or if they’ve moved to better digs. I can’t do a thing about the weather, but I can do something about the accommodations. Maybe I’ll redecorate the mailbox before next winter, put in a nice recliner and a rug.

Or perhaps I’ll knit a sweater and attach a note with care instructions.

It couldn’t hurt, right?

I do hope the lizards are somewhere safe and warm.

Peace, people.

Meme a Theme…me, me , me, me,

Take a moment and read this. Thanks.

1XPAD.COM

I’m close to full stop, come the news after sundown. But those fourth estate hounds, it being happy hour and all, are fed scrap after flap of Trump this or that, which spins my amateur poet pose on a damn D.C dime, and I’m forced to pirouette and sash shay some dilettantish political punditry.

Let me pour a bourbon.

Now if that first paragraph doesn’t clue you to the punishment inherent in thinking about politics then you be my kind of player.

Because, politics, in the main, is a bad play. A narrative offered without a theme. Because governance, the plot points of politics, is just one event after another. Grunt-work. The trash picked up. Timely public transportation. A nation’s defense staffed and paid for. Taxes collected. Disputes adjudicated, with property and civil rights protected. The free speech. That one person, one vote.

Now, I’m purposely mixing metaphors of making a…

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Stretching Like an Athlete

Athletics were never my thing. As a card carrying klutz, I’ve shied away from anything requiring physical prowess for most of my life. Oh, there was a brief period during which I played racquetball, but even then I managed to hit myself in the face with the racquet on more than one occasion. I tried golf, but was soon spending considerably more on chiropractic treatment than on greens fees.

As a result, I kind of gave up on doing any activity that was physically demanding. I have tons of other excuses: a disdain for gyms, a dislike of workout classes, an allergic reaction to sweat….You get the picture.

Now, at 61, my body is telling me I should have done something to keep myself fit. My hips hurt, my back aches, and my arms are flabby wonders that wag even when I try to get them to play dead. I feel like a bag of lumpy gravy.

I see a chiropractor, Dr. Verrier, on a regular basis. He’s helped me a great deal. Before I began regular treatments with him I couldn’t walk without significant pain. He’s worked wonders, but I still had some issues with my hips that keep me awake at night.

Then Studly Doright suggested I also see someone at a Tallahassee business called Stretching Your Life. One of his golf buddies recommended the business and Studly wanted me to check it out.

Stretching Your Life is owned by kinesiologists who teach their clients to stretch like athletes. They’ll even spend an entire hour stretching you! I’ve had two sessions of intense stretching and am amazed at what I’ve missed out on all these non-athletic years. I still have a long way to go, but my kinesiologist, Jen, is upbeat about getting me to a healthier place in my life.

Here’s a link to Stretching Your Life. Their website alone has a great deal of helpful information along with exercises to do at home. (I receive no compensation for sharing this information, by the way, but I wanted to spread the word.)

https://g.co/kgs/Fbs46h

I’ll give updates on my progress with the stretching. Hopefully I can work out some of these kinks that have begun to feel like the norm. I don’t mind being 61, but I do mind feeling like I’m 91.

Peace, people.

Art or Nart

I had tons of time to come up with a blog post yesterday, but zero ideas. While I was watching Ellen Degeneres’s new show “Game of Games” I played with the doodle option on my iPhone instead of preparing something for this venue. So this is all you’re getting this morning.

I call this, “Art or Nart”

Playing Hole #5 on a Blustery Winter Day in Florida:

The Emperor Reimagined:

Beach Day:

Hello from the Other Side, Kandinsky:

I’m hanging on to these pieces of art. If I become famous one day perhaps they’ll be worth a fortune. Or nart.

Peace, people.

You May Say I’m a Dreamer

You may say I’m a dreamer, and in my household I am the only one. Where my dreams are typically vividly technicolored, Studly Doright’s are seemingly non-existent. So when I got this text first thing Monday morning, I was intrigued:

(Ignore the odd punctuation. If I’d known this was going to be blog fodder (blodder?) I’d have taken more pains with my text.)

According to Studly, he never dreams. Of course I’ve informed him that we all dream every night, but not everyone remembers their dreams. Stubbornly he persists in claiming that he is the exception.

All day I waited for him to come home, so I could hear the details. Part of me hoped he’d dreamed winning lottery numbers. Had that been the case, I’d have bought a dozen tickets immediately. Another part of me was concerned he’d dreamed about his soul mate–and it wasn’t me! As promised in the text I made potato soup for dinner, always with one part of my brain on Studly’s dream. Do I need a life? Most likely.

The second he walked in the door I asked the million dollar question. “What was the dream?”

“Mmmm, that soup smells good!”

“Damn it, you don’t get soup until you spill the dream beans.”

He said, “It was weird. The whole time I was dreaming I kept thinking it was the kind of dream you’d have.

“There was this creature, maybe an alien, maybe an animal, and a little boy. Somehow they communicated, and if there was any danger the creature would surround the boy with a protective cloaking shield.”

I managed to nod encouragingly, all hopes of a winning lottery number dashed.

“And this kid had family members he could pull inside the shield.”

“So, what happened?”

“Nothing! I couldn’t get past the shield part. The dream never moved forward. It was frustrating.”

As we ate our potato soup and cornbread I tried my amateur dream interpretation skills on him:

1) Studly is the little boy who feels like he needs protection for himself and his loved ones.

2) Or he is the outsider providing protection for others.

3) Or he had an upset stomach and as a result a weird dream.

4) Or he was hoping for potato soup for dinner.

At least he didn’t dream about his soul mate. Unless, of course, the alien filled that role.

Peace, people!

Look What I Made!

I met with members of the Tallahassee Women’s Social Meetup group Sunday afternoon to work on our hats for cancer patients. I’d begun working on the hat pictured above shortly after meeting with this group before Christmas and was anxious to find out if I’d remembered the instructions correctly. To my immense surprise, I had!

I’d taken the hat to a point at which I needed further instructions, and was pleased to learn I would be able to complete it this afternoon. The only thing I’d gotten wrong was the type of yarn to use. Apparently there’s a specific yarn recommended for cancer patients and mine is a bit on the scratchy side. Next time I need to purchase this brand:

One of the ladies knitted a hat for a preemie this afternoon. It’s so adorably tiny!

I had to try on my completed project:

Okay, I’m not a super model. I’m pretty proud of my hat.

Peace, people!