eBay or Goodwill

Last week we had new carpet installed here at Doright Manor. In preparation for the arrival of the carpet layers I had to clean all of the stuff from the closet floors. Simple enough.

Finally I’d moved everything that might be in the way of the workmen into the seldom used living room and decided this afforded me the perfect excuse to assess every item, Marie Kondo style, to see if any joy was sparked before putting anything back in its old storage place.

After nearly a week of sorting through the odds and ends I’ve come to believe that joy is relative. Just because something doesn’t spark joy today doesn’t mean it won’t tomorrow. I’m hopeless.

That’s not to say I haven’t decided to get rid of a few things, but the manner in which they’re to be disposed of is giving me a few headaches.

I’m an avid Star Wars fan, and have collected dozens of action figures, plush toys, calendars, mugs, and silly promotional items over the years. But they aren’t being displayed. Instead, they’ve just been sitting and collecting dust. I did list a couple of items on eBay:

Vintage Yoda
Vintage Max Rebo

So far, I have one bid on Max and no bites on Yoda yet, even though he’s priced dirt cheap, and is in slightly better shape than Max. I’ll end up losing money on both items, but at least someone will get some joy out of them. And I’ll likely cry when they’re gone.

One of my problems in purging stuff is deciding if if an item should be tossed, sold, or donated. Actually, the tossing is fairly straightforward. Some things don’t deserve a second chance like the chewed up, stuffing-less cat toy I discovered in a box of clothes. But also in that box was this:

Vintage pleather!

This deep pink (I stress “deep” and not “hot”) pleather suit was my grandmother’s in the 80’s. Yes, my grandmother’s, and she looked gorgeous in it. I can’t remember why she gave the suit to me, but she must’ve been in her 70’s at the time and told me then that she was keeping the matching trousers because she’d still wear them. I just love that.

I wore the ensemble once many years ago to a party, but it wasn’t “me” for a number of reasons, and now the size ten is a tad too small. Plus, it still isn’t “me.”

BUT, should I send it straight to Goodwill or might someone browsing on eBay see it and say, “My goodness! I MUST have that deep pink suit!” This is my dilemma.

I think I’ll ruminate a while longer, and honestly that suit isn’t taking up too much closet space, right?

Peace, people.

Subdued Fourth

Today we celebrated Independence Day here in the United States. Celebrated might be an overstatement in my case. I napped, having been unable to sleep last night. I did wear my special flag t-shirt most of the day, though.

Then, while Studly Doright and I were cooking our dinner of vegetable kabobs and fruit salad, I managed to get cooking oil all over the front of my shirt. I might’ve said, “Yankee Doodle Dammit!” Or something similarly patriotic as a result.

We’ll likely spend our evening watching “Shameless” on Netflix while listening to our neighbors across the lake shoot off fireworks. Is it wrong for me to hope a predicted thunderstorm might keep the ruckus to a minimum tonight? It’s not as if they have any children.

Suddenly I feel like the Scrooge of July 4th. Bah firecracker!

Peace, people.

My New Ride

Doright Manor is located in a hilly rural housing development about eight miles outside of Tallahassee, Florida. And when I say “hilly” I am not exaggerating. For as long as we’ve lived here we’ve talked about riding our bikes around the neighborhood. But that’s as far as we ever got to doing it. We could ride about a quarter of a mile and that was it.

Then my brother, Kelly, and his wife, Susan, stayed with us on their journey to Fort Meyers, Florida, and they left some items with us to be picked up when they passed through Tallahassee later in the week. Among those items was a pair of e-assist bikes. They told us to try them out, and we did. They were great fun. We could pedal for awhile and then take a break by using the battery power.

Studly Doright immediately began researching e-assist bikes and soon had one ordered for me.

Voila!

This isn’t a great photo, but I’ll do better next time.

Pretty cool, right? He’s now looking for a conversion kit for his bike. Until then, I might share.

Peace, people.

Fishing With the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

My experiences as a fisherman have all been lacking in excitement. And that’s fine with me. I have no desire to actually catch a fish; although, I do enjoy sitting in the shade by a peaceful lake with a fishing pole in one hand and a good beer in the other.

If any fish come to pay a call I just say, “No thanks, I’m a vegan.”

For those horrified that I might actually harm an innocent fish, please don’t fret. It seems one needs a hook and bait in order to land a fish. The pole alone isn’t sufficient to the task.

I do like songs about fishing, though. Well, one song anyway. I was out driving around this afternoon, listening to the Garth Brooks channel on SiriusXM, when my favorite Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song was played. The song, “Fishing in the Dark,” might not even be about fishing. Wink, wink. I have a feeling it’s a little tongue in cheek, and that makes me love it even more.

Peace, people!

A New Month; Oh Joy.

July 1st! Or as I like to call it, “another day in purgatory”; although, it’s been hotter than hell here in the Florida panhandle, so maybe I’ve skipped purgatory and just don’t know it yet.

Masks are mandatory here in Gadsden and Leon counties, yet the mandate doesn’t seem to be consistently enforced. I feel for business owners and mangers who are tasked with policing their own customers. Many can’t, or won’t, do it.

I’m certainly not going to confront a maskless person. That’s liable to get one shot in these parts. I do give great dirty looks—but I’m afraid the effect is lost since all the offenders can see are my eyes. I am good at squinting though.

Close approximation of my squinty eyed look.

Peace, people!

Moving Things

We’re having new carpet installed this week, so all weekend I prepared by spending my time sorting through the large collection of oddities that take up space atop dressers and cabinets. Things the carpet installers won’t move for me. I also moved a few larger items. Things the carpet installers might not handle gently.

Some items I plan to discard; others will be dusted and returned to their old, or perhaps new locations. I like seeing how old stuff can take on a different look in a new place.

I do fairly well when given a task that’s straightforward. Abandon this. Keep that. Sell this. Toss that. Seldom do I spend much time agonizing over possessions.

But heaven help me if I come across old photographs. I never throw those away. Even if I’m sure I don’t know a single person in the photo I cannot throw it out. And if I make the mistake of opening a photo album, whole hours can go by without my notice.

That might’ve happened a time or two this weekend. Maybe three or four. I can’t recall.

Isn’t this a great photo? I think I know the woman, not sure about the man.

Peace, people.

The Eyes Have It

On Saturday afternoon Studly Doright and I drove out to the Tallahassee RV Park to meet up with my brother and sister-in-law who were spending the night there before moving on with their big adventure.

They’d stopped by on Monday on their way to Fort Myers, Florida, where they’d pick up their new Airstream trailer. After several days of orientation and practice with their new trailer they were ready to hit the road. First, though, they needed to collect a few things they’d left at our house. Rather than have them drive all the way to Doright Manor and back to the RV park, we loaded their stuff into Studly’s pickup and met them at the park.

Their new trailer is beautiful—very posh and spacious. We enjoyed wine and cheese with them and their adorable dog, Gus.

That’s my brother, Kelly, dog, Gus, and me.
Look at Gus’s eyes. I think he’s a bit leery of his Aunt Leslie.

We had a wonderful dinner with Kelly and Susan before bidding them goodbye and safe travels. Kelly says he’ll start a blog about their journey. If he does, I’ll share it with you all. It’s bound to be good.

Peace, people!

The Perfect Country Song

Not too long ago I was visiting via FaceTime with my British friends and advisers, Shirley and Michael. At one point the discussion turned to country music. As a native Texan, albeit one who moved away from the Lone Star State to accompany my husband through many job transfers, I am somewhat knowledgeable about country music.

As a child and teenager I detested the genre. It seemed torture to be made to listen to whiny country western in the car when the Beatles might be playing on another radio station, just a turn of the dial away.

Remember, I’m 63.75 years old, so in my youth we didn’t have a way to listen to anything other than what the person in control of the radio, nearly always a parent or other stodgy adult, deemed suitable. Kids today have no idea how good they’ve got it.

But somehow, those songs and artists stuck with me. Patsy Cline, George Jones, Tammy Wynette, Johnny Cash—all are part of my history, and now their old songs are some of my favorites. My parents would be proud.

Back to my conversation with Michael and Shirley, though. I mentioned to them a country song I thought they, and their son, might get a kick out of—“You Never Even Called Me by My Name,” performed by the great David Allan Coe. Also known as “The Perfect Country Song,” this is a piece that must be listened to in its entirety to get the meaning. I’ll share it here. Enjoy.

David Allan Coe in his younger days. Now he’s 80, and I believe he’s still touring!

Peace, people!

Thursday

Lately my life has been one weird event after another. I hope it’s just the isolation that’s getting to me. I am nearly 64 years old, so a bit of cognitive decline might not be too far-fetched.

This morning the heating and air technician came for the bi-annual checkup of our HVAC equipment at Doright Manor. I set my alarm so I wouldn’t forget, and ended up being up and about a good two hours before he arrived. I used that time wisely.

No, I didn’t. I spent a fair amount of the time playing Words with Friends on my iPhone. But I did think to call my optometrist’s office to enquire about the new eyewear I’d selected and paid for more than a month ago. I looked up the number in my contacts and thought I dialed correctly, but the phone made an odd beeping noise while I waited for someone to pick up. When no one answered I tried a second number.

This time there was an immediate answer, “Hello?”

Obviously not an office number. “Dr. S?” I asked.

“This is she.”

“Did I just call your personal number?”

She laughed. “Yes. First you tried to FaceTime with me. I figured you were having an emergency.”

I apologized profusely, told her I was trying to call the office, that I was fine. We said goodbye and disconnected. All I could think was, my eye doctor rocks. I’d forgotten she’d given me her personal number last year when I began seeing “floaters”. As I was writing this it occurred to me that I never did call her office about my glasses. Sheesh.

Then, at lunch I saw a woman’s naked breasts. I was sitting outside waiting for my to-go order when this buxom woman emerged from the restroom. Her one-piece romper had slipped down below her breasts. With practiced ease she hoisted the romper back into place and went in to order her meal, never missing a beat. I’m telling you, I was impressed.

I’m not sure anything else that happened today is going to top that.

Peace, people.