Insane in the Membrane

Recently I read a post about a man who’d had a moth in his head for two years. A moth. For two years. I once had a spider in my ear for two seconds and thought I had lost my mind.

I was sound asleep, dreaming that I was in the school cafeteria. In my dream, someone was eating extra crispy lettuce right next to me. It was annoying! I politely asked this person to stop, but he got even closer, leaning on my shoulder and crunching in my ear. I pushed him away, but he kept getting closer and closer until his mouth was covering my ear!

I awoke from my dream to escape this stranger with a lettuce-eating ear fetish only to find that the crunching continued. I panicked! Had I finally lost my mind? Is this what insanity felt like?

Scrambling out of bed, I ran about the room like a woman possessed, shaking my head and slapping at my ears. Then, blessed peace! Looking down I saw the tiny offender scrabbling across the floor. I smushed it. Then I shivered violently. There aren’t enough ewwws in the world to describe my disgust. Just, eww!!!

For many nights I couldn’t fall asleep without a spider barrier (more commonly known as ear muffs) on my ears. But I also wondered, are there people in institutions who just need to be inspected for arachnids? Seriously!

Peace, People!

Drunk Blogging

Friends don’t let friends blog drunk. Honestly, give me a couple of glasses of wine and I’m toast. Give me a couple more and I’ll make a toast.

Here’s to you, my illustrious readers, for all you do to boost me up when I’m feeling low. Those of you from Australia, Brazil, Colombia, Great Britain, and Ghana, France, Ireland, and the United States, too. Thank you, from the bottom of my glass, er heart.

Thank you for bolstering my stats and for influencing my ideas. Muchas gracias, amigos! You are the ones who keep me going even when I might be better off stopping.

And my family! Oh how I love it when you comment and share my posts. You are the wings beneath my wind. Don’t stop believing! One day we’ll look back and laugh at all the silliness. I’m laughing now.

Friends, thank you for your support. I might be drunk this evening, but tomorrow I’ll be sober and hungover and I’ll still love you all.

So, let’s raise a glass and make a toast to those who make the world go ’round. How about another round? Maybe not.

Peace, People!

Golf in the Kingdom with Studly

Last summer at this time Studly and I were still recuperating from our trip to Scotland. Way back when we lived in Great Bend, Kansas, he began playing golf with a group of men, and they’ve kept up the connection even through our moves to Florida, Illinois, and back to Florida.

These men take an annual golf trip to sharpen their skills and to exchange (mostly) good natured insults. Usually the group heads to Arizona or Myrtle Beach, but last year the men decided to take a big trip and invite their wives. And what better golf destination than the home of golf?

When Studly mentioned the possibility of a trip to Scotland my first thought was, “yeah, right, like that’s ever going to happen.” Studly doesn’t do international. Studly barely does national. He likes his own bed, his own town, his own state. He travelled to Jamaica once on business and swore to never leave the U.S. again, so when he asked me to dig out our passports I thought I was hallucinating.

The trip was booked and away we went. This was the Cadillac of tours. Eight couples flew into Edinburgh (to say it properly think “Edinbutter” and leave out the “t”s) and were met by our driver, Ken, who took exceptionally good care of us all week, dropping the men (and occasionally a couple of the ladies) off at some of the world’s most famous courses and taking the rest of us on excursions to castles and lochs.

The men played both the Old Course and the New Course at St. Andrews. Our hotel for two days was just across the road from the famous 18th hole of the Old Course, the very birthplace of golf. It sounds corny, but the air felt almost sacred, blessed by over 400 years of golf tradition. The beer was darned good, too.

We explored the cathedral ruins at St. Andrews and saw the cafe where Wills met Kate (for tea).

We drove through the village of Pickletillum the name of which tickled my tongue. And Anstruther, home of world famous fish and chips, which tickled my taste buds.

During our stay in Inverness we ladies made a side trip to Loch Ness where we lunched and chatted with Nessie. I’d post a photo of our visit, but wouldn’t you know it? I tried inserting photos into my post, but either I am not smart enough to do so, or I am not subscribing to the level of blog that will allow multiple photos. Bummer. Nessie was so photogenic.

Peace, People!

Elvis, Save the Day!

Today I was driving between schools and listening to an interview with Sarah Silverman on NPR. Sarah told the story of being a chronic bed wetter as a child. It was a secret she didn’t want to get out, so at sleepovers she never slept, instead she’d spend the night pinching herself to stay awake.

On one memorable occasion a group of girls was invited to an impromptu slumber party. Sarah recalled she had to borrow pajamas and a sleeping bag from the hostess, as did the rest of the attendees. For some reason that night Sarah slept deeply and awoke the next morning to a sopping wet sleeping bag and drenched pjs. She quickly changed out of her pjs and left them beside the sleeping bag and went on as if nothing had happened. Then the Mom came in, took a look at the wet things and roared, “Who would do something like this?” Just as Sarah was about to raise her hand and take the blame her friend’s dad came running into the room.

“Elvis just died!” he exclaimed, thus saving little Sarah from major embarrassment and perhaps social death as everyone forgot about the wet bedclothes in their grief over the King’s untimely demise.

Sarah’s story reminded me of a time between my fourth and fifth grade years. A friend, “JB,” had invited me to Baptist church camp located about 25 miles from Floydada in the Texas panhandle. It was a sleepover camp and most of the girls had attended before. I, however, was totally unprepared.

Mom wasn’t sure what to pack for me. We had to have several dresses for daily services along with suitable pants (no shorts!) for hiking in the canyon. I must have grown taller that summer because all of my dresses bordered on being too short. I was just becoming aware of the differences in the “haves” and “have nots.” And, while most of the girls at camp were from the former category, including JB, I was firmly ensconced in the latter.

Judging from the looks I got from adults during morning services I was not dressed appropriately for camp. Someone must have mentioned this to my friend’s mom because she brought out two dresses that she’d made just for me the next day. They sort of fit me, if gunny sack was a fit, but most importantly they were suitably LONG. I remember trying them on for JB’s mom in the dormitory while the other girls were at crafts.

“Well,” she said. “You’re never going to be a beauty, but at least you can be modest.”

I looked up the word “modest” when I got home from camp:

1. Unassuming or moderate in the estimation of one’s abilities or achievements.
2. (Of an amount, rate, or level of something) relatively moderate, limited, or small.

Talk about a blow to one’s blossoming self-esteem! I’d already pretty well determined that my beauty was going to be more of the inner rather than the outer kind, but she also wanted me to be limited or small. Screw that!

I wish I’d had the guts then to tell her thanks, but no thanks for the dresses. I wish I’d worn my too short skirts and basked in my immodesty. Instead I kept my mouth closed and suffered the giggles of the other campers for the remainder of camp.

Elvis, I’m glad you didn’t die that day, but a distraction would have been nice.

Peace, People (and, thank you, thank you very much)!

Wag More, Bark Less

“Wag More, Bark Less.” If we all could just follow this simple thought life would be immeasurably better. Yet, barking tends to get all the attention.

Sometimes we bark without even realizing it. The cost of gasoline goes up. Woof! The weather doesn’t suit us. Woof! Woof! Someone says something that offends us. Woof! Woof! Woof!

How different our lives might be if we wagged instead. That doesn’t mean we should ignore the things that make us want to bark, but that we need to take a breath first and ask, “Will barking make it better?”

I admit it, I’m a barker, but I am making a concerted effort to be more of a wagger. My top barking topics:

1) Bad drivers in general and people who text while driving in particular. My Studly who is by nature a wagger counsels me to just take care of my driving and be extra aware to reduce the impact these drivers have on my life. Okay. I can do that.

2) Politics. Again, Studly the Wagger says just stay informed, vote your conscience, and trust in the system. “Barking,” he says, “won’t change anyone’s opinion.” A little woof, but I can try.

3) Religion. Studly recommends avoiding the topic altogether. Alrighty then. Like political ideology, I suspect that religious beliefs won’t be changed by any amount of barking, no matter how vociferously one woofs.

Just typing this I realize how hard it will be not to bark. My brain kept wanting my fingers to type, “but what about….”

I think I have to remember that there lies a big difference between barking and taking action. Taking action can be done with a wag.

Wag more, bark less, wag more, bark less. A new mantra? I think so.

Peace, People!

Rudderless Horse

Playing with words:

A rudderless horse
A riderless ship
A butterbug and a ladyfly
Two conepines and a pinlinch
A bump that goes “thing” in the night
Beaver eagers and fly soxes.
As for Jomeo and Ruliette
A nose by any other name would still smell.

Continue reading “Rudderless Horse”

Just One Way

Summer storms in Tallahassee are an everyday occurrence. At 2:00 p.m. the sun can be shining without a cloud in the sky, and then bam! 2:15 brings a mighty wind, torrential rains, and zero visibility. At 2:30, all is forgiven, the sun shines again, and one wonders why an umbrella was even necessary.

One day last week I was caught in one of these storms. I had the top down on the 350Z and was cruising along without a care in the world. Then all hell broke lose. One flash of lightning followed almost instantly by a BOOM and down came the rain. As soon as I could safely do so I pulled over and put the top up, but I was soaked. I sat in Trader Joe’s parking lot and got a case of the giggles. Then I went in Trader Joe’s and got a case of beer. Pretty good trade off.

I live about 12 miles from Trader Joe’s via Interstate 10, in a subdivision dubbed Lake Yvette West. There is but one road into the subdivision, and when I got to my turnoff, it was blocked. A huge limb from a big ol’ tree had broken off as a result of the strong winds generated by the storm and was laying across most of the road. A gentleman from Talquin Electric arrived about the same time I did and began assessing damage to the power lines.

Of course while I waited for him to give me a go ahead signal my imagination ran wild. What if the road was closed indefinitely? Could I reach my home via Lake Yvette East? Would some kind person over there lend me a boat so I could row across and tend to my cats? Maybe Studly and I could build a houseboat and live on the lake. Maybe Han Solo would swoop down in the Millennium Falcon and take me to Coruscant….

But then, I got the all clear. Darn! Just when it was getting good.

Mirror, Mirror, Shut the Hell Up

Yesterday I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. This wasn’t my home mirror that recognizes and accepts my every move and curve. No, this was a mall mirror just hanging around gawking at passerby. Unlike my home mirror, this mirror judged me: A square bodied, middle aged woman with absolutely no fashion sense. I cringed inwardly and outwardly. What happened to the girl who was once too skinny? What happened to the woman who once dressed in size 10 clothes? What happened to the “while never pretty, not terrible looking” person I used to be?

As I contemplated my missing self over a McAlister’s veggie baked potato smothered in cheddar cheese, a slender, stylishly dressed young mom in her mid-20’s and her adorable daughter sat down at the table next to mine in the mall food court. Being the lonely broad that I am I started a conversation with the little girl. She was three she told me, not in words but by carefully arranging the appropriate number of fingers and holding them up.

Her mom was so proud of her. She told me how smart her little Daneisha was and the little girl demonstrated by singing the alphabet and counting to 20. I was suitably impressed. I told the mom how much I liked her look and about my confrontation with the mall mirror. She said, “But you are a beautiful woman! Look how much Daneisha likes you and she doesn’t like strangers!”

I’m embarrassed to say I got tears in my eyes. The tears are here now as I type this. We aren’t a size. We aren’t a shape. We aren’t a style. We are souls. Mirrors have no business telling us otherwise.

Peace, People

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