Month: September 2015

Cooking for Studly, Dammit

Yes, I’m still cooking for Studly Doright. For those of you not in the loop here’s a brief recap: 

1. I’m not a good cook.

2. I’m unemployed.

3. Studly Doright, my husband of 39 years suggested that I need not seek employment IF I began cooking our evening meals.

4. I agreed.

The quality of my cooking is like a roller coaster with big highs and stomach emptying lows. Recently I’ve relied a great deal on Marie Calender and Stouffer’s for our entrees, with Digiorno’s pizzas thrown in on occasion. And while those will never qualify as haute cuisine, at least they’re always edible. Mine cannot always make that claim.

Then last night, out of the clear blue Florida sky, Studly decided he wanted a full-blown holiday-type meal: turkey, cornbread dressing, cranberry sauce, fruit salad, rolls, etc., on a week night. That’s just sacrilege! Illogical!

But of course I’m slaving away today making Studly Doright a holiday meal. Dammit. I wouldn’t mind it so much if there was a present with my name on it under a tree. Any tree. 

   
 Peace, people!

All Hands on Deck

Studly Doright and I bought our home in Havana, Florida, more than a year ago. We love this house and its little neighborhood of Lake Yvette. Recently, Studly added a nice garage/shop where he stores our motorcycles and does repair work as needed. He’s very pleased with the finished product, and I’m pleased when Studly is pleased.

The only part of the home we weren’t crazy about was the back porch. At first look, it was perfect, with nice brickwork and ample space for a table, grill, and a couple of lounge chairs. But anytime it rains, and it rains often in north Florida, all of the rainwater pools at one end of the deck, rendering it unusable. Obviously, after the home was built it settled counter to the drain. 

So, while we were in a building/remodeling frame of mind we decided to have the deck converted into a covered/screened porch. The contractor has begun the job, and like all such jobs it’s a bit messy. And noisy. 

The cats stay hidden most of the day, emerging only for their beloved Temptations treats. They have no idea yet just how wonderful the new screened in porch will be for two confirmed lifelong house cats. 

Studly and I are making bets as to how long it takes our youngest cat, Patches, to make her first steps into the wild new world. In her whole three years of life she’s been out of the house only to go to the vet and of course during our car ride from Illinois to Florida.

Our elder cat, Scout, has occasionally escaped when the front door has been left open a fraction too long. But then she would sit quivering on the front lawn until we could herd her back into the house. Neither cat will ever receive a medal for bravery.

Here are photos of our work in progress:

   
    
 We’re hoping to have the deck finished in a couple of weeks, then we can find out how our cats react. It is all about the cats, after all.

Peace, people!

Wondering

I’ve tried being
philosophical,
but it isn’t my style, and
Practicality
is practically
unobtainable.
I think I’ll be
winsome instead.

Winsome seems a
logical choice,
neither happy nor
morose, yet somewhere
in between as in,
you WIN SOME,
you lose some.

Perhaps I have
a bit more
wondering to do
before I find my niche.
I’ll just be
winsome until
something better
comes along.

 

Valkova Evgeniya, “Winsome”
 
Peace, people!

Comparative racism part 2: What’s it like in Britain?

God bless notesfromtheuk.com for her endless honesty and sharp observations. This is really enlightening.

Ellen Hawley's avatarNotes from the U.K.

After writing a guest post about American racism I don’t seem to be ready to leave the topic. My mind keeps circling back to something I’ve avoided writing about until now: British racism.

Why am I avoiding this? Tact? Nah. I have the occasional moment of tact, but as a rule I’m not paralyzed by it. That it’s a hard topic to be funny about? In part, but I hope to manage a bright spot here and there. Ignorance? Well, yeah, there is that. I’ve lived in the U.K. for nine years. That doesn’t make me an expert. It’s a huge, sprawling topic. Plus I live in an absurdly white part of the country. Although my friends and family are a multi-hued (and multi-many other thinged) group, my friends in this country, for the most part, are not.

But still, I listen. I hear things.

Beyond irrelevant photo: grasses after an autumn rain Beyond irrelevant photo: grasses after…

View original post 723 more words

At Sunrise We Celebrate the Night’s Passage

Robertokaji.com will never disappoint.

robert okaji's avatarO at the Edges

sunrise

At Sunrise We Celebrate the Night’s Passage

And discuss not the darkness of crows, but the structure of phonemes
embedded in our names, the gratitude of old fences, of broken

circles and extinguished flame.

Two weeks ago he poured wine and declared himself Dog.

There are roosters, too, who cannot crow,
other speechless men, and lonely burros guarding brush piles.

What letters form silence? From what shapes do we draw this day?

Light filters through the cedars and minutes retract,

as the bull’s horns point first this way, then that, lowering themselves
through the millennia, becoming, finally, A as we know it.

With my tongue, I probe the space emptied of tooth.

Barbed wire was designed to repel, but when cut sometimes curls

and grabs, relinquishing its hold only by force or careful negotiation.
Symbols represent these distinct units of sound.

My name is two houses surrounding an eye.

Yours consists…

View original post 25 more words

Star Spangled Dream

One night during my illness–stuffy head, equilibrium-hampering, sinus infection–I dreamt that I was attending either a concert or a movie in an outdoor arena. Just before the event began a giant screen flashed the words:

Please Stand For Our National Anthem

I immediately stood, and began urging those around me to stand, as well. Grudgingly they did. The strains of The Star Spangled Banner began and then abruptly stopped. 

Sorry, technical difficulties!

Flashed across the screen. Then a voice from a loudspeaker boomed, “Will anyone lead in the singing of our national anthem?”

With no hesitation I began, 

Oh, say can you see…

and to my delight people joined in and we all sang the entire song on key. It was a gloriously impossible rendition of our national anthem, especially considering that I knew immediately that I’d begun the song an octave too high. Dreams are wonderfully forgiving.

Once the song ended and we were congratulating one another on our performance a woman in the next section came to me and offered me a role in a traveling Disney performance. I agreed immediately, but then looked over at Studly who was clearly upset by the thought of me leaving, and subsequently declined the offer. 

When I awakened I realized my throat was scratchy. That’s what happens when one sings The Star Spangled Banner an octave too high. 

Peace, people!

  

Singing in My Sleep

I’ve been sick for the past couple of days. It’s nothing life-threatening, just a nasty sinus infection that has messed with my equilibrium and given me horrendous headaches. My doctor prescribed an outrageously expensive and difficult to obtain antibiotic that I finally tracked down at a local CVS pharmacy. Truthfully it was available at a Walgreens, but even with the coupon my doctor’s office provided the cost was going to be $238, so I set out in search of a better price.

CVS did honor the manufacturer’s coupon, so I ended up paying only $35.00 for the antibiotic. There is a lesson to be learned here, but I’m sick and can’t formulate what that might be. Something to do with comparison shopping and challenging the status quo I think. This post was supposed to be about the strange dream I had this morning anyway (note the title). 

I’m going back to bed.

Peace, people.

Sold by Thug Life Shirts

Feed Me Seymour!

Is it 

“Feed a cold;

Starve a fever?”

Or vice versa

I never can

Seem to

Remember.

Hunger, though

Is my companion

Urging me to

Ignore the wisdom

Age old sayings

Passed down

from mom

To mom.

Just feed me 

Seymour and

No harm is done.

  
peace, people!

The Girl and The Butterfly

I wrote this several years ago for our oldest granddaughter, Dominique, and published it last year on WordPress in honor of her birthday. Dominique was three, I believe when the butterfly landed on her outstretched palm, and today she will be 13. Yes, Studly and I are grandparents to a teenager! Happy birthday, Dominique!

The Girl and the Butterfly

One little butterfly, orange and black circled the flowers in the summer garden.


One little girl, in red, white, and blue, danced around the flowers in the summer garden.


“Here, little butterfly!” called the girl.


But the butterfly flew higher than the girl could jump, and faster than the girl could run.


“Please!” said the girl.


No matter how hard she tried, the girl could not catch the butterfly.


“You must let the butterfly come to you when he is ready,” said Mama.


“I don’t think he will ever be ready,” sighed the little girl.


“Here, sweetheart, I have an idea,” said Mama. “Hold out your hand.”


Mama poured a drop of orange juice into the girl’s hand.


“Now hold out your hand and stay very still.”


The girl did just that.


She waited.
And waited.
And waited.


And would you believe it? The butterfly landed ever so lightly onto the girl’s hand.

The girl smiled at the butterfly, and after sipping the juice, the butterfly smiled back.

Peace, people!

Sick Blogging

i am sick
not tragically,
or terminally,
but sick,
nonetheless;
therefore,
this poem
was all I could
manage.

peace, people.