Always the finder of the fewest eggs,
A dubious prize at best.
Like being crowned Miss Congeniality
In a field of wild weeds.
I never declined the questionable honor,
But smiled winningly enough
To hoodwink the shepherding adults into
believing I was honored,
When all I ever really wanted was to have the fullest basket
Just one Easter.
I petted a rug this morning. Bent down and stroked it before realizing it wasn’t my black cat.
Granted the lighting was dim, and I hadn’t had my first sip of coffee yet, but I talked to the rug in the voice I generally reserve for my black cat long before I got close enough to pet it.
I should’ve known something was up when she didn’t talk back.
billowing within
notes of longing flow in sync
with love’s earnest needs.
elevate the words
they hold tightly as anchors
for melody’s lure
take me here softly
lay me down to the music
slowly, in good time.
It took me a second to understand this picture–why would anyone desecrate the headstone on Susan B. Anthony’s grave? But then I realized the stickers said, “I voted today” and I smiled.
Please use your right to vote. Become informed, and speak your mind come Election Day. Don’t ignore this gift that women like Susan B. Anthony fought to give us.
And if you haven’t seen the film, Suffragette, detailing the hardships British women endured in order to be allowed to vote, I highly recommend it.
Last night I had a dilemma. I could take the anti-inflammatory drug prescribed by my doctor to fight the pain in my lower back, or I could take a sinus/allergy pill in order to breathe.
Since the anti-inflammatory cautioned against taking anything with acetaminophen or ibuprofen I was forced to choose. Did I want to lie awake all night due to an excruciatingly painful back or due to a headache from the depths of hell? Decisions, decisions.
Then I remembered that Studly Doright had just bought an economy sized bottle of the antihistamine Benadryl. While it wouldn’t necessarily help with my congestion, it might just knock me out enough that I didn’t care about breathing.
Studly has his own medical stash separate from mine, a tradition started back when he once accidentally took the menstrual cramp reliever Midol and subsequently tried to puke them up lest he develop feminine attributes. Since then our drugs don’t occupy the same space. It’s a rule.
His nearly full bottle of Benadryl was front and center among his medicine collection. It took a couple of seconds to negotiate the child safety cap, but soon I had all those little pink pills at my disposal.
That’s when Studly chose to surreptitiously come up behind me and playfully demand, “What do you think you’re doing?”
I shrieked and lost control of the bottle, sending it on a vertical trajectory aimed for the bathroom skylight. Little pink pills went everywhere. Everywhere. I was still finding them behind perfume atomizers and cosmetic jars this morning.
And since my back wouldn’t let me bend over, poor Studly had to pick up all of the pills that landed on the floor. That’ll teach him to sneak up on me when I’m thieving.
Fortunately I salvaged a couple of pills last night ensuring a deep sleep. Of course I still have the same dilemma tonight, and Studly has declared his medicine cabinet off-limits. I wonder how many glasses of wine equal two Benadryl?
Peace, people.
Invertebrates have no idea just how fortune smiled upon their meager lives
by denying them the gift of a spine. No backbone means no bulging discs, or
shooting pains from hip to shin. On most days I’m proud to count thirty-three
vertebrae from stem to stern, to be among the higher order of God’s creative will,
but today I’d gladly trade places with a spineless critter, preferably a
butterfly instead of a spider or mollusk. Certainly not a sponge.
The title is deceptive. I have no intention of detailing my dating years with Studly Doright. Suffice it to say we made out a lot in parked cars, and at one point he asked, “So, you want to get married or what?”
To which I answered affirmatively, and the rest is history. Ancient and yet present history. No, this post is about Studly answering a summons to report for jury duty here in Gadsden County, Florida.
I get all excited when I’m selected for jury duty. I’ve gotten the summons many times, but was chosen to serve just once. I think maybe my bright pink Pick Me! Pick Me! banner is a bit off-putting to attorneys. I can’t imagine why.
Studly does not share my enthusiasm for performing his civic duty. In fact, his response to the summons included a string of colorful curse words, and he seldom swears.
After he calmed down I assured him it was unlikely he’d have to serve. “They call up tons of folks! What are the odds?” I offered to let him take my lucky pink sign.
Apparently he should’ve taken my sign or purchased lottery tickets this week because he came home from the jury selection on Monday with the grimmest expression I’ve seen outside of a Criminal Minds episode. Another string of imaginative swear words accompanied his telling of the story. I fed him dinner and patted his hand.
Curious, I asked him if they’d been given any idea as to what crime had been committed. He nodded, thoughtfully chewing an extra savory bite of roast that I’d lovingly prepared, but said he wasn’t able to tell me.
Now it was my turn to say something colorful. “Son of a biscuit eater!”
So I changed my tack. I cajoled and flirted. Flashed a sexy thigh. Seductively bent over the laundry basket and wiggled my backside. But he wouldn’t spill the beans.
This morning I sent him on his way with an admonition to be a good little juror, and a husky whisper promising all sorts of naughtiness if he’d just give me the scoop. But, still he refused.
There’s a reason I call him Studly Doright. Dammit!
Peace, people!
Standing on the corner
Of Hate and Paranoia
Hanging high, a banner
Around me, phobic patter
Blame those with darker skin!
Attack those you think sin!
Do it in the name of God!
Forget that He commanded love!
Easy to go with the flow
Buoyed by their anger’s tow
So many souls kept in thrall
To xenophobic clarion call.
But one block further down
Folks rejoice in sweetness found
Freedom reigns one street east
On the corner of Joy and Peace.
Peace, people.
I know nothing about Brussels, but my heart aches for the innocent lives lost.
There’s no high horse, no excuses. Blame enough to go skipping across the universe
And back again. Calls for retribution easier made than accomplished. Politicians in
Training pretend to know the proper course, flailing this way and that; a great
Deal of sound and fury, signifying absolutely nothing except the size of their
Over-inflated egos and underdeveloped intelligence in this election year.
Peace, please, people.
What’s the difference in getting what you want and in settling for what they’ve got?
Why do I always feel like a nag, a shrew when I search for days and weeks and months and nothing I find will do?
So I go along to get along and accept the next best thing, but I plump it up with pillows and color and try to give it zing.
But in the back of my mind I always think, next time I’ll hold out. Next time there’ll be no doubt.
That I got exactly what I wanted and not just what they offered. Maybe.
Praying for Eyebrowz 