I Have Love
I have love, ill-defined and tenuous,
Hollowed out and scurrilous.
Jealous to a fault,
Impervious.
Brittle love, strained and anxious,
Stretched too thin, dangerous.
Pushed past the limit,
Hazardous.
Save me from love, rude and ridiculous,
Martyred and meticulous.
Grasping for straws,
Ludicrous.
I didn’t get out much today. Instead I watched the satellite tv installer work his magic from the quiet of my back porch where I snapped this picture. I call it, “My Biggest Fan.”
©2017 by Leslie Noyes
All This and Cataracts, Too
Sometimes I kid myself:
I’m young, sexy, skinny, and brilliant.
Yes, I kid myself.
In reality, I’m old, dumpy, chunky, and bland.
And now I’m told I have cataracts. Yes, they’re “baby cataracts,” and shouldn’t be an issue for a number of years, but dammit all to hell; I have cataracts.
I see trouble on the horizon. Wait! I can’t see the horizon!
Peace, people.
©2017 by Leslie Noyes
I took this photo after Easter last year while visiting La Antigua de Guatemala. I believe this was a view of one of the staging areas for Holy Week displays, so a good title might be “Santa Semana 2016.”
Studly Doright likes to trade cars. When he’s had the same vehicle for the span of a year I can feel him getting antsy to find the next great deal, so it came as no surprise when he sheepishly showed me a photo of a little Cadillac sports sedan and told me he’d bought it on eBay.
“It’ll be my golf vehicle,” he said.
“I thought the Dodge pickup was your golf vehicle,” I countered.
“Well, it was, but I’ll sell it.”
“What about the little Nissan convertible? Wasn’t it also your golf vehicle?”
“You know it gets lousy gas mileage. I’ll sell it, too.”
As long as I have a decent car to drive I really don’t care what Studly drives, but I had to give him a hard time. When the car didn’t arrive on time I began needling him.
“Are you sure you’re dealing with reputable people?” I asked. “What if they never deliver your Cadillac?”
“It’ll be here. It’s in Detroit and they had a huge blizzard last week.”
Two days later, still no Cadillac. I again questioned the prudence of buying a car sight unseen. Finally, though, the transport driver called to say he’d be in Tallahassee on Sunday afternoon, so when he sent an address I drove Studly into town to meet the truck.
The car was badass: Silver, with black leather seats, and every bell and every whistle one could ask for. It also came with one unexpected bonus–the nastiest smell I’ve ever encountered outside of a garbage dump.
The smell wasn’t organic. Nothing had died in the car. It was a chemical type smell, as if someone had used it as a vat for tanning animal hides. Gag!
Studly was in denial.
“It’s not so bad,” he protested, when I refused to ride in the car.
“Three Mile Island was less toxic than this car,” I said.
“Maybe it just needs a coconut scented air freshener,” he didn’t actually say, but I knew he was thinking it.
“Let me deal with it,” I sighed.
So for the past week while Studly has been at work I’ve coaxed the nasty smell out of his Caddy. Long drives down country roads with every window rolled down and the moon roof fully open have made a huge improvement in the car’s smell. It’s not yet quite to the pleasant stage, but I have a reasonable expectation that it soon will smell almost like a new vehicle. And it’s such fun to drive.
Maybe Studly has learned a lesson about buying cars on eBay. Or not. Regardless, life with him is never boring.
Phoebe Buffay knew a little about smelly things:
This tree on the shore of Lake Ella in Tallahassee is my favorite of all the trees I have ever known. It’s massive and friendly and magnificent. I call this one, “Tree of My Heart.”
Baby, you know what I want…
…I want to eat fried chicken and potato salad without worrying about gaining a pound. That’s it. I got a whiff of a stranger’s fried chicken meal yesterday and now that’s all I can think about.
My goal is to lose ten more pounds before we leave for Ireland’s fair shores in June, though, so I’ll have to settle for the next best thing to fried chicken: Gary Larson’s Far Side chicken.
I’m still hungry for fried chicken.
Peace, people.
My exact thoughts on this Syrian missile strike. Read more at alotfromlydia.wordpress.com.
CNN has called Donald Trump “presidential” in the wake of his cruise missile attack on Syria. Fareed Zachariah, on CNN’s “New Day” said on Friday: “I think Donald Trump became president of the United States last night, I think this was actually a big moment.”
FOX called the missile strike a “success”, and other FOX headlines read: “Russia Condemns Attack”, and ” A Russian Battle Ship heads Toward Navy Destroyers that Launched Attack”.
How easily manipulated is the press? Very. This missile strike was orchestrated to for theatrics. It was an intentionally ineffectual empty political gesture that left: a cafeteria damaged, a training unit damaged, fueling units damaged, minimal damage to 6 already damaged airplanes. The main airstrip remains intact, (as shown below), and troops were mercifully left uninjured, thanks to receiving advance notice of the attack from Donald Trump.
This reporting of the missile attack is propaganda spoonfed…
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These photos are gorgeous! Follow inesemjphotography.com!
There might be some truth in that Carriganore myth about the hidden treasures because the end of the rainbow is right there by the river bank. We leave the rainbow behind and resume our walk to Kilmeadan station.
River Suir makes a sharp bend. The pink froth you see among the trees on the other side of the bend are Magnolias from the Mount Congreve gardens, in some 15 minutes walk from here.
But first we walk through the Magic Wood where Fairies and Leprechauns live happily together 🙂
There is a whole city in the trees with lovely little houses, ladders and bridges. It is well hidden in the summer but now the fairies are in the open, and have to pretend that they are not real, otherwise the passers-by will annoy them with questions. I would advise you to make a wish as you pass by without disturbing…
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This is a reblogging of a post about Arnold Palmer. I’m watching the Masters Tournament and sobbing at the tributes.
As I listened to one celebrity after another pay tribute to the recently deceased golfer, Arnold Palmer, yesterday afternoon, I recalled my own brief encounter with this legend of the links.
For Christmas one year I’d purchased club house passes for Studly Doright and my dad to Arnie’s Bay Hill tournament in Orlando, FL. We lived in Melbourne, FL, at the time, so we were only an hour away from the course. I have to confess that when I purchased the tickets a part of me was secretly hoping that I’d get to attend at least one day of the tournament. As it happened I ended up using the passes more than Studly and Daddy did.
Now, I’m not a golfer. I’m the furthest thing from a golfer anyone could possibly imagine. But I grew up watching the great golfers on television with my dad, and Arnold Palmer almost seemed…
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Praying for Eyebrowz 