Concussed Bird

On Sunday afternoon Studly Doright rescued a little bird from a fate worse than death, namely spending the night in our garage.

The little guy and his mate had flown inside while Studly puttered around with the cars and he watched the bird slam headlong into one of the windows.

After a few trial and error attempts Studly finally had the bird safely in hand.

The poor thing was stunned, so we put him on top of Studly’s car until he could gather his wits.

I couldn’t resist stroking his soft feathers.

Then, in the blink of an eye he was gone, fully recovered from his escapade.

Safe travels, little guy.

How Do You Like Your Eggs

While Studly Doright played golf on Saturday morning I watched the 1936 film, “The Plainsman,” starring Gary Cooper as Wild Bill Hickok and Jean Arthur as Calamity Jane. The old movie wouldn’t be deemed politically correct nowadays with its portrayal of Native Americans as aggressive savages and women as nothing more than flies in the ointment of men’s lives, but it wasn’t without humor.

In one scene Gary Cooper asked another cowboy how he liked his eggs. “Well,” said the man. “I like them just fine.”

I couldn’t help but giggle. Studly walked in about that time and asked me what was so funny. He’s an aficionado of good one liners, so he got a chuckle out of the egg quip, as well. I then recalled the first time anyone asked me how I liked my eggs.

I’d gone with my grandparents to Houston to see their oldest son, my Uncle Jack. I might’ve been five, and I adored Uncle Jack. He lovingly called me a little jackass–which I, in turn, took to calling others, much to my parents chagrin.

On one morning of this trip Uncle Jack treated us to breakfast at an International House of Pancakes. I’d never been to one before, and it was the most wonderful place I’d ever seen. The variety of pancakes on the menu was staggering. I took my time choosing just the right item. As I recall I ordered a combo that featured a pancake festooned with strawberries and whipped cream, along with bacon and eggs.

When the waitress took my order she asked, “How do you like your eggs.”

In my sweetest five year old voice I responded, “Cooked, please.”

Everyone, my uncle, my grandparents, even the waitress, laughed. My Nanny quickly told the waitress that I liked my eggs over easy, but I was mortified. I didn’t order eggs any way other than scrambled for many years after. I was a sensitive kid, you know.

Now, many years later I can marvel at how naive I was. How do I like my eggs? Well, I like them just fine.

Peace, people!

Meritocracy

I love what eurobrat.wordpress.com did with this piece.

eurobrat

It should really be called the Department of Desperate Losers, he thought.  Losers because they were not from America, and Desperate because they so badly wanted to get here.

He rubbed his hands together.  He loved this part.  It was the beginning of a fun new game.

In front of him sat a stack of computer file printouts, personally selected for him.

He grabbed the first one and started reading through it.  Her name was Maya.  She was a 15 year old girl from Syria.  She liked mathematics and soccer.  He looked at the file in shock.  Who could have possibly picked this one?  After a moment, he finally noticed the Post-It note on the cover sheet.  “Just kidding,” it read.  He made a mental note to find out who was responsible for this joke.

The next one was better.  She was Vietnamese, and she was past the legal age…

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Who’s That Girl?

Studly Doright and I watch a good many movies. New movies, old movies, funny movies, action movies, we like them all. Well, Studly doesn’t care for horror flicks, but everything else is fair game.

Studly is extremely gifted in the art of identifying actors in different roles. We will be watching a movie and he’ll lean over and whisper, “That’s Idris Elba,” and I’ll say, “No way.” He’ll insist and I’ll refute until I break down and google the answer. Sure enough, that’s Idris.

When I watch a movie I become so immersed in the story that the actor ceases to be an actor and morphs into the character he or she is portraying. But every now and then I’m the one who spots the actor, and when I do I celebrate with cries of jubilation. Last night was one of those nights.

We were watching an older movie on television and a fresh young actress seemed vaguely familiar. I turned to Studly and said, “That’s Mary Steenburgen!”

“No way!” He said.

“Is too!” I claimed. Quickly I googled the film and gave a triumphant shout. My victory was short lived though when he realized the male actor was Jack Nicholson and I argued with him. And of course, it was Jack.

I guess I’ll never be ahead for very long. Oh well, he doesn’t look nearly as good in a dress as I do.

If I had a Day Job, I Wouldn’t Quit It

Several weeks ago I shared with my readers my obsessive interest in the mobile app game Design Home. I’m totally hooked on this game in which participants design rooms for fictional homeowners.

Usually there are specific requirements for a design, such as “style a modern living room and include two wooden items and one orange item,” or “create a rustic dining room and include three leather items and the carcass of a dead cow.” I might have embellished that last one a bit.

Players scroll through a variety of furnishings to fulfill the requirements and then try to create an arrangement that is pleasing to the eye. During the day several such challenges pop up, and they truly are like puzzles. I live for these challenges.

When one isn’t engaged in designing a room, one can vote on the designs of other players. Now, this is an amusing activity. I always come away from voting feeling rather smug. Surely mine will score above most of the ones that come across my feed.

Here are a couple of examples of rooms other players have designed. Please note, none of these are my designs. I have no idea as of now how they’ll be scored in the end. Players are voting on them even as I type. Honestly I think my entries are way better, but I’ve been wrong before.

When ratings for a design are announced I hold my breath, cross my eyes, and mutter a prayer for a good score. A perfect score is a 5.00. I’ve scored three or four of those, including this design:

Ideally one hopes to score a 4.00 or above because a new furnishing is added to one’s inventory when that score is reached. But score below a 4.00, and woe is me! I scored a 3.93 on a design recently and shook my fist at the sky, crying, “The public doesn’t deserve my art!”

Studly Doright made me a cup of hot tea and led me back to my chair. I’m only sort of kidding.

And sometimes even a 4+ score makes me sad. I loved this design. Now tell me, isn’t this a perfect 5?

Okay, I’ve chatted long enough. Time to get back to my latest design in which I’m supposed to furnish a loft in Manhattan with a mix of contemporary and antique designs in tones of pea green and fuschia. Again, I’m only partly kidding.

Peace, people!

My Digits

My toenails had been neglected for quite some time. My fingernails for even longer. So today I went for a mani/pedi at a salon in Tallahassee.

I picked out the blue all by myself. For some reason I needed you all to know that. For my fingernails I wanted a nice clear coat. No color.

Yet the manicurist talked me into a light pink.

So now I resemble an Easter egg. Oh, and my manicure lasted all of thirty minutes. I scuffed the polish on my right thumb while picking up a carton of milk at Whole Foods.

I swear, I have the grace of a drunk bull moose tromping through a field of daisies. And that’s on a good day.

Peace, people.

I’m Never Wrong, Unless I’m Wrong

Yesterday I posted in regard to my angst about this being the final season for the HBO series, Game of Thrones. On my Facebook feed I was soon chastised, politely, for my error. Indeed, this is not the final season. There will be one more after this.

On one hand I’m aggrieved that I made such an egregious error on an easily verifiable issue. I mean, it’s not like I was speculating on the exact date the world will end or the moment the polar ice caps will crumble into the sea. But on the other hand I’m so genuinely glad that I won’t have to contemplate living in a world without Game of Thrones once this season has come to an end.

And the way things are going, with North Korea threatening nuclear war on the international stage and white supremacists threatening on the domestic front, we might not make it to next year anyway. Now there’s a cheerful thought.

Maybe this little poem will ease our troubled minds:

Will Jon Snow find a Walker

And bring him home to Cersei fair?

Will Arya kill Littlefinger

By luring him into her lair?

Is Cersei carrying Jamie’s child?

Only time will tell.

Has Samwell made a prudent choice

In leaving the Citadel?

Has Sansa succumbed to power?

Has it gone straight to her head?

Will Daenerys lead her dragons

In a fight against the dead?

We won’t know at season’s end

There’ll be more shows to come

But I’ll be sitting front and center

Watching every one.

Peace, people!

Game of Thrones Guesswork

Who else out there is watching the final season of Game of Thrones? Studly Doright and I have some major bets surrounding the outcomes of this series.

Who will rule from the Iron Throne?

Will someone finally do away with Littlefinger?

How many dragons will be lost?

Will Theon Greyjoy develop a spine?

Will Jon Snow realize who his parents are before becoming too attached to Daenerys?

Who gets to kill Cersei Lannister?

Will the living outwit the dead?

Will Tyrion find happiness?

How will I manage to go on once the series ends?

What other questions should we be pondering?

It’s Them, Not Me

Exactly so. Read more at redswrap.com.

Red's Wrap

Don’t expect me to explain them or defend them or excuse them or represent them. Those people in Virginia, the ones with the torches and the hatred, they aren’t my people.

You might assume they’re my people because I look like them. I could be the mother of any one or dozens of those young white men holding torches and screaming at people. But I’m not, they aren’t my people.

I don’t get what they are saying, I don’t understand it, condone it, or tolerate it. No one I know, no one I grew up with, would hold a torch and walk through a city’s streets yelling invective at other people. Hear me, they aren’t my people.

Don’t ‘dear white people’ me.  Your words are lost on me. I haven’t been unconscious, unaware, disbelieving. Maybe you are thinking of someone else you met once in the hallway of a cheap…

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Surrendering to Love

Surrendering to Love
By Leslie Noyes

Hate is thick out there
Marching through the city streets
Tearing us apart

Love is present, too
Quieter, yet pervasive
Calling for action

Now we have the choice
To which do we surrender?
I'll always choose love