Art or Nart

I had tons of time to come up with a blog post yesterday, but zero ideas. While I was watching Ellen Degeneres’s new show “Game of Games” I played with the doodle option on my iPhone instead of preparing something for this venue. So this is all you’re getting this morning.

I call this, “Art or Nart”

Playing Hole #5 on a Blustery Winter Day in Florida:

The Emperor Reimagined:

Beach Day:

Hello from the Other Side, Kandinsky:

I’m hanging on to these pieces of art. If I become famous one day perhaps they’ll be worth a fortune. Or nart.

Peace, people.

You May Say I’m a Dreamer

You may say I’m a dreamer, and in my household I am the only one. Where my dreams are typically vividly technicolored, Studly Doright’s are seemingly non-existent. So when I got this text first thing Monday morning, I was intrigued:

(Ignore the odd punctuation. If I’d known this was going to be blog fodder (blodder?) I’d have taken more pains with my text.)

According to Studly, he never dreams. Of course I’ve informed him that we all dream every night, but not everyone remembers their dreams. Stubbornly he persists in claiming that he is the exception.

All day I waited for him to come home, so I could hear the details. Part of me hoped he’d dreamed winning lottery numbers. Had that been the case, I’d have bought a dozen tickets immediately. Another part of me was concerned he’d dreamed about his soul mate–and it wasn’t me! As promised in the text I made potato soup for dinner, always with one part of my brain on Studly’s dream. Do I need a life? Most likely.

The second he walked in the door I asked the million dollar question. “What was the dream?”

“Mmmm, that soup smells good!”

“Damn it, you don’t get soup until you spill the dream beans.”

He said, “It was weird. The whole time I was dreaming I kept thinking it was the kind of dream you’d have.

“There was this creature, maybe an alien, maybe an animal, and a little boy. Somehow they communicated, and if there was any danger the creature would surround the boy with a protective cloaking shield.”

I managed to nod encouragingly, all hopes of a winning lottery number dashed.

“And this kid had family members he could pull inside the shield.”

“So, what happened?”

“Nothing! I couldn’t get past the shield part. The dream never moved forward. It was frustrating.”

As we ate our potato soup and cornbread I tried my amateur dream interpretation skills on him:

1) Studly is the little boy who feels like he needs protection for himself and his loved ones.

2) Or he is the outsider providing protection for others.

3) Or he had an upset stomach and as a result a weird dream.

4) Or he was hoping for potato soup for dinner.

At least he didn’t dream about his soul mate. Unless, of course, the alien filled that role.

Peace, people!

Look What I Made!

I met with members of the Tallahassee Women’s Social Meetup group Sunday afternoon to work on our hats for cancer patients. I’d begun working on the hat pictured above shortly after meeting with this group before Christmas and was anxious to find out if I’d remembered the instructions correctly. To my immense surprise, I had!

I’d taken the hat to a point at which I needed further instructions, and was pleased to learn I would be able to complete it this afternoon. The only thing I’d gotten wrong was the type of yarn to use. Apparently there’s a specific yarn recommended for cancer patients and mine is a bit on the scratchy side. Next time I need to purchase this brand:

One of the ladies knitted a hat for a preemie this afternoon. It’s so adorably tiny!

I had to try on my completed project:

Okay, I’m not a super model. I’m pretty proud of my hat.

Peace, people!

What Have We Stepped In?

Excellent piece by alotfromlydia.wordpress.com.

A lot from Lydia

I feel like I have been working hard for years, saving my spare pennies for a long time, and I finally decided to treat myself to that pair shoes I’ve always wanted, quality shoes, classy and smart. In these shoes I stand taller and walk with a spring in my step. It’s like a dream, and I am walking on a cloud.

Then I step in something.

My shoes are ruined. I shrivel into my former self. It’s like I’m looking in the mirror on the morning after a long hard night of partying, at a party I did not want to attend.

I’m metaphorically hung over. The shoes in this story are America, and the “party” is Donald Trump.

We spent years getting to the point we were at when this party started. We looked our best. We were informed, progressive, open minded. Equality for women and minorities was…

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A Post About Something I Didn’t Get to Do

One of the MeetUp groups I’ve become involved with had planned to visit a local Tallahassee historical site, the Lichgate House on High Street on Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately a private event was being held at the venue, so we ended up meeting for lunch at Newk’s, a local eatery.

I’d never heard of Lichgate, but it’s a site I’m eager to visit now. This is a place I’ve driven by dozens of times without realizing what lay behind the foliage. There’s only a small sign marking the site.

The story of Lichgate House is compelling:

http://www.lichgateonhighroad.org/

I hadn’t checked my email before going to the site, so I got a glimpse of the grounds from the parking area where I learned we wouldn’t be able to enter, but would instead go straight to lunch. We’ve had a cold front move into the area, so maybe the cancellation was for the best, and we can visit on a warmer day.

Pinterest had some photos from Lichgate:

I can’t wait to see this for myself.

Peace, people.

Morning Hug

So, I cried.

Red's Wrap

It is four in the morning. I check my phone and turn off the alarm just as it is about to ring. I have been awake for several minutes, looking out the window at the white stucco house across the street and waiting for it to be four and now it is. My husband is sleeping.

I go to the bathroom and while I am sitting on the toilet, I put on the clothes I laid out on the floor the night before. Underwear, socks, blue jeans, bra, black pullover, black hoodie. I stand up and zip up my pants, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I wet a brush and tame my hair. Then I look for earrings. I put in the small silver hoops with a tiny row of diamonds but then decide I shouldn’t be wearing diamonds to an emergency warming room for homeless people. It’s…

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Scraps from Their Pasts

For Christmas I put together scrapbooks of their early years for our two children. The idea wasn’t an original one. Studly Doright’s mom, Saint Helen, had given Studly and his four siblings scrapbooks several years ago as Christmas gifts and for him at least, it remains one of his all-time favorite gifts.

I’m not a very crafts minded person, but in preparation for assembling these scrapbooks I made multiple trips to Michael’s (for non-Americans, that’s THE place to go for creative types) in order to purchase the books and to find appropriate decorative touches for each page. I bought tons of stuff and ended up using only a fraction of it. Project ideas, anyone.

I’m so awful at this type of thing that I actually started all this at the beginning of 2016 and had planned on presenting them with their gifts at Christmas that year, but I got bogged down in the minutiae, and it took me almost two years to complete the task. I’m still not sure how my mother-in-law put together five such books without going crazy, because I’m fairly certain some of my sanity was lost in the process.

I’d looked forward to presenting the books to my kids in person when we were all in Nashville that Christmas, but since I was an entire year behind, and we weren’t getting to see them for the holidays this year, I had to put them in the mail.

Now, I’d worked my butt off cropping photos and arranging them with curlicues and doodads. I’d spent countless hours searching through old school pictures and awards. The thought of trusting these works of heart to the mail almost drove me crazy(er). So, before I boxed them up for shipping to Dallas, Texas, where our son lives and to Port Byron, Illinois, where our daughter resides, I documented each and every page with the help of my trusty iPhone camera.

I’ll spare you from viewing all of the pages (you’re welcome). While I wasn’t there when they opened the books they both assured me they’d enjoyed their trips down memory lane. I’m so glad I spent the time creating these, but even more glad that I had only two children.

Peace, people.

The Mission Trip

Great piece from eurobrat.wordpress.com. Sadly, I can see us heading in just this direction.

eurobrat

The Professor winced when he got out of his flight capsule.  He had to keep reminding himself of how crucial his assignment was, that every little bit counted.  No matter how hopeless it seemed.

“Remember, you’re doing sacred work, Henrik,” he muttered under his breath.

A rag-tag crowd of natives was already beginning to gather, gawking at his ship. A few of them cheered and applauded, but most just stared, stone-faced.

Naomi bounded out to meet him.  She looked energetic as ever, no matter how much human misery she witnessed on a daily basis.

“Thank you for agreeing to come here, sir,” she said after hugging him. “This is a rough area.”

“Rough areas are my job,”  he replied, his Swedish accent making the word “job” softer. Not all of his colleagues at World United agreed that the charity missions to Merka were worthwhile. He couldn’t blame them.  Visiting a…

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The Best of 2017

I have a confession to make. I’ve been blogging here on WordPress for several years now and didn’t realize I could go into my stats and identify my posts in order of the number of times they’d been viewed by year.

I kept wondering how fellow bloggers were posting their “best of” retrospectives with such confidence. Were they guessing? Had they kept daily notes? And y’all wonder why I haven’t yet had anything published–I’m overwhelmed by the details of such things.

At any rate once someone pointed me to the right tab I realized I, too, could post a best of 2017 article. Since we’re well into 2018, I’ll just do a list with links rather than reblogging the top five in separate posts. Of course, that’s if I can figure out how to do all that.

Without further ado, here are my top five posts in order:

#5 Not That Desperate

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/09/09/not-that-desperate/

#4 Shipping Label Humor

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/10/05/shipping-label-humor/

#3 When in Ireland

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/06/23/when-in-ireland/

#2 Vagina Wars: A New Hope

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/02/21/vagina-wars-a-new-hope/

#1 was my Home Page/Archives with almost 5,000 views this year. Not bad for a blogger who hasn’t figured out what the heck she’s doing here!

Above: irrelevant photo of Elsie Leslie Lyde, a mid-19th century actress. I figured she wouldn’t have figured out the stats tab thing either, plus I liked her name.

Swing into Spring

In my junior year of school at Floydada High, I took Distributive Education (DECA) classes. Even though I planned on attending college, I needed to earn some money, and these courses allowed me to work for a couple of hours each afternoon. In retrospect I wish I’d gone the purely academic route, but I didn’t have a great deal of career guidance coming my way. In the end it all worked out okay, I suppose.

DECA was interesting, though. We learned a variety of things about working in retail businesses, including how to display goods and market them to the consumer. Our teacher, Mr. S, was rather limited in his understanding of marketing strategies, but that didn’t keep him from trying. I remember one lesson in which we were to come up with an advertising slogan to promote a product.

The only slogan Mr. S could come up with as an example was “Swing into Spring!” Given that we lived in the Texas panhandle this sounded a great deal more like “Swang into Sprang,” and every time he said it I’d dissolve in a fit of giggles.

Mr. S was not amused. In fact, he threatened to send me to the office if I couldn’t stop laughing. Of course that made it worse, and I ended up trying to explain to the principal that I wasn’t being disrespectful to Mr. S. Apparently the principal wasn’t amused either, but rather than calling my parents to report my transgression he allowed me to stay in his office until it was time for me to report to my DECA related job, the better to compose myself before I found myself in the presence of Mr. S again. As punishments went, it was pretty sweet.

Ironically, just a few short days after my trip to the principal’s office I received a note to call my mom during DECA class. We didn’t have cell phones, kiddies. This was back in the dark ages. The only phone available to students was in the main office.

All the way there I imagined I could hear the other shoe dropping. Somehow, I figured Mom had learned of my previous transgression and was going to read me the riot act followed by a few weeks of grounding. I’d had a feeling I’d gotten off too lightly from the start.

Instead Mom had called to tell me that my dad had been offered a job in another town and that we’d be moving before school’s end. I was supposed to begin wrapping things up. Man, how I wished she’d been calling to ground me instead.

I returned to class sobbing. My friends gathered ’round to console me, but I could tell Mr. S was feeling pretty smug–he figured I’d gotten further punishment, as well. He looked a little less smug as my story unfolded, but was probably relieved that I’d be out of his hair.

The joke was on him, though. In the end my folks arranged for me to live with my maternal grandparents to finish out the school year in Floydada. I still wasn’t happy about leaving my friends and the only schools I’d ever attended in my last year, but it was a workable compromise. Plus, I met Studly Doright in the new town, so that was a positive.

And the next time I got the giggles over “Swang into Sprang” again, Mr. S let it go. I guess he figured I’d had punishment enough.