The Name’s the Same

Not so long ago I posted a piece about the pronunciation of my name. It’s Leslie, pronounced with an s sound instead of a z. Occasionally people will use the z sound when pronouncing my name, but I don’t correct them. In the scheme of things, it’s not that big a deal. At least not in my world.

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2019/07/02/its-my-name-ill-pronounce-it-anyway-i-like/

But I was watching the Today Show this morning and they did a story about a 49-year-old woman who’d legally changed her name from, wait for it, Leslie to something she thought was more feminine because people kept pronouncing her name with the z sound.

I tried to find the link to the segment, but all sorts of Leslies popped up: Leslie Mann, Leslie Uggams, Leslie Nielsen, Leslie Bibb, Leslie West. Even my comedic hero, the fictional Leslie Knope.

I’m pretty happy to be in their company, regardless of how you pronounce our name.

Peace, people!

Writing is Hard

Stop laughing! Seriously. I’ve been working on a little novel for a long time now, but I’d run into a roadblock and I didn’t know whether to go over it, around it, tunnel under it, or trash it.

Yesterday morning while the technician was fumfering around with our sick air conditioning unit I had a nudge of inspiration and opened up the dormant manuscript on the computer. Since the story had been abandoned for such a long time I settled in and read it from the beginning. And I have to say I really like it. The characters feel like old friends and the part that once seemed like a major roadblock now feels more right.

You know how when you put on makeup in the morning and at first you aren’t crazy about the way it looks, but if you step away from the mirror for a few minutes and come back to your reflection you look great? No? Well, that happens to me all the time. And that’s exactly how I felt about the perceived roadblock. It now sounded appropriate.

When I got to the place where I’d left off in March I had to figure out how to nudge my characters forward. Now, this might come as a surprise to you, but my characters really like to talk. Several times I’ve had to call a halt to their conversations for the sake of action. I remind them that this isn’t Waiting for Godot. Lazy bums.

I think I’ve accomplished that now. Stuff is happening. People are moving. Jugglers are juggling. Seriously. Now I just need to tie all my loose ends together and complete this thing. For the first time I can actually see a finish line.

Okay, characters, break’s over. Quit talking and follow my lead. The checkered flag is in sight. Maybe I’ve got this. Maybe not. We’ll keep chugging along and hope for the best.

Peace, people.

Underneath it All

We’re having some air conditioning issues here at Doright Manor. I might write about them if any sanity remains after the technicians get through fixing the problem. Right now I’m too hot, sweaty, and annoyed to type more than a few sentences.

Yesterday when the repairman was here he took the thermostat off the wall, and I realized that at one time, Doright Manor had some really busy wallpaper.

I’m not a fan of wallpaper anyway, and this pattern made me shudder. Thank goodness they stripped the walls and painted them a nice boring white before we first looked at the house. Sure saved me a lot of unpleasant work.

Okay, that’s enough for now. Perspiration is blurring my sight.

Peace, people!

There’s a Message Here

Sunday morning Studly left to play golf around six. I kissed him goodbye, read a bit of my book and then dozed off. When my alarm awakened me at eight I was in the middle of a crazy, yet important dream.

In the dream I was at the Women’s Imaging Center in Tallahassee awaiting my turn to have my annual mammogram. I already had my gown on, and when my name was called I followed a nurse back to the procedure room. Only this year, the room was huge and filled with pink plastic picnic tables.

I asked what had happened to the standard room and was told, “This is the more humane method for conducting a mammogram. Take a seat at the first table and we’ll be with you momentarily.”

While I waited people came and went. A tour group of children with their teachers made a pass through the area. Several folks in medical scrubs walked by me, and I asked every one if they were there to perform my mammogram. They all looked at me like I was crazy.

Finally a man approached me and said I’d accidentally been sent to the wrong area. He pointed me to a shed at the far end of the picnic tables. Dutifully I trudged between the tables, trying in vain to hold my skimpy robe together.

When I arrived I discovered the shed was a store filled with feed for farm animals, with several such animals coming and going. There was a Holstein cow, and a chicken or two, and a Shetland pony inside the store. But in the back was a small room with the appropriate equipment and a nice technician to put my “girls” through their paces. Then the alarm woke me.

So, what’s the message here? Several years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer that was detected early thanks to a mammogram. This simple procedure very well could’ve saved my life. So do it. Even if picnic tables and cows are involved.

Peace, people!

Thank you

To the Starbucks barista who always knows my order before I finish saying, “grande,” thank you.

And to the young man who extended his hand through the open sun roof of his car to wave at me, thank you.

Thank you, husband, for calling when you’re running late so I won’t worry.

To my daughter, thanks for sending videos of my grandkids as they do ordinary things in extraordinary ways.

My son, thank you for finding ways to allow me to be useful these days.

Friends, near and far, for making me laugh, keeping me sane, and calling out my b.s., thanks so much.

Blogging community thank you for broadening my world!

Peace, people!

Coagulatin’ Again

“Protest Songs for 1000, Alex.”–me

“This 1965 tune included the following lyric:

“Yeah, my blood’s so mad, feels like coagulatin'”–Alex Trebek

“What is Eve of Destruction, Alex?”–me

“You just took the lead with that answer. Well done.”–Alex

I swear I’ve heard this song hundreds of times, but it just occurred to me that perhaps “Eve of Destruction” by Barry McGuire is the only song to ever use the word coagulatin’. I can’t be certain, but surely no other lyricist ever felt the need to rhyme coagulatin’ not only with contemplatin, but also with disintegratin’ and frustratin’.

It’s one of my favorite songs from that time period, and unfortunately more relevant than ever.

Don’t believe me?

https://youtu.be/I98KeKV_F9g

In case the link doesn’t work:

Eve of Destruction

The eastern world, it is explodin’,

Violence flarin’, bullets loadin’,

You’re old enough to kill but not for votin’,

You don’t believe in war, but what’s that gun you’re totin’,

And even the Jordan river has bodies floatin’,

But you tell me over and over and over again my friend,

Ah, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.

Don’t you understand, what I’m trying to say?

And can’t you feel the fears I’m feeling today?

If the button is pushed, there’s no running away,

There’ll be no one to save with the world in a grave,

Take a look around you, boy, it’s bound to scare you, boy,

And you tell me over and over and over again my friend,

Ah, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.

Yeah, my blood’s so mad, feels like coagulatin’,

I’m sittin’ here, just contemplatin’,

I can’t twist the truth, it knows no regulation,

Handful of Senators don’t pass legislation,

And marches alone can’t bring integration,

When human respect is disintegratin’,

This whole crazy world is just too frustratin’,

And you tell me over and over and over again my friend,

Ah, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.

Think of all the hate there is in Red China!

Then take a look around to Selma, Alabama!

Ah, you may leave here, for four days in space,

But when your return, it’s the same old place,

The poundin’ of the drums, the pride and disgrace,

You can bury your dead, but don’t leave a trace,

Hate your next door neighbor, but don’t forget to say grace,

And you tell me over and over and over and over again my friend,

You don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.

No, no, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.

Source: LyricFind

Peace, PLEASE, people!

You Know You’ve Matured When…

Sixty-two is a comfortable age. Most days I feel every year of it, but occasionally I believe I could still dance ’til all hours with no morning after consequences. Still other days I might as well be crocheting blankets in an assisted living facility. Such is life at 62.

Now maturity is a different matter altogether. Even though I’m nearing the 63 mark, I don’t often act or feel mature. I still enjoy roller coasters and haunted houses. I tell juvenile jokes and delight in Studly Doright’s goofy charm.

Yesterday, though, I realized that I might have turned a corner in the maturity game.

We had an issue with our satellite feed and had to call a service guy out to fix it. In retrospect, this man was extremely good looking: Tall with broad shoulders, high cheekbones, long dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, chiseled features. Kind of the whole physical package.

(Similar to the guy below, but fully clothed.)

But what did I notice during his visit? That he tracked in dirt with his size 12 boots. I was too busy cleaning up behind him to notice how hot he was until after he’d left. What the heck happened to me?

After the guy was gone I told Studly Doright how miffed I was that the service man had left dirt on my carpets. He gave me a hug and said, “That’s my girl.” I’m not sure how to take that.

Peace, people.