Apple Watch Workout

I’m not a fitness nut. For a brief time in my life I was, but stuff happened and I reverted back to just being a nut.

At the wonderful age of 64 I have few aches and pains. Both of my knees still work and if it weren’t for a frozen shoulder and some digestive issues I’d feel almost as good as I did at 16. I’m quite a bit fuller figured than I was then, but I’m okay with that. (Hoping I didn’t just jinx myself with all this talk of feeling good.)

Yesterday morning my Apple Watch challenged me to a 20-minute dance workout. I like to dance. No, I LOVE to dance. My morning routine usually includes dancing to at least one of the songs on my Amazon Echo playlist. Three to six minutes of cardio after which I shower and then sit down for a writing session. That sequel isn’t going to write itself, you know. Could I attempt a 20 minute dance-a-thon? Challenge accepted.

And I made it! Granted, every now and then my dancing looked more like me standing in place and snapping my fingers to the beat than actual dancing, but I kept at it—even going a few minutes over time because I couldn’t figure out how to stop the workout timer on the watch.

So now I’m laying in bed trying to decide if I’ll go for it again. Another 20 minutes of sleep or 20 minutes of dance. It’s a tough decision. Yes, it is.

Peace, people.

An Old Joke

Many, many years ago I participated in a youth conference at a small Baptist college in Plainview, Texas. The day’s events opened with a large group session at which several speakers welcomed us and offered their own particular brands of wisdom. They were all good, but the only one I really remember was a young man who told a hilarious story about misunderstandings. To this day I think it might be the funniest tale I’ve ever heard. Enjoy.

One day an English Lady was looking for a room in Switzerland. She asked the local schoolmaster if he could recommend anything she might like. She finally decided on a quaint little apartment and returned to the Hotel at which she had been staying. When she got back she suddenly remembered she had not seen a Water Closet (commonly known in America as a bathroom). She immediately wrote back to the schoolmaster asking him if the apartment had a W.C. The schoolmaster upon receiving the letter did not understand the meaning of the abbreviation, W.C. He took it to the local priest to see if he knew the meaning, and they finally decided it must stand for Wayside Chapel. This is how the schoolmaster answered the letter.

Dear Madam: 

I am happy to inform you that we do have a W.C. It is located nine miles from the house in a beautiful garden surrounded by a grove of pine trees. It seats 300 people, and is open Monday, Wednesdays and Sundays, which is not real handy if you are in the habit of going regularly. 

My dearest ladyship, I suggest you go on Wednesdays for there is an organ accompaniment and even the most delicate sound is audible. The W.C. is very busy during the summer months, so I suggest you go early and get a seat even though there is plenty of standing room. Some families come with packed lunches and make a day of it. 

I am proud to say my daughter was married in the W.C. It was there she met her husband for the first time. I remember the rush for seats that day. There were ten people in the seat I usually occupy, and it was very uncomfortable. We have been planning a bazaar, and the proceeds are to go toward the purchase of plush seats, even though they are not needed. We recently had a bell erected on our W.C. which rings every time someone enters. My wife is a very delicate woman and cannot get to the W. C. very often. It has been six months since she last went, and it hurts her very much to go.

Well, I must say good-bye for now, and if you are still interested, I shall be happy to save you a seat next to mine. Sincerely,
The Schoolmaster

Oh mercy. It still cracks me up.

Nancy Drew Rides Again

My sequel to my debut novel, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, is coming along nicely. I’m about 65,000 words in and the penultimate scene is staring me right in the face. I went to bed last night feeling pretty good about my efforts. Then around two a.m. I woke up thinking, It all feels a little Nancy Drewish at best or a grown up version of The Little Rascals at worst.

Somehow I managed to go back to sleep hoping my subconscious mind could find a solution. When Studly kissed me before he left for work around 5:30 I told him my early morning thoughts.

“Easy fix,” he said. “More cleavage. Cleavage in every scene.”

I laughed and laughed.

Later, at my typewriter: Paula leaned over the counter, treating Mark to a view of her well-defined cleavage. In his mind’s eye he replayed all the cleavage he’d ever been privileged to see. “In all my years I’ve never encountered cleavage as perfect as yours, Paula.”

Bolstered by his compliment, Paula exposed even more of her bosom. “Thank you. I do special cleavage-enhancing exercises.”

Mark smiled. “I apologize for ever confusing you with Nancy Drew. Her cleavage is nothing compared to yours.”

Paula winked. “I know. I sabotaged her efforts to have nice cleavage in the book, Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Missing Cleavage.

Of course I promptly deleted all that.

Today I shall attempt to fix my work in progress with little to no mention of cleavage.

Peace, people!

Selfie Fail

Yesterday morning while still in bed I attempted a selfie to test out a different setting on my iPhone. Now, I darn near blinded myself with the flash. I was still seeing the afterbursts an hour post-photo. But the worst part was the horrifying image captured by the camera.

I won’t share it here, but let’s just say Jabba the Hutt might have a fraternal twin.

Note to self: Camera angle is everything.

Peace, people.

Estate Sale Art

In Tallahassee estate sales are often nothing more than glorified yard sales. I never get my hopes up that I’ll find something that will make my heart smile. But occasionally I come away with a perfect purchase.

Saturday morning I followed my GPS directions to a home in an older part of Tallahassee. Parking was interesting. The street adjacent to the house was narrow and curvy and the home sat atop a hill with a driveway right out of the Alps. One had to walk up the hill to access the home, and I felt like yodeling when I crested the rise. The reward for that climb was a nondescript home surrounded by overgrown shrubbery.

I considered just walking back down the steep incline and going to brunch, but my heart was still thumping from the walk up to the house, so I decided to go inside and just meander around until I could catch my breath.

So glad I did. If ever there was a truth behind “don’t judge a book by its cover” this was it. My only problem was not having enough money to buy every piece of art in the home.

Two professionally framed prints by artist Ted DeGrazia came home with me.

“Roadrunner”
“Free as the Wind”

They look beautiful in my Texas-themed bedroom, replacing a goofy painting of a sunflower that I did years ago. I’m a lousy artist, so the sunflower will likely go to Goodwill or into a dumpster. I’m not sure Goodwill will accept it.

Peace, people!

To Beach or Not to Beach

It’s early Sunday morning on what promises to be a beautiful day in the Florida panhandle. Studly is on his way to the golf course, and I’m considering a trip to St. George Island. I just can’t make up my mind.

Pros: Sun, sand, waves, pelicans, beautiful views

Cons: Driving distance (about an hour and 45 minutes each way), potential for sunburn (going solo, there’s no one to apply suntan lotion to my delicate, lily-white skin)

I’ll ruminate in the shower and then flip a coin until I get the answer I want. Don’t laugh; it’s a tried and true method.

Peace, people!

Just Wandering in the Garden

I’m no gardener. I have managed to keep four small succulents alive for two years so I might have a green pinkie, but my thumb is more of a dark purple color.

There is a place I go in Tallahassee, though, where I can pretend I’m a gardening gal. I wander about, pulling a flat cart for my purchases even though I know if I buy anything at all it’ll be an item from the gift shop or maybe just another cactus.

The place is Tallahassee Nursery, and all of my gardening dreams come alive there. I have a fantasy in which I get myself locked in at night. I’d have a picnic and a bottle of wine in front of the gift shop cottage and then roam the grounds until midnight when I’d tuck myself into a hammock and drift away beneath the stars. It’s a lovely fantasy.

Alas, I didn’t manage to get locked in, but I took photos of the place so I can daydream from home.

“This patch of sunlight is all MINE! Find your own!”
T-Rex not only practices social distancing (not by choice, but he IS a vicious carnivore after all), but also wears a mask. Who’s a good boy?
Just look at Ms. Flamingo’s flip flops!
Don’t be koi…
Hi, Biscus!

I adore this place even if they won’t let me spend the night.

Peace, people.

Okay, I Panicked

Since publishing my book through Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing, I check the book’s status on the Amazon site at least twice a day. Mostly I want to see if there are any new reviews, but I also still get a thrill from seeing a book with my name on it for sale on the website. It’s a rush,

This afternoon, though, when I checked on Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort it was gone from the Amazon website, and no matter how I searched for it, I couldn’t find it. I had a panic attack. What had happened? Was I banned? If so, why?

But then I noticed that none of the books written by a Leslie Noyes was showing up in a search. My friend Leslie Morris Noyes’s outstanding book, Willing, was missing as was the book, Back to Pakistan, a Fifty Year Journey by Leslie Noyes Mass. In my paranoid state I concluded that SOMEONE had a vendetta against people named Leslie Noyes.

I shook my fist at the heavens. Then I contacted Leslie Morris Noyes who in turn contacted Amazon. I’d have done that myself, but couldn’t find the number. At any rate, by the time Amazon returned her call the books had been restored to the site. Whew.

And who knows why the books went missing in the first place? Maybe it was a glitch, or maybe a sign from the universe that I need to finish my second book. Or maybe, just maybe, someone does have it in for Leslie Noyeses… We may never know.

Peace, people.

Have not read this, but it looks interesting, and I love the author’s name. Has a nice ring to it.
You really need to read this. Super smart and sexy.
My baby.

As the Worm Turns

Last evening Studly Doright, my husband of 44.5 years, found a YouTube video about extraordinarily large animals. The video seemed dated—like something one might’ve watched on an old projector on a snow day in elementary school, but I couldn’t persuade Studly to find another program.

There were some interesting segments in the video. For example, a Great Dane named Zeus who, when standing on his hind legs, measured 7 feet, 4 inches tall.

Zeus died in 2014 at the age of five. 😢

And a longhorn named Poncho Vila (their spelling, not mine), who boasted the widest horn spread of any living steer.

But those animals didn’t haunt my dreams. These did:

That’s a worm!

South African earthworms can grow up to 22 feet long, with an average length of six feet. I woke up in a cold sweat this morning with the words, “The worm has turned” lingering in my mind. Eww!

Of course that made me curious about the origin of the phrase. I turned to Wikipedia for an answer— “Even a worm will turn” is an expression used to convey the message that even the meekest or most docile of creatures will retaliate or seek revenge if pushed too far. The phrase was first recorded in a 1546 collection of proverbs by John Heywood, in the form “Treade a worme on the tayle, and it must turne agayne.” Wikipedia

Well that was reassuring. Note to self: Treade not upon a worme’s tayle.

Tonight before bedtime I’m going to suggest a nice documentary about how bread is made or scenes depicting paint drying on a garden wall. Just no more giant worms, please.

Peace, people!