Wasting Beer

Four things one should never waste:

1. Time

2. Wine

3. Beer

4. The love of a good man.

Last night I dropped a bottle of beer on the cool green tile of my kitchen floor. Shards of glass flew everywhere. Beer went everywhere. I stood rigidly in place thankful that I was wearing flip flops instead of being barefooted. 

Slowly I backed out of the mess and began prioritizing cleanup tasks. Of course, that’s when Studly Doright, fresh from his shower, came strolling barefoot down the hallway adjacent to the kitchen. 

“Halt!” I barked. 

I kid you not, his first words were, “What have you done now?”

Together we cleaned up beer and glass. The entire time Studly reminded (nagged) me about how much he detests glass anything in our predominantly tiled home. But, no one suffered a cut or slipped on the wet floor. I retrieved a fresh beer from the fridge and we had a gourmet meal of hot dogs and sauerkraut. Because that’s how we roll at Doright Manor.

Peace, people!

Broken glass photography from ggalleryslo.blogspot.com

Making the Cut

I’m suffering from a bad hair week. My stylist and I couldn’t get our respective schedules to work out, so I’m at least seven days overdue for cut and color. It’s not a pretty situation. And it gets worse. She can’t get me in until the 14th of October. By that time I’ll look like Jeff Daniels’ character in Dumb and Dumber:

  
There’s not a lot I can do about my situation. My hair is too short to pull back in a ponytail, and it’s too long to style as usual. I look awful in hats. What’s a girl to do? 
Oh! I know! I’ll find photos of other people experiencing bad hair situations and post them here. 

I might know this chick.

  

Hair my cry!
  
Dude! Pink is NOT your color!

  

The dreaded double mustache.

 
Layered look redefined.

 
 
Just no!
   
I feel better already!

Peace, people!
 

The Kindness of Strangers

I’ve chronicled my struggle with loneliness in the past, as well as my futile attempts to make friends in the Tallahassee area. It’s not that the people here aren’t welcoming. They are very much so. It’s been more a matter of circumstances and scheduling. 
In my quest to stay busy and to keep myself out there I’ve become quite fond of our local Sephora store at Governor’s Square Mall. The young people who work there are so accommodating and friendly. Yes, they want to sell me beauty products, but they go about it so nicely.
Take Eddie, for example. The young man knows his stuff. This afternoon he treated me to a facial and even suggested a lower cost way to achieve the same results as the $66.00 product he used to make my skin glow. End result–I spent money on another product and left knowing I’d return soon for more goodies.

Never underestimate the power of kindness. Or good customer service.

  
Peace, people!

A Rose by any Other Name

Fifty-nine years ago today I was born, and my mom named me Leslie D’Aun. She took my middle name from a friend’s daughter whose first name was D’Aun, but she needed a first name to go along with it. Apparently she didn’t want my name to be identical to that of her friend’s child–even though I never met the kid and I doubt it would have been a big deal.

My grandmother, Nannie Grace, discovered the name Leslie in a novel she was reading at the time. I guess that’s fitting since I’d rather read than anything, so little Leslie D’Aun came to be.

A couple of friends through the years have used my middle name for their own kids–more because they liked the name than that they were naming their child after me. I also have a granddaughter named McKayla D’Aun, but until last week I didn’t know anyone who’d specifically chosen the name Leslie because of me.

My incredibly competent and sweet housekeeper, Rosa, told me on Friday that her sister, who helps her clean from time to time, had given birth to a beautiful baby girl and named her Leslie Marisol. 

Rosa said, “My sister thinks you are so good and nice, so she named her daughter Leslie so maybe she will be like you.”

I might’ve cried. Ok, I cried.

might need to check this website….
 
Peace, people!

Mini Moo

  
These aren’t calves. They are miniature cows. I’m not sure whether they’re adorably cute or incredibly creepy.

I once had a dream that miniature freshwater dolphins were available for purchase. We had a pool at the time, so in my dream I swam daily with my adorable pet dolphin who I’d named Belle. When I awakened I was devastated that I didn’t have a dolphin of my own. 

I know there are miniature Schnauzers, miniature horses, and now, miniature cows. So, can miniature dolphins be that far-fetched? I want one.

 

Mini Yorki

 
Mini Schnauzer

 
Mini horse
 
Mini Me
    
Peace, people!

Write Drunk

Ernest Hemingway is supposed to have uttered the phrase, 

  
I’ve been doing some research on the efficacy of Papa Hemingway’s wisdom. Well, to be honest I’ve just been following his advice. Research is time-consuming, and I’d much rather get right down to business.

So far I tend to agree with him, but then it’s difficult to think straight while inebriated. It’s a good thing I’m a cheap drunk. This experiment might become costly otherwise.

Now, normally I’d wait until sober to edit, but here’s where the research comes in. I’m going to publish this without a second reading. Pffffft! That was drunk me sticking my tongue out at my future sober me.

  
My apologies to Ernest. 

Peace, purple. 😉

What Keeps Us Going?

  

Caveat: This is a narcissistic post from a narcissistic person (me). Read at your own risk.

My life lately has felt like a bad roller coaster. No highs, just a series of gut clenching drops. It’s as if someone out there is wondering just how low I can fall.
I won’t go into details, those would be boring, but I’ve accepted the idea that many of the lows can be attributed directly to my own behaviors. Sometimes I’m not a very nice person. 

There is a big hole in my character. I’m needy and self-centered, and I crave reassurance. When I’m happy, the whole world could be going down the toilet, and it just wouldn’t matter. When I’m not happy, ain’t nobody gonna be happy. (Forgive the grammar; I was making a point.)

  
What makes me happiest is having an event or activity I can look forward to–say, going to see my kids who live many miles away, or planning a trip to Guatemala, or to an impending class reunion. But we all know those kinds of things can’t happen on a regular basis. 

So how do I keep going and stay happy, on a day to day basis? This blog is one way. I love the feedback and the “likes” and the clicks. They satisfy my need for attention.

Phone calls with my favorite people are another boost to my attitude. FaceTiming with a grandchild can lift my spirits for days. Oddly enough I seldom initiate those calls for fear they’ll be busy and I’ll be intruding.

My relationship with my mother-in-law, Saint Helen, makes me happy, and news that she might be coming for a visit soon has done wonders for my frame of mind. Yay!

I’m not sure what my original point was in writing this except that I began wondering what keeps others going when they sink, or if they sink, into the pit of self-pity. How do you pull yourself up and ignore the greedy little needs that keep you from being happy and productive? 

I’m curious. 

  
Peace, people!

Sort of a Review of John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War Series

If you’ve followed my blog for any time you know that I’m a terrible reviewer. I either like something and continue to read/watch it, or I dislike it and close the cover/leave the theatre. I don’t offer my opinion on the bad ones; they’ve already taken enough of my time and energy.

John Scalzi is my new favorite author, and definitely worth my time. His novel, Old Man’s War, was brought to my attention by the good folks at Amazon during my never-ending search for something new to read. It is science fiction as its best–witty, thought-provoking, smart, and a tad irreverent.

  
John Perry, the main character of the first novel in the six-book series, has left Earth in his late 70’s as a recruit to the Colonial Defense Forces. The CDF’s mission is to “bear arms and to use them against the enemies of the Colonial Union, which might include other human forces.” 

The Colonial Union oversees the settlement of human colonies on other planets. Earth supplies all of the CDF recruits, but its various governments remain separate, intact, and ungoverned by the CU. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship; although, one that becomes increasingly more fragile as the story progresses.

Each book in the series might have one or more than one different perspective. At the beginning of each I’d think, “Crap! I want to hear this from John’s point of view or from Zöe’s perspective!” But within a few pages I’d be completely engrossed in the new tale and its protagonist. 

The best recommendation I can give is that I have suffered from severe book withdrawal since completing the sixth book in the series. How can the world continue when I’m so bereft?

Book two in the series

Peace, people!

Trapped!

I am not a stay at home anything, and when I’m forced to remain at home I begin to feel claustrophobic regardless of the size of my current abode.

Today I am confined to Doright Manor as I wait for various contractors to show up to perform their respective duties. Our covered porch project has been clipping along at a nice pace with little assistance from me until this beautiful fall day. I should be out walking, shopping, dining, etc., and here I sit watching Dr. Oz in hopes that at least someone will show up today to justify my confinement.

There was a knock on my door an hour ago. I’d fallen asleep in front of the television and it took me a couple of minutes to get my bearings and to wipe the drool from my cheek. Expecting the electrician I motioned the man through my front door where he smiled and asked if I’d accepted Jesus as my personal savior. 

I nodded and in turn asked him if he’d accepted electricity as a profession. He shook his head no and I pretty much pushed him out the door. Back to waiting.

 

Maybe I should look for obvious clues.
 
Peace, people!

Dream Weaver

Last night I dreamt that I rescued two dogs from an abusive situation. One was a large, light brown mutt who was severely malnourished. The other was a cute little chihuahua who seemed bouncy and healthy.

I took them home and then multiple crises arose: my kids needed help, my job was nuts, there were aliens landing on the front lawn, etc. I forgot about the large dog and found him dead in the backyard. I cried and cried because I knew I was solely responsible for his death.

The little dog was still okay, though. Apparently I’d fed him, and he was still sweet and cute. But having killed the large dog I couldn’t give my heart to the small one. It felt like a huge betrayal, so I gave it away to a family who seemed like they’d cherish it.

I think I know what this dream was trying to tell me. I’m going to change my priorities starting now. 

Thanks for letting me share this. 

Take care, and peace, people.