Thanks so much for assuming I wanted to hear those nasty ass lyrics booming from your stereo this morning. Who knew that hearing “F*ck you B*tch!” yelled repeatedly to the boom, boom, boom of an overly tuned bass would be such a great way to begin my day, especially after a night of too little sleep and a morning of too much caffeine.
I know it surprised you when I lowered my window and waved sweetly at you. Your jaw dropped as I mouthed, “Hey B*tch! How’d you know that’s my favorite f*cking song?”
Being a sarcastic middle-aged woman has its perks.
For the first time in my adult life I’m watching a debate in the company of people who have similar political views. I’m pretty vocal, so it’s gratifying to be around folks who are just as vocal, and perhaps more so, than I am.
Bernie Sanders seems to be a big favorite in this crowd, with Hillary Clinton a close second. Thunderous applause breaks out at their every word. I feel sorry for the remainder of the pack, for hardly any applause at all comes their way.
I have a strong sense of fairness, and it seems as though moderator Anderson Cooper hurries the other debaters along, barely noticing their contributions to the debate; although, to be fair, I’ve had several glasses of wine.
Who will emerge as the debate’s winner? I love Bernie, but I’ll confess, any of these guys would be preferable to anything the Republicans have to offer.
Did you know that Pope Francis has a website on which comedians can share jokes pertaining to religion? Go to jokewiththepope.org and see which of your favorite funny people has contributed a joke to benefit one of several charities.
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.
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’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.
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.”
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.
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.