Bad Combination?

I’m sitting outside on this gorgeous north Florida fall morning watching over a friend’s garage sale. The friend, Bachelor Dave, is Studly Doright’s best golf buddy. He’s an all-around good guy, so I offered to take on the garage sale duty so he and Studly could pair up for 18 holes. Great idea!

Bachelor Dave has some pretty cool stuff in the sale: Artwork, lamps, golf clubs, flooring, easels and tripods. His cast offs are nicer than my every day stuff. So far, sales have been steady, and I’m having fun. 

I failed to mention that the garage sale is a community event in the Southwood development where Dave H. resides, so there are sales going on all up and down the streets in this normally laid back Tallahassee neighborhood. Some folks are out walking from sale to sale, but shoppers from outside the neighborhood are driving.

Now, I also failed to mention that another big event is taking place simultaneously in Southwood: A 5k run!

Talk about a bad combination. If you’ve ever witnessed drivers intent on finding a garage sale bargain you’ll understand the problem. Near misses, close calls, and extended middle fingers seem to be the order of the day. This could make Thunderdome seem like a polite tennis match. It’s certainly made for an interesting morning.


This beautiful guy visited the sale.
None of the runners would hold still for me to snap a photo, but this is representative .
Peace, people!

Making Friends

I might’ve found a friend today in the handbag department at Dillard’s. She moved to Tallahassee a year to the day before I did. If that’s not the basis for a good friendship I don’t know what is.


We bonded over this Frye bag. Good heavens the woman has good taste!
Peace, people.

That Awkward Moment

I don’t call into comment on talk radio programs. Or at least I don’t call in with the expectation of actually getting through to the host. But yesterday I was listening to Pete Dominic’s show, Stand Up with Pete Dominic on Sirius/XM 122 Insight and became horrified by what was being said by a guest on the show. 

He was defending Donald Trump’s false accusations about President Obama. I was furious. I pulled to the side of the road and dialed the number on my radio display, ready to come to the defense of my president, as if the Commander-in-Chief needs a retired teacher in Florida to protect his virtue.

Almost as soon as I hit “send” on my phone I realized that the show’s host was mocking the Donald and his supporters. It was a satirical show. Rather than hang up I waited until my call was answered a few seconds later and explained my mistake to the intern who took my call. 

She said, “I’m going to put you on with Pete. Hold on.”

Well, crap. What was I supposed to do now? Say, “oopsie” and be done with it? When Pete Dominic came on the line I explained my mistake. He laughed and asked if I’d ever listened to his show before. I admitted to being a first time listener, first time caller.

After poking a bit more fun at the Donald I went on my way and enjoyed the remainder of the program. 

Now, kiddies, what did we learn from this experience? If you want to be on a national radio program do not stop to listen to all the facts. No. Make a snap judgement and act on it. That’s what the Donald does. 

FYI, this is the exchange at a town hall meeting hosted by Trump’s campaign that prompted Trump’s comments, thus leading to the satire on Mr. Dominic’s program and my error:

Mr. Trump call on a man in the audience who said:

“We have a problem in this country. It’s called Muslims. We know our current president is one. We know he’s not even an American. Birth certificate, man!” the man said, alluding to the “birther” movement. “We have training camps growing where they want to kill us. That’s my question: When can we get rid of them?”

Rather than setting the man straight, Mr. Trump said that he would look into that.

Donald Trump has a really tough time speaking the truth. That he is the Republican front runner is disturbing. God help us if he lands the nomination for his party.

Peace, people.

College Mascots

Studly Doright and I have lived in five different states, and have adopted a “bloom where you’re planted” mentality.

When we moved from Texas to North Dakota we learned to enjoy knoefla soup and rivel. In Kansas we learned to pronounce Arkansas incorrectly, and in Florida we learned to value SPF 90. In Illinois we learned the value of a college mascot.

We’re Texans, Studly and I. Having grown up near Lubbock, I was convinced that Texas Tech was the best university in the nation and that Raider Red and the Masked Rider were the absolute best mascots anywhere. They’re still close to the top of my list.

Studly was more of a University of Texas guy, so I accepted Bevo, as well.

 When we moved to North Dakota I attended the University of Mary in Bismarck. So I had a new mascot in my life, the Marauder:

From North Dakota we moved to Kansas and fell hard for the University of Kansas Jayhawk mascot. Both of our kids attended KU and Big Jay is a dandy mascot. There’s even a Baby Jay:

After Kansas we ended up in Melbourne, Florida, but didn’t form an attachment to any of the Florida college teams during that four year period. But when we moved to Mahomet, IL, just outside of Champaign, we quickly adopted Chief Illiniwek, proud mascot of The University of Illinois.

Unfortunately, the Chief’s reign as the Illini mascot ended shortly after we moved to Illinois. I promise we had nothing to do with his demise. Eight years after the end of the Chief the U of I still has no mascot. That makes me sad. I understand that Native American groups found the portrayal of the chief disrespectful, but shouldn’t we have had an alternative in place? 

We currently live near Tallahassee, Florida, the home of two universities: Florida A&M and Florida State.

FAMU’s mascot is a rattlesnake.  

Not exactly a cuddly mascot, but I love it! 

Florida State has Chief Osceola and his faithful steed, Renegade.

I understand that the Seminole people have an agreement with Florida State University that allows FSU to use the likeness of one of the most famous Chiefs in history as their mascot. It’s sad that the University of Illinois couldn’t have worked out a similar agreement with the Illini.

At any rate, Studly and I are enjoying our new mascots. Soon I want to attend football games at both FAMU and FSU. I need to see what those mascots look like in action. 

Peace, people!

Update on Cooking for Studly, Dammit!

One of the key ingredients for cornbread dressing is, duh, cornbread. Instead of making my cornbread from scratch I bought a mix. It was a new brand and I read over the list of dry ingredients to make sure there was no sugar in the mix. Sweet cornbread does not make a good dressing base. Trust me on this. 

The cornbread baked up beautifully. And sweet. I must’ve missed the sugar listed on the box. Perhaps I was just weakened by the manual labor. Poor, poor me.

Thank goodness I tasted the cornbread before I began putting together all of the other ingredients. Of course now there’s no time to bake another batch of cornbread, but fortunately I had some Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix on hand. I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed and will appreciate it if yours are crossed, too. Unless you’re doing something important, like brain surgery.

Peace, people.

Singing in My Sleep

I’ve been sick for the past couple of days. It’s nothing life-threatening, just a nasty sinus infection that has messed with my equilibrium and given me horrendous headaches. My doctor prescribed an outrageously expensive and difficult to obtain antibiotic that I finally tracked down at a local CVS pharmacy. Truthfully it was available at a Walgreens, but even with the coupon my doctor’s office provided the cost was going to be $238, so I set out in search of a better price.

CVS did honor the manufacturer’s coupon, so I ended up paying only $35.00 for the antibiotic. There is a lesson to be learned here, but I’m sick and can’t formulate what that might be. Something to do with comparison shopping and challenging the status quo I think. This post was supposed to be about the strange dream I had this morning anyway (note the title). 

I’m going back to bed.

Peace, people.

Sold by Thug Life Shirts

Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team

Disclaimer: I have the natural grace of a boulder.

Binge watching the series Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team might lead to delusions of grandeur, or a case of severe depression. I didn’t intend to binge watch, but after one episode I had grown fond of a couple of the rookie wannabes. 

Before long I was standing in front of the television shaking my imaginary pompoms and tossing my hair to the music. I’m quite good when nobody’s watching.

Then I was sobbing uncontrollably when Melissa H. a small town girl from somewhere in Idaho, failed to make the team, and had to return to the Midwest, a victim of shattered dreams all because her kicks weren’t quite high enough.

Maybe it’s time to take my antidepressant.

Peace, people!


When I was diagnosed with having a slight case of cancer several years ago, my imagination ran wild. “What if” became my go to sentence starter: What if it’s worse than they think? What if it’s spread? What if I die? What if our insurance doesn’t cover everything?

In many ways the “what ifs” were worse and more debilitating than actually having cancer. 

After my lumpectomy when a beaming surgeon told me that everything looked great the “what ifs” took a big break. Now my imagination could be used for good and not for evil. That came in handy when I began the tedious process of radiation therapy.

Every weekday for six weeks I had to lay completely still for 15-20 minutes while a machine slowly rotated around my upper torso delivering carefully measured doses of radiation. My view was lackluster, featuring yellowing acoustic ceiling tiles and one small poster of a forlorn looking puppy with a sappy saying printed underneath.

During my first couple of radiation treatments I imagined I was sunbathing on a favorite beach in Florida. But without a book sunbathing is no fun, and soon that fantasy fell by the wayside. 

Then I concocted an elaborate scenario in which I was a captured American spy being interrogated by the KGB. Every day my captors brought me into the Chamber of Truth and did their best to extract critical information from me. Every day I was able to resist their interrogation techniques. I was that good.

Once I graduated from radiation therapy I almost missed my daily interrogation. Maybe I developed Stockholm Syndrome, but I never divulged state secrets.


Sweating the Small Stuff

In a perfect world we’d all be as chill as this cat. 

Instead, I seem to follow the scenario below:

Like my mother before me, if I don’t have something to worry about I get worried. I heard recently in an interview on NPR that humans developed the ability to worry as a survival skill. At least I think that’s what the expert said. If so, I’m well equipped to survive. Unless of course I’m not. I guess I should worry about that, as well.

Peace, people!

The Princess and the Socks

Remember the old story of the Princess and the Pea? The queen wanted to make sure her son’s new romantic interest was a true princess, so she secretly placed a tiny pea beneath a stack of mattresses to see if the girl could detect the pea’s presence. Of course, the girl got a terrible night’s sleep and was declared a true princess.
That’s me. I’m the princess, only in my case the irritant isn’t a pea, it’s the little poky part of the toe seam in socks. Even short walks in my athletic shoes rub blisters on my cute little toes unless I put preemptive bandages in strategic places.

You see, I’m a delicate little flower. No, really. Stop laughing. At 5’8″ tall and I’m not saying how many pounds, I hardly look the part, but it’s true.

I’ve spent many years and many dollars trying to find a sock with non-irritating seams. Finally, I think I might’ve succeeded in my quest. The brand is Balega, and the socks are made in South Africa. The key to their comfort is that the toe seam is hand linked instead of machine linked. Big difference! 

I’m not saying this is the only sock with this feature, but it’s the only one I’ve come across in a light weight running/walking sock. SmartWool, I believe, has the same feature, but even their lightweight socks are just too hot for walking in the Florida summer heat, and this princess’s skin is too delicate for wool. 

See, I told you I was a delicate little flower.

Peace, people!