Category: Commentary

World Series Lite

I understand that the first game of The World Series begins tonight featuring two teams with epic hard luck stories and armies of loyal “there’s always next year” fans. 

Studly Doright and I lived in Illinois for eight years, and while I never became a rabid Cubs fan I did root for them. However, I’ve actually been to an Indians game, whereas, I never made it to Wrigley Field to see the Cubbies play. That’s still on my bucket list.

My son-in-law, Stephen the Great, and my grandson, are big Cubs fans, though, so I’ll put my energy into cheering for them. 


As a good friend once said, baseball is a simple game. You hit the ball, you throw the ball, you catch the ball. Piece of cake, right? We just have to do it better than those guys from Cleveland. Let’s do this! Fly the W!

Peace, and hot bats, people!

Home Improvement

When we purchased our home over two years ago we knew eventually we’d want to do something about the front courtyard area. The previous owners, who’d built the home, paid a gardener to tend the two small plots on either side of the front walkway twice a month, but Studly and I weren’t crazy about taking on another bill. Actually I remember the conversation going something like:

Studly: We can’t afford both a gardener and a housekeeper.

Me: Cross off gardener. Check.

And that was the end of that story.

Except that we didn’t really think about the amount of yard work this courtyard area required. There was weeding and raking and digging and more weeding and since neither of us wanted to do any of that it just didn’t get done. Before too long Doright Manor’s entryway was overgrown and under utilized. 

I had the bright idea of having the area done in paving stones, but the estimate in the neighborhood of seven grand put a damper on that idea. Occasionally I’d go putter about trying to clean up all the unidentifiable growing things, but my efforts made it even uglier.

Finally Studly and I drew up a plan to do something simple and hopefully manageable with our courtyard. That was months ago, and we worked on it a little bit in the evenings and on weekends. 


We had to till everything up and cap off sprinklers.


Then we put down heavy duty matting and laid out some big stones before adding mulch.


We plan to add a decorative potting bench and container plants on this side.

Then on the opposite side we placed a little bench that I found at the French Country Flea Market on Friday. I fell in love with the butterfly shape. 


Now we need to personalize the courtyard with accents and plants for a more finished look. I’m not much of a decorator, so I know there will be a good deal of trial and error involved, but maybe this is something we can keep in good order without too much effort from a pair of non-gardeners. And I get to keep my housekeeper. 

Peace, people!

A Tale of Two Boobs

Fridays are mine to do with as I please, and today it pleased me to travel a bit east of Tallahassee to check out the French Country Flea Market at Sweet South Cottage and Farms. This is the fifth year for the Flea Market, but my first visit, so I was eager to see what it was all about.

First though I had to find Sweet South Cottage. Thank goodness for GPS! After stopping at a local truck stop to buy a Diet Dr. Pepper I input the address and was soon merging into traffic on Interstate 10.

Interstate traffic throughout Florida is an interesting exercise in avoiding tourists and elderly citizens who don’t realize that the posted 70 mph is merely a suggested speed at the lower end of the spectrum. Generally I set my cruise for 75 mph and am routinely passed by those who drive 80 to 90. My goal is always to create a little bubble around myself, so as not to impede the speedsters and not to rear end the putterers.

Today as I drove in my bubble towards my destination I wasn’t surprised to see a flurry of brake lights up ahead of me as faster drivers made all manner of evasive maneuvers to avoid hitting a slow moving motorist driving in the passing lane. Since I had ample notice I chose my line carefully and soon was passing the offending driver who wasn’t going over 55 mph. 

He happened to be an older white man with a huge Trump sign in the rear window of his white pickup truck, and he appeared oblivious to the lives he was putting in danger by driving so slowly on I-10.

“What a boob!” I growled, as I glared at him and sped away. Soon after the GPS instructed me to exit and within a few miles I had reached my destination. 

The parking lot was fairly empty when I arrived, and I was directed to a primo parking spot directly across from the ticket booth. I hoped to find a garden bench for sale at the event and surely the great parking spot was a good omen. 

Cute finds were everywhere.


I even found my bench, but forgot to snap a photo and it’s currently jammed into the back of my car. I’m sure it will be featured in a future post. 

So if you paid attention to the title of my piece you might be wondering about the second boob. Boob one was the too slow, Trump supporting driver on I-10. Boob two is just that–a boob, a breast, my right one to be exact. 

After buying my bench I went out to adjust the back seat of my little SUV to accommodate my purchase when literally out of the clear blue Florida sky a bee appeared, whereupon it dive bombed into my bra cup, and proceeded to sting my aforementioned right breast.

I’d love to say I handled the incident calmly, but I’d be lying. I said something awful as I reached inside my shirt to pull the underwire of my bra away from my chest hoping the little bugger would depart in a timely manner. He refused and I ended up squishing him. Yes, I know bees are becoming endangered, and yes, I know I am an awful human.

I was in pain, though, and still had to find some way to remove the stinger. Unfortunately I was out in the middle of a parking lot, so I located a port-a-potty where I successfully used a credit card edge to scrape out the offending appendage in what I now call “Operation Stinger Removal” or just OSR for short.

So, I ask you, was the bee bite on the boob a karmic response to my calling the old Trump supporter that name earlier in the day? If so, I’m certainly glad I didn’t call him an ass.

Political Flasher

On my way home from my part time job in Tallahassee yesterday I encountered a flasher. The older gentleman was standing on the median at a busy intersection. As my car drew even with him he held out his hand and surreptitiously flashed a Trump sticker. 

Let me tell you that took me by surprise. I was expecting something more classy, like a glimpse of his wrinkly genitals or a handful of illegal drugs. 

I smiled, rolled down my window and as he came toward me I said, “When hell freezes over,” and drove away. 

Okay, I realize that wasn’t the most ladylike response I could have made to his political flashing, but I figured it was a case of kit for kat. Meow. 🐱 

Peace, people!

Friends in Cold Places

Studly Doright had a motorcycle for sale on eBay, and the winning bid came from a Canadian gentleman named Dave. Well, Canadian Dave elected to drive down to Florida from Newfoundland to pick up the bike in person rather than having it shipped.

He arrived at Doright Manor around nine on Sunday morning and the minute he came through the door we felt like we’d known him forever. A semi-retired mechanic, Dave is an avid collector of cars and motorcycles, so he and Studly talked for nearly three hours before we helped him load up the bike for the long trip home. 

Just as he stepped into his pickup truck he turned and in all seriousness said, “If you two need a place to come live should that horrible man win your presidential election, you’re welcome at my house.”

It’s good to know we have friends in cold places.

Peace, people!

Studly and Subtitles

I’m married to a wonderful man. I call him Studly Doright on this blog for good reason. He’s a man’s man kind of guy. Physically stong, mentally stalwart, with a firm sense of right and wrong. 

He’s also rigidly entrenched in his habits. He gets up at a certain time. Goes to bed by 9. Eats only certain foods. Drinks an occasional American beer. Watches mainstream tv and movies.

So when I came into the den after my evening shower to find him watching a French film, The Confession, complete with subtitles, I immediately grabbed a thermometer (oral) from the medicine cabinet and firmly instructed him to open wide. 

I fully expected to discover he had a raging fever and was subsequently suffering from hallucinations. 

“Well, you’re fine,” I said. “Why are you watching this?”

His reply, “The words got to me.”

I love this man, and after 40 years of marriage he can still surprise me.

https://g.co/kgs/iKfY79
Peace, people

Studly’s feet.

Deplorable

I reblogged a post yesterday called “News Flash for Mr. Trump.” In the post, author Jan Wilberg of redswrap.com, contends that we shouldn’t be surprised by the recording of Donald Trump bragging about having committed sexual assault. Jan is absolutely right. The man has shown us who he is time and again and his misogyny should by now be an ugly given.

That post on my blog was viewed by far more people than anything I’d written that day. Overwhelmingly the comments were in agreement with Ms. Wilberg. Except for this one:


I’d ask you to read that last sentence until it sinks in. This man totally embodies what Hillary Clinton meant when she called half of Trump’s supporters “deplorable.” 

Now I didn’t approve his comment, and perhaps I’m giving him way too much attention by sharing his comment here, but I think it’s important that we acknowledge the sheer hatefulness and evil that is out there. And guess what? It’s all in the Trump camp.

A vote for a third party candidate is a vote for Trump. Get out there and vote blue. Don’t let the deplorables win.

Peace, people.

Exodus Angst

Studly Doright and I didn’t have to evacuate for Hurricane Matthew. Tallahassee is far enough west of the Atlantic that we might not even get any significant rainfall from the storm. However, we are experiencing an unpleasant influx of folks running from the hurricane, and I have strong feelings about that. 

I stopped at the truck stop nearest our home this morning where the queue for the gas pumps was ridiculous! I waited an unthinkable five minutes before having to pay $2.29 a gallon for my gas. Can you imagine? It was outrageous!

Once inside I had to stand in line behind ten people just to get to the Cinnabon counter, and by the time I was served, my favorite Cinnaminis had been decimated. I cry “Foul!” Plus, several of those in line didn’t even look or sound like Floridians. I suppose some of them might be good people, but I swear I heard New York accents. 

Dadgum refugees in their Bermuda shorts and sundresses. Should have brought their own snacks instead of taking my valuable resources. And they’re clogging up MY roads and my restaurants and my movie theatres. Stupid east coast migrants. Don’t they know we barely have enough to survive without the burden of caring for them? Maybe the Florida panhandle should secede from the rest of the state. Build a wall. Make Tallahassee great again. 

Snapshot #41

Let’s call this one, “Live Music on a Friday Night with the Jerry Thigpen Trio,” or maybe just, “Good Times.”

Here’s a little bit of one  of their tunes:

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Little Things on the Occasion of My 60th Birthday.

I’m going to admit to starting out this first day of my sixties feeling a little sorry for myself. Yes, I’d enjoyed a surprise birthday weekend with Studly on the gulf coast, but today was the DAY and I had nothing going on. No party. No family here (except for Studly). No cake. No dancing. Poor pitiful me.

My long time friend, Hunny, turned 60 on the third of this month with a flourish. Her kids threw a surprise party and there was live music and her grandbabies were in attendance. I might have felt a twinge, ok, a rush of envy, knowing there was no way I was going to be feted in such a manner.

But on my way to work this morning I got a FaceTime call from our youngest grandchild who sang her special version of Happy Birthday. Then in the office at the school where I’m working a second grade boy told me he thought I was pretty. Just out of the clear blue sky. When I thanked him and told him that today was my birthday he said, “Well, that explains everything!”

Throughout the day I’ve received  hundreds of birthday greetings from friends on WordPress and Facebook, and each one makes me smile. I also have two gifts to open later tonight and Studly has promised to take me to dinner. 

On my way home from work I was listening to John Fugelsang’s show and his guest, one of my favorite poets, Taylor Mali, read his poem, My Deepest Condiments. It was as if this poem was meant just for me today. So I’m feeling pretty awesome. No more pity party. It’s great to be 60. 

Here’s Taylor Mali. Enjoy.

http://youtu.be/P8NF6WJw50k
Peace, people.

Me at 60.