Wrapped in an age-softened, threadbare quilt made from the scraps taken from my grandma’s
Sewing basket, the cat and I daydream while rain drums on the lake. In the yard, about
Fifty feet from the house, a mother turtle works to lay her eggs, covering to protect them
From predators and well-intentioned humans. I mark the place in my mind, to better
Advocate for my reptile friend once her work is done. Mamas have to stick together.
Saturday (tomorrow!) I am meeting our son in Jackson, Mississippi, and bringing our oldest granddaughter, Dominique (13), and our youngest grandson, Jackson (10), home with me for two whole weeks!
Eeeee! Time spent with the grands is the best.
I have a list of fun stuff to do while they’re with me in Havana, Florida, including trips to the beach, to the water park in Valdosta, Georgia, and to the wonderful Tallahassee Museum. Plus we’ll fish off of the dock in our backyard and maybe play Pokemon Go! I see exhaustion in my future.
The blog might take a backseat for two weeks, but surely I’ll have time to add some pictures of our adventures to keep me in the habit of posting daily. I have a few posts queued up, as well.
Now I need to go freshen the bedding in the guest rooms and make sure my stock of snacks is sufficient for two hungry kids.
So excited! Peace, people!
I am a white middle-aged woman. I once accidentally drove with an expired license tag for over a month. When I was stopped by a young police officer I batted my eyelashes and got a warm smile and nothing more than a warning to “take care of that as soon as possible, miss!”
When he pulled me over for the offense, I have to admit that my heart began beating faster, and I’m sure my blood pressure shot up. I had no idea why I’d been stopped, but having been taught my entire life that police officers are there to protect and serve I sat quietly in my seat as he approached my car.
“Are you aware that your license plate expired in March?” He asked.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “I had no idea. I’m so sorry!”
“License, registration and proof of insurance, please,” he requested.
“Sure, no problem.”
I fished my license and insurance card out of my purse and leaned over to get the registration out of the glove compartment. It took me awhile because my hands were shaking a bit. Finally I found the correct document and presented it to the officer with a smile.
“I can’t believe I didn’t take care of this! We are in the middle of a transfer and this just got lost in the shuffle.”
“Oh? Where are you moving?”
“Dodge City,” I said.
We chatted briefly about the distance to Dodge City from Great Bend and how he had an aunt who lived there. He then gave me a dimpled smile and sent me off with a warning.
As he drove away in his squad car I sat relieved. Whew! Dodged a bullet, as we say.
For black men in this country, the standards are different. They do not always get the feeling that the police are there to serve and protect, and with good reason. Routine traffic stops like the one I recounted often have fatal consequences for the black driver and/or his passenger(s). In other words, they don’t get to dodge the bullet.
We have a serious problem in this country. There is a different standard for people of color. Blacks are detained for “walking while black” if they don’t appear to belong in certain neighborhoods. They are profiled and stopped for minor traffic incidents and often they do not survive.
And then, at a peaceful Black Lives Matter demonstration in Dallas, Texas, a disturbed young black man did the unthinkable, opening fire on police officers who were mingling with and offering protection to those assembled. He killed five officers and left others injured. Five men who were protecting the rights of citizens to lawfully protest didn’t get to dodge those bullets that ended their lives.
I’ve cried a lot this week. Cried for two young black men who joined many others who’ve been killed for minor infractions and for the policemen whose lives were lost on Friday night. We can mourn them all. There is no conflict of interest.
The right wing media has begun demonizing these black victims. Rumors are flying: “he was a bank robber,” “he might’ve been a pedophile….” Even before the blood had dried on the pavement their names were being dragged through the media mud, without a shred of evidence or proof of either being true.
The Dallas event, a peaceful, unity building affair, has likewise been painted by the right in a completely different color: “I hear they (Blacks) were taunting and threatening the police,” “I hear it was really ugly down there.” And yet, I have friends of all ethnicities who attended and said it was a life affirming event, right up until the shooting.
This didn’t start out as a condemnation of the right wing media, but the more I wrote the more angry at them I became. People who listen exclusively to Rush Limbaugh and his ilk, or watch only FOX news are being fed a line that is not only false, but dangerous.
I want it to just stop. I want us to remember that we are all in this together, that the rights of every single human being on the face of this earth are equally important. I don’t want special treatment based on the color of my skin.
Peace, people. I’m going to go cry some more.
I knew my second anniversary with WordPress was imminent, but couldn’t remember the exact date. Thank goodness one of us was keeping tabs.
Two years ago today I was sitting in the exact same spot in which I find myself now. I was bored and lonely and addicted to more than one computer game: Bejeweled Blitz, Plants vs. Zombies, and a couple with names I don’t recall, but one had to do with building castles and the other with raising dragons. It was a sad life.
Oh, I had Facebook, but my tendency to say exactly what I thought had alienated a good many of my friends. My liberal political leanings aren’t shared by many of my family members or childhood friends.
To compensate for my loneliness I’d begun reading a couple of friends’ blogs. One had just started hers and it was so charming and comforting that I began thinking perhaps I could do something similar. In the weeks prior I’d had some interesting and mildly humorous incidents in my life and thought, “I can do this! All I have to do is record all the goofy things in my life.”
Now, as awkward as I am, I couldn’t write a daily blog based solely on personal mishaps, and soon I was just writing filler until something good came along. Sometimes I did something wacky on purpose just so I could write about it. If you look back through my early archives I’m sure those posts are easy to spot.
Then I had an epiphany of sorts and just began writing for myself. That’s when the poetry started, along with a few short pieces of fiction. Occasionally I’m asked why I’ve never published anything and my answers vary. Honestly, I’m not sure anything I’ve written is worthy of being published outside of WordPress, and I’m clueless in the business of publishing, to boot.
I still compose and publish everything on my iPhone, and I still publish at least one post per day.
My favorite part of blogging is the connection I’ve made with other bloggers from all across the world. I read posts from writers in Great Britain and India, Germany and Italy, Australia and South Africa, among many others. We comment on each others’ lives and offer our own insights. We learn from one another.
I’m fascinated to read of the differences in our cultures and comforted to note how very much alike we are. We all just want the best possible lives for ourselves and our loved ones.
Every now and again I decide it’s time to stop blogging. I mean, it’s a good deal of work and there are likely much more profitable ways to spend my days. But then some random thought pops into my head demanding I write about it, and I begin frantically punching letters into words and words into sentences on my iPhone keyboard before the idea fades into oblivion.
After two years of blogging I’m still somewhat of a pariah on Facebook; although, I’ve found a couple of groups of like minded friends with whom to share congenial conversations–some I’ve met through WordPress. I’ve weaned myself from every computer game except Words With Friends. I’m less lonely and better informed. Blogging has, corny as it might sound, saved my life, or at least my sanity.
Now, what should I write about tomorrow?
Peace, people.
http://hw-mobile.worldstarhiphop.com/u/vid/2016/01/xojL4Vq0C6a7_mobile.mp4?ri=512000&rs=850
I hope with all my heart that the attached link will work. This is the best argument/non-argument for racial equality.
Peace, people.
Here’s a riddle: If a domestic goddess has spent the morning doing laundry and ends up with a load of towels, washcloths, undies, and socks to be folded and subsequently put away, how many trips will it take her to complete the job?
Answer: (choose one)
A) 4 (one to load the washer, one to transfer load to the dryer, one to carry the items to a place for folding, one to carry the items to their storage place)
B) 25+ (one to load the washer, one to transfer the load, one to carry the items to a place of folding, 21+ roundtrips to put away items by category and/ or purpose.)
If you picked A, you don’t know this domestic goddess very well. B is the proper response. Why, you might ask, would anyone be dumb enough to operate with B as the template?
My Fitbit made me do it. 
July in Tallahassee, Florida, is hot as blue blazes and humid, to boot. Exercising outside is best done early in the morning or late in the evening. Since I slept until 8 a.m., I missed out on the prime walking time.
Studly Doright feels slighted if I go walking during the evening (besides, that’s when the creepy crawlies are about), so I had to find a way to get my steps in without leaving Doright Manor. Thus, I’ve become an inefficiency expert.
As the day progresses, I’ll make multiple trips from the laundry room to the master bedroom to hang clothes one at a time. If I leave the house I’ll gather shopping bags separately for individual trips to and from the car. At the grocery store I’ll determine the route that is least efficient, often crisscrossing the store a dozen times.
For me, this exercise routine is second nature. I’ve always done every task possible in the most illogical way, so capitalizing on this tendency is a win-win. Now, with my Fitbit I have a witness. And it has yet to scoff at my methods. I can’t say the same for Studly Doright.
Peace, people.
Saturday evening Studly Doright and I stayed in to watch a movie on On Demand. He’d played golf all day in 100° heat, and couldn’t muster the energy to wade through noisy theater crowds to see the new Tarzan movie, but promised we could go on Sunday.
After perusing the On Demand offerings we quickly settled on Whisky Tango Foxtrot, starring Tina Fey. Based on a true story, WTF follows the exploits of war correspondent Kim Barker, played by Fey, who risks life and limb to get her stories on camera while embedded with Marines in Afghanistan. In the film Barker befriends fellow reporter and rival, Tanya Vanderpoel, played by Margot Robbie.
Studly and I enjoyed the movie which didn’t do terribly well at the box office. WTF was gritty fare, not Fey’s normal comedy genre, although there were amusing scenes. Billy Bob Thornton is good as the officer in charge of the Marines who comes to show grudging respect for Fey’s character.
On Sunday afternoon Studly kept his promise and took me into Tallahassee to see the newest rendition of the Tarzan saga, in 3D no less. I believe I’ve written about Tarzan’s influence on my young life. Having spent many a Sunday morning in front of a black and white TV watching Johnny Weismuller wrestle lions and alligators, I felt like I’d been raised by apes, as well. So I was eager to see how this version stacked up.
I already had a mad crush on the newest Tarzan, Alexander Skarsgård of True Blood fame, but could he pull off the role of Lord Greystoke/King of the Apes? Oh yes. Ohhhh yes. (Excuse me while I fan myself vigorously)
(Okay, I’m back) The rest of the cast was well chosen. Samuel L. Jackson and Cristoph Waltz were both major players. I didn’t know the young woman who played Jane; although, she looked so familiar. Where had I seen her before?
Throughout the film I pondered that question. Whoever she was her character was the perfect match for Tarzan. Strong-willed and witty, she held her own against the bad guys, led by Waltz’s character.
When we returned to Doright Manor I googled the cast for Tarzan and realized why Jane looked so familiar. We’d just watched her in Whisky Tango Foxtrot the night before. The lovely and spunky Margot Robbie was Tarzan’s Jane.
Tarzan, the film, was fun. Tarzan, the man, was hot. And Margot Robbie, it seems, is everywhere. See WTF. See Tarzan.
Wednesday evening I had the rare choice of attending two events. One, an informational meeting about a women’s salsa group, had been on my calendar for weeks. The other, a movie night with a friend and her daughters, had come up on the spur of the moment.
Since I was really curious about the salsa group, I gave my regrets to my friend and headed to a dance studio in Tallahassee. I arrived just as an exercise class called “Twerk It!” was ending. A combination of hip hop and Zumba, the class looked like exhausting fun.
Slowly the Twerk It! group left the building in groups of twos and threes and the salsa instructor appeared. She was an attractive, fit woman in her mid-30’s who quickly got into her spiel about the joys of Touch Salsa, a franchised program that can apparently be found worldwide.
As she spoke I became more excited. Not only did participants get to learn salsa routines, but they could participate in dance competitions as part of a larger group. And, they got to wear cute dance costumes. Count me in!
Now, the Facebook ad for this class indicated it was informational only, so I’d worn my flip flops. BIG mistake! I cannot emphasize this enough.
The instructor had us line up behind her to learn a few basic steps. I was doing fine until I had to do a right turn. My flip flops stuck to the floor and guess who went sprawling? Yep, me.
Undeterred I shook it off and got up in time to tackle a left turn. I knew better than to try to pivot this time, so I sort of hopped. It wasn’t pretty, but I stayed upright.
Finally our little group got through five basic steps. That’s when the instructor added in the arm movements. I’m fairly sure that had anyone been watching my gesticulations they would’ve felt compelled to notify emergency personnel.
I abandoned trying to follow the instructions and just did a variation of waving my hands in the air like I just didn’t care. The instructor gave me a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. Can you blame her? I’m sure she thought I wasn’t trying. But the sad truth is, I was trying really hard.
So, I decided the Touch Salsa class wasn’t for me, and after paying my $5.00 I told the instructor I wouldn’t be participating. I might be imagining things, but I’m pretty sure she breathed a sigh of relief.
Now about that Twerk It! class? That might be right up my alley. Stay tuned.
http://youtu.be/WQGSWBkJW84
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 