https://nananoyz5forme.com/2019/10/30/double-edged/
For some reason this attached piece never appeared in my published posts section, yet it’s no longer in my scheduled section. Weird. I know it was published because folks have commented on it, but just to be safe, I’m doing a reblog.
Here’s an irrelevant photo of a cute kitten.
Yesterday (Monday) I wrestled with my internet connection all day long. Studly was traveling, and I didn’t want to exacerbate the technical issues by doing something stupid in his absence. Instead, I was mostly tech free all day, and it was kind of nice.
My understanding of WiFi and connectivity and the million other little things that go into making my devices communicate smoothly is limited. I know that some of the little lights on my home router need to be flashing while others need to remain constant, but beyond that I’m lost. Thank goodness Studly Doright arrived home in time last evening to tell me how to fix the problem. (Basically I had to unplug the router, count to five, and plug it back in.) My hero!
Speaking of being lost, one of the things I like best about my Apple Watch is the gps feature. When I ask Siri for directions to a location, my watch will sync up and provide brief instructions as well as a pleasant buzz on my wrist as I approach a turn.
For some reason, though, on Saturday the watch lost its ability to guide me. I was heading to an estate sale using iPhone guidance and kept driving mile after mile waiting for the friendly buzz to indicate I needed to turn. Finally, I pulled into a parking lot and realized the watch wasn’t doing it’s part, and I was stuck with just the phone instructions. Plus, I was way north of Tallahassee. Not lost, but not where I needed to be either.
When I returned home I googled possible remedies to the situation, but none of them bore fruit. I figured I’d need to seek out some technical assistance at a local tech shop. Then this morning I noticed the little airplane icon on my watch. Hmmm. Had I accidentally switched it to airplane mode? 
Why, yes. Yes, I had, and as soon as I figured out how to take it out of airplane mode the gps was back in business. I literally just asked Siri for directions to Trader Joe’s and my watch responded with a turn suggestion. It’s a bit confusing since I’m still inside my home, but still, I’m back in business.
Now, at the risk of making myself seem even more foolish, my car has a gps built in. Yes, I could, and often do, use it for directions. But it doesn’t buzz on my arm. I like the buzz.
No, not that Buzz; although, the wallpaper on my Apple Watch can be set to Toy Story.
To infinity and beyond! Or to Trader Joe’s. Whichever is closest.
Peace, people.
These are things that occurred to me as I watched the War of the Worlds, Tom Cruise edition, on HBO Sunday evening.
–Studly Doright would absolutely be able to maneuver through traffic to put distance between us and the Martians. Whatever it took, he’d keep me safe.
–I’d be the one to declare we were up against Martians. Studly would try to convince me it was a natural disaster.
–I’d rather have Studly by my side in an emergency than Tom Cruise. Unless snakes were involved, then I’m going to go with Cruise.
–Martians are not good people.
–I really shouldn’t watch scary movies when I’m by myself.
–Tom Cruise hasn’t aged in years. It’s creepy.
(War of the Worlds, 2005, top. Mission Impossible: Fallout, 2018, bottom)
–Maybe he’s an alien.
–Dakota Fanning’s character is annoying as hell.
–The scariest scene of all is when humans are attacking Tom Cruise’s car with him and his family inside, begging the question, “Who are the real monsters in this movie?”
–Have I mentioned what a total pain in the ass Dakota Fanning’s character is? Shrill little fart.
–Storm shelters can provide some protection from alien attack. Unfortunately I live in Florida, so a cellar is out of the question.
–“Little Deuce Coupe” is a passable lullaby when sung by Tom Cruise.
–Society breaks down quickly in the face of catastrophic events. Why does that always surprise me?
–Never trust the crazy guy who invites you to stay in his storm cellar.
–Mirrors are our friends when used to confuse Martians.
–An idiot with a gun can threaten the lives of everyone.
–Sometimes good guys have to take extreme measures to insure their children survive.
–Dakota Fanning. Can we get a muzzle?
–It’s hard to beat a good hand grenade detonated in a timely manner.
–Remember why the aliens die? We’re toxic, that’s why. Big surprise. Not.
–It’s a better movie than I’d remembered it being.
Peace, people.
Yesterday I posted a piece based on an encounter I had at a Publix grocery store a few days ago. https://nananoyz5forme.com/2019/10/26/encounter/
I’d tried to explain the event in narrative form, but no matter which way I placed the words on the page I felt like I was misrepresenting the encounter. As I told one commenter, in my attempt to tell the story I came out looking either judgmental or saintly, and neither is accurate.
Let’s give it another go, shall we?
I’d met a friend for lunch at a sushi restaurant across town in Tallahassee. On my way home to Doright Manor in Havana, Florida, I stopped at Publix to purchase a few items. Normally I’d park well away from the store in order to increase my daily number of steps, but I’d hurt my back doing heaven knows what last weekend, so I found a spot on the row nearest the store.
As I got out of my car, I noticed an older model Chevrolet sporting sun faded blue paint and a cracked windshield. It was idling erratically, directly in front of the Publix entrance, and the driver had to keep revving it to keep the engine from dying. From the passenger side a woman emerged.
In her bare feet, the woman would easily have been taller than my 5’8″, and her stilettos added at least three more inches. Her sleeveless leopard print mini dress rode high on her thighs, and she tugged on the hem as she toddled towards the store.
I reached the door about the same time she did, and realized just how unstable she was on those heels.
“Careful,” I cautioned. “These floors are going to be tricky with the shoes you’re wearing.”
She nodded, and her long blonde hair fell over her eyes. “Great,” I thought. “Now she can’t see where she’s going.”
I hurried in front of the woman, at least as fast as my back would allow and suggested she borrow one of the electric scooters the store provides. She thought that was a fine idea, and I guided her to the nearest one.
After she settled into the scooter chair she looked up at me. There were tear stains marring her heavy makeup and mascara in places mascara isn’t supposed to be. Her eyes were unfocused.
“Is there anything you need?” I asked, fully prepared to give her money or contact someone who’d come pick her up.
“Would you pray for me?” She asked.
“Of course. Tell me your name,” I said, thinking she meant later when I was home saying my nightly prayers.
To my chagrin she struggled out of the scooter where she’d been relatively safe and stood, towering above me, swaying on those toothpick heels. She grasped my hands in hers and looked me straight in the eye. I was supposed to pray. Right then and there. Heaven help me.
“My name is Stacy,” she said.
I looked down to gather my thoughts, noting the not-so-subtle track marks on both arms. My words needed to be healing. Deep, even.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” I intoned. “Please forgive us our sins.”
“Hey. What’s goin’ on?” a male voice croaked behind me.
“Oh, baby, this nice lady just helped me. We’re prayin’ here.”
“That’s enough,” he said.
To me that sounded ominous. I pulled my hands out of Stacy’s grasp. “Take care,” I said, grabbing a basket for my shopping.
I left her in the hands of this man. It felt wrong, but I was really out of my depth there. As I went about my shopping I saw the two of them a couple of times at a distance. He was driving the scooter. Stacy was sitting in his lap, her head on his shoulder.
That night at home in my room I prayed for Stacy. I’d let her down. I can’t forget the feel of our hands clasped together during that aborted prayer. If I was her lifeline, I was a frayed one. I’d snapped and she’d floated away.
For all the Staceys in this world, I don’t know if prayers do any good, but that’s all I’ve got right now.
Peace, people.
I’m enjoying the Olli class I’m taking at Florida State University more than I could’ve imagined. The class, The Parallel Universe of Ants, taught by Walter R. Tschinkel the author of The Fire Ants, is everything I’d hoped it would be, and more.
For one thing, Dr. Tschinkel has a great sense of humor, and he employs it with endless patience as we laypeople ask basic questions, often the same questions multiple times in one class period. He’s a veritable encyclopedia of ant info. I like the class so much I purchased his book.
It’s at least an inch thick, so it’ll keep me occupied for some time to come.
I know this is what you’re waiting for–FABULOUS ANT FACT #3:
After mating, female fire ants literally break off their wings after returning from the mating flight. That sounds harsh, but at least they don’t perish after mating as their male counterparts do.
Here’s a bonus tidbit that might come in handy at trivia some day. The study of ants is called Myrmecology, and those who study ants are myrmecologists.
I found this video of Dr. Tschinkel’s appearance on CBS Sunday Morning. The segment was filmed at the place he calls Ant Heaven. With any luck I’ll get to visit there in a couple of weeks when our class goes on a field trip!
I’m no myrmecologist, but I know an ant when I see one.
A blogging friend, Claudette, at www.writerofwordsetc.wordpress.com recently posted about enjoying dinner at a diner with her teenaged son. The dinner offered some teachable moments for Claudette and her son. One such lesson was on tipping wait staff. I loved how Claudette let her son know that the middle aged server who’d waited on them in the diner was most likely counting on her tips to make ends meet.
In the U.S., as in Claudette’s country, Canada, most wait staff depend on their tips to make a living wage. That’s sad and wrong, but it’s the way things work at this point in time. I typically tip 20% of the bill. If the service is stellar, or if my party has tied up the booth for a longer than average time, I’ll tip 25%, and on a very rare occasion, in the event of horrible service I’ll tip 15%. But I still tip.
I haven’t always tipped when the service has been bad, but a friend who worked as a waiter reminded me that everyone has an off day now and again. That’s certainly true in my case. Hell, I’d hate to think what my tips might’ve been as a waitress.
Now, I have mixed emotions about tipping clerks at a fast food restaurant. In Florida, there’s a tip jar on almost every counter. I do tip the barista at Starbucks who remembers my order better than I do. I also tip at my favorite vegan place because even though ordering is done at the counter, a waiter brings the food out and makes sure everything is okay. But do I really need to tip at Burger King?
What are your thoughts about that sort of tipping? I could use some guidance.
Peace, people!
My back is still not happy with me, but I had to run an errand in Tallahassee. My reward for surviving the trip was a coffee Frappuccino with almond milk at Starbucks.
As I waited for the barista to take my order I sang along with the radio,
“Memory, all alone in the moonlight
I can dream of the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again”
The performance must’ve been really good because I received a standing ovation at the window. Well, the barista was already standing, but she was applauding, as well. That counts for something, right?
Peace, people!
(Note: I did something to hurt my back yesterday. Today I’ve been taking it easy while reminiscing about better times when I was young and wild and free to roam the earth on two wheels. Okay, I was never wild, but I used to be young and relatively free.)
Studly Doright, my husband of 43 years, has been riding motorcycles since way before we met. When we began dating during high school many weekends were spent at motocross races all over the Texas panhandle. He raced, and I cheered him on.
After we married in July of ’76, he bought me my first bike. It was a little Yamaha scooter called a Chappy.
I loved that little scooter, and rode it all over Dumas, Texas. (By the way, all of these photos are from Pinterest.)
After I’d gotten my feet wet with the scooter, Studly decided I was ready for a real bike and bought me a 175 Yamaha Enduro. I had to learn to shift gears on this bike. While it was licensed for street riding we mostly took it to the sandy trails of the Canadian River between Dumas and Amarillo. On one trip I ran over Studly’s former girlfriend when she crashed her bike in the mud. I swear it was an accident. Honest.
When we discovered we were going to be parents, I took a break from riding, and not until our youngest daughter was bound for college did I begin riding again. After 20 years out of the saddle I was both excited and nervous to be riding once more.
After much shopping for just the right bike we ended up buying a new 650 Yamaha V-Star. This photo looks exactly like my bike. It was gorgeous. I bought leather chaps and a leather jacket and new riding boots to complete the ensemble. I looked like a badass biker (nope, I still looked like a geek), but the 650 had no oomph. Keeping it going highway speeds was exhausting.
We sold it and bought a secondhand 1100 Yamaha Virago from David’s former brother-in-law. Let me see if I can find a photo of one.
While the one above is similar, my Virago was much more gorgeous. It was Dallas Cowboy blue and silver, and ran like a beast. The Virago was getting on in age when I bought it, though, and Studly was concerned that it wouldn’t hold up mechanically. It remains my favorite bike.
We sold the Virago before moving to Florida, and soon replaced it with a used ST F650 BMW, in the appropriate color of Orlando Orange.
I don’t recall the year model, but the one pictured above is pretty close. It was a nifty little bike, and my first sport touring motorcycle. Unfortunately it had some electrical issues that were worrisome. I wanted to take a solo trip, and Studly didn’t trust the bike to carry me the distance.
By the way, when I bought this bike I began wearing a mesh jacket and pants with padding in all the critical places. While my leather chaps looked edgier, the mesh was much more comfy and lots cooler. Besides, the chaps fell off the back of my Virago onto the interstate on a blistering hot July day, somewhere between Denver, Colorado, and Salina, Kansas. I hope someone worthy found them. Oh, I wasn’t wearing them at the time. That would’ve made for a much better story.
So, (I know, you’re probably sick of my bike reminiscing. Sorry, not sorry!) we sold the BMW and bought me a 400 Yamaha Majesty scooter. I loved this bike, as well.
No shifting required, plenty of get up and go, lots of storage. I rode it from Mahomet, Illinois, to Dallas, Texas, and back all by myself just after celebrating my 50th birthday. It was a crazy trip.
I’m still not sure why I sold this bike. Maybe I felt like I was getting too old and klutzy. Heaven knows I’m getting older, and I’ve always been klutzy. Once it was gone I didn’t really think about getting another bike. But then a friend bought a CanAm Spyder, and I thought maybe it would fit the bill. I wouldn’t have to worry about falling over or putting my feet down at stop lights, or any other of a million things I tended to stress over.
Studly got all excited that I wanted to ride again. He began researching bikes and soon a Spyder was sitting in our motorcycle garage. Let me rephrase that, a Spyder was dominating our motorcycle garage. The thing was massive compared to all of the other bikes in Studly’s stable. He could’ve parked two and a half bikes in the same area.
And, after riding it around Tallahassee and on backroads in the area I had to admit I didn’t love the Spyder. It was too clunky and I didn’t enjoy riding it. Plus, after a distracted driver rear ended my car last November I became a bit paranoid about riding a motorcycle. I didn’t shed a tear when the Spyder left the garage for that of another rider.
If you’ve stuck with me this long, thanks. Hopefully my back will feel better tomorrow, and I can get out and about. Honestly, I’m kind of proud of myself for remembering all my bikes. I might be old and klutzy, but I remember the important stuff. Just ask Dudley. Er, Studly.
Peace, people!
Based on predictions that tropical storm Nestor would bring buckets of rain and high winds to the Tallahassee area on Saturday, Studly’s golf course closed for the day. I envisioned a lazy afternoon of watching college football while snuggling on the sofa with him and the cats. Studly, on the other hand, envisioned driving to Gainesville, FL, to look at, and perhaps purchase a motorcycle. At least he invited me along for the ride.
When we left Tallahassee the skies were threatening.
The winds hadn’t begun blowing yet, but I certainly questioned Studly’s sanity in his decision to travel so far from Doright Manor and into the belly of a storm.
“Relax,” he told me. “It’s not going to hit until this afternoon.”
As it happened, he was right. What’s that old saying about even a broken clock having the correct time twice a day? I think that applies here.
Gainesville is about a two and a half hour drive south and East from our home, and thanks to gps we easily found the place where the motorcycle was being stored. Within a few minutes the bike was loaded into the back of our pickup truck, and we were headed home.
We were both ready for some lunch, and while Gainesville has hundreds of restaurants we opted to drive north to Alachua. I’d never been there, but Studly promised that the little town had a terrific Main Street with several good cafes. He was right again! I’m going to have to start reconsidering that broken clock analogy.
We ate at Conestogas Restaurant where everything seems to be fried, and vegan options were practically nonexistent. 
I had a baked potato stuffed with bell peppers and grilled onions, along with a salad, while Studly enjoyed a chicken fried steak with gravy. Obviously he wasn’t concerned about the lack of vegan fare.
After lunch we walked along the street, and inspected the town’s Halloween decorations. It didn’t take us long to discern this year’s theme:
On nearly every corner we encountered characters from Monsters, Inc. If there’s a contest for best design, I vote for the one directly above. The door clinched it for me. Studly, who’s never seen Monsters, Inc., wondered aloud why the door was part of the display.
“The door doesn’t seem all that scary to me,” he observed.
Of course I had to fill him in on the importance of collecting screams and the implications of having a human child follow one of the monsters back through a door.
Still he asked, “Couldn’t they at least have painted the door orange and black and put spiderwebs or something on it instead of flowers? That would be scary.”
“But that’s not how the door looked in the movie,” I said.
“Their mistake.”
Sometimes I feel like I’m conversing with a tall toddler.
There were a few non-Monster, Inc. themed decorations, as well:
Perhaps those in charge of decorating these storefronts had never seen Monsters, Inc. either.
After our walk we continued the drive home, encountering heavy rain just as we neared Tallahassee. We’ve needed the moisture, so tropical storm Nestor did our area a favor. Studly and I spent the evening watching college football and snuggling, so I got what I wanted out of the day, as well. That’s a win-win, right?
Peace, people.
I came across this on Facebook and thought it was just too beautiful not to share. If any of my loved ones sees this, I’d love it read at any memorial service that’s held when I die. (Sorry it’s in a smaller font.)
“Every once in a while, a poem or song is so well constructed, so clearly conveys the author’s meaning and is so precisely expressive that it becomes something of an anthem. The poem below, Epitaph, was written by Merrit Malloy and as one of those poems, has become a staple of funeral and memorial services…for good reason.”
Epitaph – By Merrit Malloy
When I die
Give what’s left of me away
To children
And old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
Cry for your brother
Walking the street beside you.
And when you need me,
Put your arms
Around anyone
And give them
What you need to give to me.
I want to leave you something,
Something better
Than words
Or sounds.
Look for me
In the people I’ve known
Or loved,
And if you cannot give me away,
At least let me live on in your eyes
And not your mind.
You can love me most
By letting
Hands touch hands,
By letting bodies touch bodies,
And by letting go
Of children
That need to be free.
Love doesn’t die,
People do.
So, when all that’s left of me
Is love,
Give me away.
Praying for Eyebrowz 