c’mon!
you can do it!
rise and shine, girl.
nope.
i’m comfortable
right here in my bed.
c’mon!
time’s a’wasting!
the world’s your oyster!
nope.
go away. leave me.
mumble, mumble, mumble.
c’mon!
i brought donuts!
and coffee with Baileys.
nope.
wait. did you say
donuts? Baileys? i’m up.
There are things in my life that I get a little geeky about. I’m already trying to figure out how to justify going to see Star Wars Episode VII on Christmas Day. I have full color action packed dreams about Han Solo and Chewbacca. That’s geeky.
But this post isn’t about Star Wars, it’s about me geeking out over a favorite author retweeting one of my tweets on Twitter. (Sounds a bit like Rockin’ Robin, doesn’t it?)
When I find an author I like I will read any and everything he or she has ever written. One of those authors is CJ Box. Mr. Box doesn’t write scifi or fantasy, my two favorite genres. No, he writes what I’d call modern western novels, set primarily in Wyoming. One of his protagonists is a game warden named Joe Pickett.
I know Joe Pickett better than I do some members of my own family. Joe’s one of the really good guys in this world, but he’s not perfect. I’d like to think Joe and I could be best friends, but he’d think I talk too much. He’d be right.
While driving around Tallahassee today after getting a pedicure:
I saw a sticker on a car window that read, “Blind Eye Outfitters” and all my warning bells started ringing. Blind eye, eh? Does that mean the outfitter will ignore violations of game laws? Instantly I wanted to touch base with Joe Pickett, and see if he should investigate.
Of course Joe is fictional, so I did the next best thing and tweeted CJ Box. Imagine my delight when he not only favorited my tweet, but then retweeted it! This geeky fangirl squealed a little, I’m not going to lie.
Maybe CJ will notify Joe for me. It could happen.
Peace, people!
Studly Doright has permanent dibs on the tv remote. Usually, I’m okay with that, but when his search for programming stops on the series, Ancient Aliens, I go into full blown sarcasm mode.
If you haven’t had the pleasure (gag) of watching the History Channel’s Ancient Aliens you have no idea what you’ve been missing. Along with venereal disease and a bad case of poison sumac.
The premise of each episode is the same–to prove retroactively that groups of extraterrestrials were responsible for helping get the human race off the ground. The pyramids? Check. Stonehenge? Check. Mayan temples? Check. Epcot Center? Check.
If ancient edifices weren’t built by aliens as astronavigational facilities, they were erected as gigantic abodes primarily used for conjugal visits for whenever E.T. came to gift humanity with his otherworldly seed.
Yes, according to Ancient Aliens, we are most likely all descended from little green men. That explains a lot: Donald Trump, David Spade, Abe Vigoda.
On some episodes aliens are credited with being the gods of ancient mythology, and we know what a horny bunch they were.
I’m beginning to understand Studly Doright’s fascination with Ancient Aliens. It’s basically soft core space porn.
Peace, people!
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.
Peace, people!
Occasionally I have delusions of grandeur, but I’m never fooled into believing they’re anything other than delusions. I’m not a brave woman. Tonight was proof of that.
I returned home to a dark, empty house after an afternoon at the movies and some heavy-duty window shopping. Studly Doright wasn’t yet home, and I didn’t expect him to return for several more hours. As usual I parked my car in the garage and walked around the car to the door.
Before opening the door I heard a beep-beep-beeping sound. Carefully I turned the knob and edged the door open. The entry alarm was going off. We’ve lived at Doright Manor for a year and a half and the alarm has never even peeped. Slowly I backed away, shut the door, and retreated to my car.
I’m not going to lie, my hands were shaking as I dialed 911 while simultaneously backing the car out of the garage. The operator was professional, and thorough, and didn’t sound like she thought I was being a paranoid idiot.
Then I had to wait. Outside. In the dark. Okay, I had my lights on high beam, but the dark outside of that bright halo seemed particularly threatening. I called Studly and told him all that had transpired. As we talked I noticed my phone battery was on the verge of going dead and hoped that wasn’t a bad omen. Signing off, I felt utterly alone.
By the time the officer arrived, a seemingly endless twelve minutes after I initially called 911, I was convinced that I should sleep in my car until Studly got home. Hey, it’s a small SUV, I could get comfy in there. As long as I didn’t have to use the restroom I’d be ok, right?
The second Deputy Perkins appeared I felt immense relief. He and I approached the back door and could hear the incessant beeping. My heart was thumpety-thumping, providing a nice rhythm section for the alarm.
I turned on the light just inside the back door and with trepidation walked to the flashing alarm, expecting it to read something along the lines of “Danger, Danger, Run for Your Life!” Instead, the words Power Outage were displayed in large LED letters.
Sheepishly I grinned at Deputy Perkins, “Honestly, sir, we’ve had disruptions in power before and they’ve never set off the alarms.”
To his credit, and the credit of his entire department, he was so understanding, and if he thought me crazy he had the decency not to say so out loud.
He also insisted on going through Doright Manor room by room to make sure no one was hiding there. Thankfully all he found were the two cats who were both fairly frazzled from having listened to the annoying alarm for heaven knows how long. One had expressed her displeasure by puking on a bathroom rug.
Now I’m sitting here sipping wine and contemplating the excitement of my evening. I’m still fairly filled with adrenaline from the fright. I know I’ll crash soon, but until then I’ll be doing something constructive. Like having more wine.
Peace, people!
I have a gift when it comes to giving out too much information, a.k.a. TMI. My brain is hollering, “For the love of God, STOP!” while my mouth keeps spouting all the details of my life that are better left untouched, unknown, and uncovered.
In the good and/or bad old days if one gave out TMI it often wasn’t a big deal, unless one happened to be in front of a television audience. The TMI didn’t travel far or for any distance. However, today’s social media makes sharing TMI much too easy and in some ways dangerous.
Take yesterday, for example. My 10-year-old grandaughter started a pet care service. She created a professional looking sign, made copies, and posted them all around her small town Illinois neighborhood. I immediately copied the photo and posted it on my Facebook page. Thank goodness my youngest brother pointed out that it might not be wise to post the phone number of a preteen girl on Facebook, and I promptly deleted it.
Usually, though, my tendency is to provide entirely too much information about myself. Case in point, I typed this post on my iPhone. In the john. Would someone fetch me some t.p.? TMI?
Peace, people!
Ah, Saturday afternoon! Post-golf, pre-dinner. Perfect for waiting on the cable guy or girl as the case may be.
Who schedules a cable installation between 5 and 7 p.m. on a Saturday evening? Apparently Comcast does.
So here Studly Doright and I sit on what is usually our night out waiting on a cable installer. I’ll be taking bets on arrival times. Closest guess wins a poem in his/her honor. Hey, I’ve got nothing better to do!
Peace, people!
I spent my morning doing important stuff. No details, but trust me on this. Important Stuff. By the time I’d finally showered and dressed, it was nearly time for lunch, so instead of grabbing my regular breakfast bar I headed to Tallahassee’s newest and coolest restaurant, The Edison, for brunch.
If location, location, location means anything at all, then the Edison has that in spades. Situated on one side (southeast?) of lovely Cascades Park, The Edison provides diners a front row seat to the park’s ponds, walking trail, a variety of Florida waterfowl, and a dramatic waterfall. I chose outdoor seating on this perfect fall Friday and was just delighted by a pair of egrets landing nearby.
My server was exceptional and knowledgeable about the craft beers on tap at The Edison. I ordered a Leinenkugel Harvest Patch Shandy. When the server brought that she also brought me a sample of Southern Tiers Pumking beer. Oh my! About halfway through my shandy I began feeling lightheaded. That’s when I realized I was essentially having a beer for breakfast. Oops!
My meal was good, not outstanding, though. I had a whole wheat flatbread topped with sundried tomatoes, broccoli rabe, and chicken, among other ingredients my uneducated palate wasn’t familiar with. The flavors blended nicely, but I found it a little dry. I’m no food critic, but I thought it needed a light olive oil or cheese base. The meal was served with a side of fries that weren’t served quite hot enough for my taste.
The Edison is still new. Overall it has great ambience, and I observed impressive looking meals being served. In addition to the multi-level restaurant there’s a wine bar, a casual coffee area, and a great indoor bar with a pair of big screen TV sets. I will definitely give The Edison another try.
Peace, people!
Four things one should never waste:
1. Time
2. Wine
3. Beer
4. The love of a good man.
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.
Peace, people!
The home adjacent to Doright Manor in the beautiful Lake Yvette neighborhood about eight miles west of Tallahassee is on the market. It’s a lovely place with real southern charm, so I thought I’d give it a little publicity.
Sandy, the owner, takes excellent care of this home, meticulously maintaining its spacious yard. I always gave her a hard time about making me look lazy. Granted, that’s not that difficult.
I love the little gazebo feature on the west side of the property. It makes me want to put on a floral chiffon dress and white gloves for afternoon tea.
I didn’t want to trespass, so I didn’t venture into the backyard, but the home sits just off a finger of Lake Yvette.
Pictured above are some of the vibrant flowers that adorn this property.
Sandy really thought she’d retire out here, but circumstances beyond her control necessitated a move into Tallahassee. It’s a terrific place for a retired couple.
Studly Doright and I are great neighbors. We don’t throw wild parties, and we don’t have any barking dogs. Plus, we’re fairly amusing, and we have a dock.
Come take a look!
Peace, people.
Praying for Eyebrowz 