- Play Words With Friends
- Find hidden patterns in the carpet and follow them until you reach a wall
- Make up stories about your fellow passengers
- Eat
- Eavesdrop
- Read every sign backwards
- Read every sign in pig Latin
- Check your email
- Eat
- Read a book
- Count ceiling tiles
- Trace the alphabet with your foot
- Begin thinking in a British accent
- Eat
- Decide the man sitting beside you is an escaped convict. Move to another chair.
- Count designer handbags
- Google “escaped convicts”
- Google yourself
- Create a Venn diagram of escaped convicts and delayed airline passengers
- Eat
- Read a book
- Start a new game with a random person on Words With Friends
- Play “Dumb Ways to Die”
- Play repeatedly without improving
- Make a stupid list

ansfer-tray
Category: Life
Autumn on Tap
Written in response to the Daily Post’s daily prompt: Turn, Turn, Turn. Which season do you look forward to most?
Serve me a large mug of Autumn:
Oranges, golds, yellows, and
Browns
Fires on crisp October
Evenings.
Sweaters, hoodies, woolen
Socks
Broken-in blue jeans and a
Soft blue barn coat–
Flannel lined.
High school football,
After game party
Hay rack rides
S’mores cooked to perfection.
Delicious chill in the air
Tailor-made for cuddling.
Trick-or-treating and
Jack-o’lanterns
Hot apple ciders and chocolate
With marshmallows.
Fill my mug again.
Life’s Little Lessons #5
Be sure the pants or skirt you packed to travel home in after a week of dining on Texas’ finest cuisine have a bit of elastic in the waist. #cannotbreathe #fatandhappy.
Collections
there is a diverse cluster of angels
arranged in an vague approximation
of a semi-circle on the third shelf
of a bookcase in my living room.
the tallest among the collection,
a beautiful Isabel Blume piece
soars among her sisters, holding
high a pink ribbon of survival.
a gift from my daughter, the angel
commands and deserves center stage.
her siblings provide clues to
places visited by my friends and me.
a brightly colored fabric angel hails
from guatemala. she is plump and
comforting and is the only seraphim
I know who sports black pigtails.
two cherubim, one tiny and one merely
small, serenely smile, clutching plaster
lambs to their white plaster chests.
another guatemalan angel, created from
old, rolled sheet music soundlessly
sings praises to heaven above.
there are several others gathered there,
some sitting on books. i imagine they
read late into the night so from time
to time i rearrange them for variety.
one inexplicably holds a marble. i have
no idea where the marble came from, but
it seems appropriate in the angel’s hands.
Surviving a Fake Heart Attack
I could have sworn I’d written before about my near-fatal fake heart attack, but I could find no such post in my archives. Knowing me, I probably gave it some off-beat title like, “Only the Heart Knows” or “Deadbeat Heart” and now I’m unable to locate it. That shouldn’t be a problem with this post.
First, if one is going to have a heart attack a fake one is by far the best kind to experience. Chances are there will be a full recovery given enough time and plenty of TLC.
Studly Doright and I had recently moved into our temporary rental home on the northwest side of Tallahassee. Delighted by the pleasant February weather we decided to ride our bikes around our new neighborhood on that bright Sunday afternoon.
Having moved from Mahomet, Illinois, where February temperatures seldom climb into the 70’s, we pedaled about with abandon. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, the gentle hills of Tallahassee were beckoning.
We rode for thirty minutes or so. It certainly wasn’t a strenuous ride, or wouldn’t have been for someone used to the hills. Or to exercise. But I was neither.
When we returned to the house and I dismounted from my old green Schwinn, my heart was beating so hard I thought it would tear out of my chest. I wasn’t in pain, just embarrassed at being so out of shape. Finally it slowed its frantic bump-bump-bumping and we had a good laugh. I promised myself to begin doing some cardio so I could avoid this situation in the future.
I started dinner while Studly showered and that’s when the first Holy Cow pain hit my chest. I had to sit for a minute while the pain subsided. I knew it wasn’t good. Figured, in fact, that I was dying. When Studly found me sitting at a chair in the kitchen I told him just that.
“I’m dying.”
“No you aren’t.”
I returned to cooking, which in itself often seems enough to kill me. We had dinner and I poured myself a glass of wine and had my second Holy Cow pain. This time Studly witnessed it and we decided to go to the emergency room.
Of course we weren’t sure exactly where that was. Neither of us thought to use the GPS, instead we headed down Thomasville Road to where we thought we’d seen a hospital. Holy Cow pain number three hit just as we located Tallahassee Memorial Hospital’s emergency facility.
The facility was busy, but a suspected heart attack moved me to the front of the line, and I was in an exam room in under five minutes. Emergency staff began hooking me up to machines even as they took my information.
They were efficient and thorough and were about to send me home with a pat on the head and an admonition to take it easy on the exercise until I acclimated to the Tallahassee terrain when another pain hit and the EKG spiked. The young doctor on duty determined that I should have a stress test, but that their facility didn’t do those. With great earnestness he suggested I go to their hospital, spend the night on a monitor and have the stress test the next morning.
“You’ll be home by noon,” he said. I was then transported by ambulance to TMH’s hospital across town.
Noon he said. Ha! Two long days and countless tests later, my deductible for the year completely satisfied, I was told most likely a chest wall muscle was spasming, but that my heart was quite healthy.
Thank goodness for good health insurance. Apparently they pay for fake heart attacks just as well as for real ones. Studly makes a convincing argument that my hospital stay would have been considerably shorter had our insurance not been quite so good.
In case anyone wonders, I made a full recovery. The only lasting consequence is any time I have a pain of any intensity Studly is quick to remind me of the expense of a fake heart attack.

On a serious note–never ignore chest pains. Had this been a real heart attack these guys would have saved my life. I received excellent care, and I’m glad I had everything checked out.
Serious note number two: everyone deserves affordable health care.
Peace, people!
Countdown to Texas
Four days to Texas
Amarillo bound
Can’t wait to see my baby
When I hit that dusty ground.
Goin’ home, after years gone by
Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
Tears of joy and happiness
When my baby’s by my side.
Goin’ home.
Three days to Texas
I can feel it drawing near
Like a hot blast of air
And a cold Budweiser beer.
Goin’ home, after years gone by
Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
Tears of joy and happiness
When my baby’s by my side.
Goin’ home.
Two more days to Texas
Amarillo here I come
Where the air smells of cattle
And cowboys get work done.
Goin’ home, after years gone by
Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
Tears of joy and happiness
When my baby’s by my side.
Goin’ home.
One last day to Texas
Back to my country roots
I’ll put aside my flip flops
And don my old black boots.
Goin’ home, after years gone by
Goin’ home, tryin’ not to cry
Tears of joy and happiness
When my baby’s by my side.
Goin’ home.
And now the wheels are touching
a runway on the plains
broad prairie sweeps around me
It’s different, but the same.
I’m home, after years gone by
I’m home, tears start to fall
In my baby’s arms I’ve finally found
My home.


Confession
Rosemary’s Bathtub
True story:
At midnight Studly Doright and I were sitting in our oversized whirlpool tub. I was on my cell phone listening earnestly to a man speaking French while Studly looked to me for his next move. Then things really began to heat up. I know what you’re thinking: Ew!
Trust me, it wasn’t kinky, but it was and continues to be, a mystery. Read on.
Studly Doright and I are early to bed, early to rise people. Seldom do we stay up much past 9 p.m., but last night we had dinner with friends at Angelo’s in Panacea and didn’t get home until 10:30. It was a great evening on Ochlocknee Bay, but by the time we’d dropped off our friends we could barely keep our eyes open.
Once in bed we exchanged goodnight kisses, and Studly was snoring gently before I could even say “amen.” I had just drifted into that stage of twilight sleep, a dream on the tip of my brain, when a roar erupted from the bathroom. Not like a lion’s roar, more like the sound of an approaching demonic tornado from the movie Twister, or the sound an airplane’s engines make just before takeoff.
Studly jumped (crawled) from the bed and ran (limped) into the bathroom. I cowered. I cower well. Within a few seconds the roaring ceased and he returned to bed.
“What was that?”
“Just the drying cycle on the tub.”
“How’d you get it to stop?”
“Pushed a button.”
“You’re my hero.”
Again Studly was snoring before I even shut my eyes. Several minutes passed, before Roooooooaaaaaaaarrrr!
I got up with him this time, so I could see which button Studly pushed to keep him from pushing it again.
“Which button did you push?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t read the screen so I just pushed a button.”
At least I could read the instrument panel without my glasses, so I did the right thing and pushed a button that read, EXIT. Immediately, the drying cycle stopped. Problem solved. Back to bed.
Roooooooooaaaaaaaaarrrr!
“Dammit!”
Back to the tub. I suggested that Studly go find the breaker switch for the tub and turn it off. He took his phone to the garage while I sat in the tub with my phone and we talked as he scanned the circuit breakers.
“Did that turn it off?”
“Nope.”
“How about that one?”
“Nope.”
This fascinating conversation went on for a good five minutes, but we never hit pay dirt. When he came back in he stepped into the tub with me armed with the tub’s owner’s manual. I noticed a contact number on the instrument panel and thought, “What the heck? I’m calling.”
So at midnight I called the customer service line at BainUltra. Immediately, someone answered. In French. I don’t speak French. Fortunately I recognized the cadence of a voice mail message directing me to press two for English and to just stay on the line for French. Quickly I pressed two and was directed to a menu, in heavily accented English, only to be told that all customer service reps were busy and that we were to leave a detailed message as to our problem and they would return our call as soon as possible.
We’re still waiting, unless they’ve called Studly on the golf course this morning. That’ll tick him off.
The dryer went through two more loud cycles before it was completely done for the night. We did figure out how to reduce the amount of power it was using and lowered the temperature of the dryer after I realized my bum was getting hot as I perched on the side of the tub.
This morning I’ve read the entire trouble shooting section of the manual. Nowhere does it cover demonic possession or ghostly hauntings, but I have a feeling that’s what our French-Canadian friends are going to tell us when they finally call.
Peace, people!
Battle
the marital fire,
even after all these years
takes her by surprise.
anger hot and tense
searing inferno engulfs
scalding tears leave tracks
no compromising
his way or no way again she assumes the blame.
deemed instigator
without an understanding;
it is all her fault.
somehow her failings
have caused him to act rashly, a burden she bears.


