Oddly enough this poem came to me while I was watching Ender’s Game on HBO this afternoon. In solidarity with my Texas relatives I’ve taken a snow day, plus I still have a nasty head cold, so watching HBO is probably therapeutic.
Back to Ender’s Game–I was struck by how purposeful his education was and for the thousandth time reflected on how without purpose mine was. Yes, I was taught to read, write, and perform mathematics, but to what end? Upon graduation from high school I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do or become.
When I went to college the first time, I was still purposeless. It seemed silly for me to continue spending my parents’ money on a big “if”.
Even when I returned to school I had no real desire to become a teacher; it just made sense for our family. I wonder, how do others deal with this lack of desire to be something specific. I know I had aspirations at one time, but I cannot remember them at all.
If I ever want a good laugh I need go no further than Craigslist, that online domain where goods are bought, sold, and traded, where jobs are found and relationships launched.
I’ve never actually purchased anything advertised on Craigslist, nor have I discovered a job worthy of my considerable talents, but there is something slightly mesmerizing about Craigslist. I’m especially fond of the personal ads and rants and raves.
In the relatively small market of Tallahassee I discovered a potential 50 Shades of Grey scenario in the making:
Tallahassee Italian late 50’s (looks and acts younger) seeks attractive open minded younger female for a 50 shades relationship. Please send description or pic in first reply. No experience necessary if interested in learning the lifestyle. Be open to :
-being shown off
-shared
-light bondage
-spanking
-costumes
-role playing
-being trained
-obediant
-more
I am a classy, patient, understanding teacher. If you have experince let me know.
He says he’s classy, so he must be, right? He does have some serious spelling deficiencies, though.
And how about this rant I politely edited about an older female driver from a self-avowed nice young man?
You are a menace. You are not in a position to lecture anyone on driving or etiquette. I apologize for ending our conversation with an abrupt “F____ You” and I admit it was not my finest moment. However, I was a bit flustered after you almost caused an accident and then ambushed me in the parking lot. When I calmly explained to you that I had the right of way, you agreed. Then you claimed that the rules did not apply to you and proceeded to denigrate me, my manners, and my upbringing. My manners are fine, because I was not raised by people like you.
If I see you pull a stunt like that again, I will do the polite thing and call the cops.
Sincerely,
Nice Young Man
I couldn’t make this stuff up, folks!
So if you’re in need of a giggle, check out Craigslist. Oh, and read my poem:
Craigslist
Whatever I need
Day or night
A quick search of
Craigslist can make
It all right.
Need a car?
A job or a house
To rent?
Golf clubs or maybe
A small pup tent?
Personal ads
In search of romance?
Casual encounters
Might turn raves
Into rants.
Just need to discuss
A topic online?
The forums can
Guide you,
If you just have the time.
Oh Craigslist however
Did we survive
Before you brought
This variety
Into our lives?
I’ve decided I’m probably not dying anytime soon, but I definitely have a cold. A serious cold, as opposed to a frivolous cold. In order to form a more perfect healing environment I drafted the Cold Sufferers’ Bill of Rights:
1. The cold sufferer shall have the right to construct a nest of pillows and blankets. All items necessary to healing and/or comfort shall be arrayed in appropriate positions either within or precisely adjacent to said nest. Items might include, but are not limited to, pillows, tissues, medications, books, and the t.v. remote.
2. The cold sufferer has the right to suspend by the thumbs anyone attempting to disturb the aforementioned nest.
3. The cold sufferer has the right to the entire bed for as long as his/her cold shall last.
4. The cold sufferer has the right to moan pitifully periodically with no repercussions, including, but not limited to sarcastic eye rolls or sighs of exasperation.
5. The cold sufferer has the right to be waited upon hand and foot for the duration of the cold.
6. The cold sufferer is excused from any domestic duties for the duration of the cold and perhaps beyond depending on mood and acting ability.
7. The cold sufferer has the right to request his/her minions er, attendants make as many trips to the drugstore as are necessary for the health and well-being of the cold sufferer.
8. The cold sufferer is deemed right in any debate. Arguing can curtail the body’s ability to heal.
9. The cold sufferer should be allowed full control of the remote. If she/he needs to watch Star Wars, Episodes IV, V, and VI repeatedly for a full week, so be it.
10. The cold sufferer shall be given immunity from repercussions relating to anything said or done during illness.
That’s all my poor stuffed up head can handle for now. Studly, bring me another hot toddy. (snapping fingers) Studly? Studly? He always was a bit of a rebel.
I have a cold. My body has picked a fine time to come under attack. No, really. I just completed testing at daycare facilities in our area, and we don’t have company coming for another month. A cold couldn’t have settled in my head at a better time.
It’s still pissing me off. The local weather has begun warming up beautifully. Frogs are singing a happy harmony down by the lake. Birds are flitting about in courtship. And I’m sick.
I looked on Pinterest for cold remedy ideas. Between sneezing, sniffling, and hacking I found a cornucopia of suggestions.
Try as I might I didn’t find wine mentioned in any of them. I could get behind a cure that recommended I drink a glass of wine or two (or three or four) with dinner.
Unfortunately everything I’ve read suggests laying off alcohol for the duration.
I’m still holding out hope that this malady is just a 24-hour bug. I’m not sure it’s in my best interest to go without the grape for too long.
Peace, People!
P.S. I might be able to substitute whisky just this once.
Once a month the golf club to which Studly belongs hosts a trivia night. Last month our four person team fared abominably. We did well on the science, geography, and sports questions, but pretty well stunk when it came to song titles and artists. Unfortunately every single question had a music question tied to it as a bonus.
With another trivia night on the horizon I thought I should do a little studying. Pinterest is a great source of trivia questions, and more importantly, answers.
And I’ve been playing Trivia Crack.
Contrary to its name I don’t find Trivia Crack all that addictive. Compared to my old Candy Crush addiction Trivia Crack is like a walk in the park. Amusing, but not habit-forming.
I win more often than not at Trivia Crack, but to be honest most of the questions are ridiculously easy.
I’ve also switched from the Howard Stern channels on SiriusXM to music channels hoping to sharpen my knowledge of singers and songs. Did you know there are bands named Neon Trees and Imagine Dragons?
And my parents thought The Beatles and The Monkees were strange names for bands.
Studly Doright and I are not messy people. Well, Studly isn’t, but I am. And I have few domestic skills. While I’ve begun cooking for the Studmeister I still don’t clean for him. Twice each month a lovely woman comes to Doright Manor and makes everything sparkle like a shiny, new penny. What I do before the lovely Rosa sets foot in our home every other Friday is, according to Studly, pretty ridiculous.
On Thursday evening I go room to room inspecting for misplaced items and returning them to their appropriate positions. I scour around the cats’ litter boxes. Anything in the kitchen that looks even remotely as if it’s been used goes in the dishwasher or the recycling bin. Trashes are emptied, counters wiped down. I straighten the closet and align our shoes. On Friday morning I hide everything that’s been left on the bathroom counter in the cabinets and clean out the cat boxes one more time.
By the time I’ve finished, the house almost appears as if it doesn’t need cleaning at all. That, of course, is my goal. Well, I’m writing this at 7:25 on a cold Thursday, February evening. I guess I’d better get to work. The house isn’t going to clean itself.
I’ve been shopping for clothes. I swear my waist size expands two inches every time I step inside the dressing room door. In my mind, I’m the same size I was in high school: Twiggy thin with terrific, long, shapely legs.
However, the Dillard’s dressing room mirror indicates I’m now more akin to Humpty Dumpty with thighs that have migrated south, puddling just below my knees.
The things that fit make me feel like a frumpy old matron instead of the hot broad I am inside. But if I dress to please that broad, I end up looking like a ten dollar hooker.
After two hours of shopping, sweating, and cussing, I bought one item–an unsweetened iced tea at McAlister’s. It fit perfectly.
Laundry Day Monday
Clothes grouped
Strictly in neat piles:
Whites with like
Darks the same.
Delicates,
Hand washables,
Unmentionables
Require special
Piles all their own.
Yet I’ve found the
Nearer I come to
Laundry Day’s end,
That some piles slyly
Begin to migrate,
Merging with similar
Neighbors
Cutting ten loads
Into five.
And only I know the
Rules have been broken.
I’m a bit of a maverick that way.
Shhhh.
Twenty-something mom
Dangles baby on her lap
Feeding chubby cheeks
Green beans from a
Tupperware dish.
Baby points to a brightly
Colored picture above their
Heads then reaches for a
Hug.
Businessmen, one a
Fast talker, both clear-eyed
Exchange a series of
Ideas in a flurry of
Serious conversation
Portfolio splayed before
Them. Fingers point for
Emphasis. Fast talker
Shrugs.
Two ladies my age
Highlighted hair
Bobbed expensively
Laugh as only truly
Good friends can
Sharing common
Experiences that are
Even better retold over
Scones.
Two pairs of young
Couples engage in
Rituals of courtship.
One seemingly new
From the awkwardness
Of their conversation.
The other pair might be
In love. They constantly
Touch.
There are other solos
Like me: an elderly man
Playing games on his iPad
Sound turned way up.
A career girl, wheeled
Briefcase at her feet,
Availing herself of free
Wifi on her laptop, reads
Email.
My venti chai latte
Keeps me warm on
This uncharacteristically
Cold Tallahassee day.
People watching keeps
Me amused. Wondering
About their lives outside
Starbucks keeps me
Writing.
Remember learning to square dance in third grade? I do. Vividly. I was always taller than my classmates, extremely skinny, and terribly awkward. Thank goodness the music teacher assigned partners, otherwise, none of the boys would have ever chosen me. As it was they made dour faces when my name was paired with theirs. Ah, the joys of youth. 😁The dancing itself was fun, though–bouncy and upbeat, and I wasn’t bad at following the steps.
Fast forward 49 years.
Studly and I recently had the opportunity to attend a contra dance with a dating couple we’ve come to know and whose company we enjoy. The lovely M is a tiny bundle of energy with an irrepressible enthusiasm for life. D is one of Studly’s golf buddies, and a lot like Studly.
Recently we learned that M is an aficionado of contra dancing, and that she and D had attended a dance at the Tallahassee senior center. M made it sound like a hoot, and with just a little coaxing Studly agreed to give contra a try. Before attending, I did a little research:
According to Wikipedia, “Contra dance (also contradance, contra-dance and other variant spellings) refers to several partnered folk dance styles in which couples dance in two facing lines or in a group of four. It has mixed origins from English country dance and French dance styles in the 17th century. Sometimes described as New England folk dance, contra dances can be found around the world and have some popularity in North America and the United Kingdom where weekly or monthly dances and annual dance weekends are common.”
Now to me, contra sounded a lot like square dancing. I couldn’t wait to get out on the floor and sharpen those long-dormant skills. I mean, how hard could it be? After all, they teach third graders to do it! And this time around, I’d have a partner who didn’t grimace every time we did a promenade.
At first glance, contra had a lot in common with square dance. Many of the terms were identical: do-si-do, promenade, alemande, chain, etc., but in square dance one stays within one’s square of four people, whereas in contra only heaven and the dance caller know where one will end up.
Now I enjoy dancing. There was a time in my life when I’d have burned up that dance floor, alas, my 58-year-old out of shape body did not adapt well to the rigors of contra. It was exhausting, not just physically, but mentally. If the caller said “do-si-do,” I “do-si-didn’t.” I crow hopped and ran from pillar to post in every permutation. By the end of the first dance I was fairly sure I was going to puke up the Mexican food I’d indulged in an hour earlier. And if I was struggling, poor Studly, an avowed non-dancer, was like a hog on ice.
At one point in the evening Studly and I gratefully found a place to rest and recuperate from being flung around the room like a couple of oversized pinballs when a nice looking older man approached me with hand out asking me to dance.
“I’m really awful at this,” I said, trying to soften his expectations.
“I know,” he smiled. “I’ve been watching.”
I laughed and relaxed, sort of. My new partner was quite accomplished at contra and offered words of advice as we progressed through the dance. I was still lost much of the time, but I ended up approximately where I should have at the end of the dance, and that was quite an accomplishment.
Even as difficult as I found contra I still had fun. A lively Irish group provided the music. I could have happily tapped my toes to the fiddle playing all night. Dancers representing a wide variety of age groups, from their early twenties to the geriatric crowd twirled, stomped, and hooted to the tunes.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to get Studly to return; although, the physical activity would be so good for both of us. The next dance is in two weeks, so just in case, I’m going to practice spinning in circles while trying not to puke.
Praying for Eyebrowz 