Category: Life

May I Have a Do-Over?

I went swimming this morning in Tallahassee. The skies were a bright blue with a few fluffy clouds to keep it from being too perfect. Another day in paradise, right?

My friends Barbara and Irena came about fifteen minutes after I’d begun my imaginative water ballet in the deep end of the pool at Trousdale Aquatic Center. When they’re present we chat about wine and books as we paddle from one side of the pool to the other. When they’re absent I pretend I’m a mermaid, so for a quarter of an hour I was in another world altogether. 

We had a swell time today and even made plans for wine and cake on Friday. After an hour of frolicking I bid the ladies adieu and headed to the showers. It didn’t take long for me to get squeaky clean, and soon I was ready to go in search of food. 

A lady I don’t know came into the locker room as I was leaving. “Did you hear? Shirley’s car was broken into.”

Now I do not know Shirley, but my sympathy was instant and sincere. Like an idiot I asked, “Here? In the parking lot?” 

“Yes,” she responded. “They smashed her window and took her purse.”

My heart sank. I’d left my purse under the seat of my car. I hurried out to the parking lot, but didn’t have to walk far in order to see that my driver’s side window had been broken. 

Glass covered the seat and floorboard of my Mazda. I cussed. Like a salty old sailor. Then I went to see if the police were already on their way. Four other cars had also been broken into and purses taken from every one. The police officers were efficient, but not very reassuring.

Apparently a group of enterprising thieves in our area targets cars in the parking lots of swimming pools and fitness centers and movie theaters knowing that their owners will be busy for quite awhile. They sure had a nice payday on this one.

It took me the better part of an hour to clear the glass out of my seat so I could drive without poking holes in my buttocks. Even then I pricked my hand on a sliver embedded in my steering wheel.

I spent the remainder of my day canceling credit cards, calling the department of state to notify them that my passport had been stolen, and the IRS to report that our measly little refund check was in the hands of ne’er-do-wells.

Thank goodness I didn’t have my social security card in my wallet. That was the one bright spot of the day. Probably the thing that bummed me the most was that they stole the beautiful bag that I purchased on my trip to Guatemala. 

So I want a do-over. I want to go to bed like Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day” and wake up to the sound of Sonny and Cher singing I Got You Babe. It could happen. Right?

Thanks for listening. 

Peace, people.

   
 

Estate Sale Find

Estate sales are my weakness. More so than garage sales, estate sales are often poignant looks into the lives of the people who’ve inhabited a home.

Last week I stumbled onto a sale in the Old Town section of Tallahassee. Many of the homes in this part of town are on large lots with huge trees and lovingly tended gardens. The estate sale home was one of these well-kept older residences.

Bypassing the items displayed in the covered parking area I entered the kitchen and found my treasure. 

  
I picked it up and was surprised by its weight which I estimate to be about a pound and a half to two pounds. I wasn’t sure what it was. Then I opened it:

  
Ah! A clue! Two little shot glasses. Surely this was some type of mobile Victorian bar set. Swizzle sticks and limes could go in the little trough….

Just as I was contemplating my first sip of whisky from one of the tiny glasses a woman approached me and said, “Oh! You found a nice inkwell. And it has the glasses intact!”

Yes, I nodded. I knew it all the time. 

  
I still think I could have a little nip from it. 

Peace, people!

Spam, Scam, Thank You Ma’am

Lately it seems I have a big old target painted on my back, and the bullseye says GULLIBLE in great block letters.

Last weekend as I left an arts festival in Tallahassee a young woman tried to solicit a ride from me saying she lived only a short distance from the park and her cell phone had died. She was well-dressed and in seemingly good health. The weather was absolutely unimpeachable.

I began thinking, if it’s so close why can’t she just walk? Before I could even respond to her request, she began striding to the passenger side of my car. I said, “Whoa there, little missy. Not this time.”

Her anger was immediate. I might’ve been called a terrible name or two. It appears I made the right decision. The more I thought on this the more I wondered what she’d been planning. Was she going to give me a sob story and ask for money? Did she plan on making a claim that I’d tried to harm her? 

Then this week I fielded a couple of email spam letters. 

The first was supposedly from iTunes. On the surface, it appeared almost legitimate, but on closer inspection I found more than one error.  
Today, I found this in my inbox:

  
Not nearly as well executed as the first email, this one doesn’t even have an attempt at a name in the greeting. “Dear,” seems awfully chummy. Next they’ll say, “Honey,” or “Darling.”

The grammar is less than perfect, and there are errors in typing. The best part is, this was supposedly sent out by PayPal. I don’t even have an account with PayPal.

Now I’m no spring chicken, but I am fairly savvy about Internet hoaxes and obnoxious spam mail. My worries are for the little elderly folks who will fall for these scams. 

And what about my would-be passenger? She looked like the all-American kid, but certainly was up to mischief of some sort. A more vulnerable person might have taken her at face value. 

Whatever’s up with my bullseye, it’s certainly given me an enhanced awareness of my surroundings. 

Be kind, be informed, be aware. This is a public service message from Nana Noyz. Please send your charitable donations to me so I can continue providing this valuable service. 

What? It was worth a try!

 

Irrelevant picture of a dog dressed in a boa.
 

Addendum: I just got another email! They’re getting progressively worse.

  

Peace, people.

Southern Belle with a Touch of Jackass

Once upon a time I held frequent flyer status on several airlines. My job seemed to keep me in the air more often than I was on the ground. I enjoyed flying, and good memories still outweigh the bad ones. 

My mantra when traveling by air was, “Patience, little jackass,” and I’d whisper it to myself over and over when luggage was lost or flights were delayed or I found myself in the middle seat between Dumb and Dumber. “Patience, little jackass,” is the punchline for a joke I can never remember, and it served me well. Most of the time.

After one particularly trying week, I was stuck in Chicago’s O’Hare airport awaiting my flight home to Studly Doright in Florida when the gate attendant for Northwest airlines announced the 5:15 flight was overbooked and they needed ten passengers to voluntarily give up their seats in return for travel vouchers and a seat on the first flight to Orlando the next day. No one volunteered. 

Every five minutes the gate attendant would repeat the request. Finally she sweetened the pot with an increase in the amount of the voucher, lodging, and shuttle service to and from a nearby hotel. I looked around, dialed Studly, and asked if a delay in my arrival would cause any great distress in his plans. He assured me he’d be ok, so I took the deal.

Nothing about the deal went well. There were no hotels with vacancies anywhere near the airport, so it was 9 p.m. before the plucky band of ten volunteers made it to the reception desk of a hotel thirty minutes away from O’Hare. My mantra was still serving me well, “patience, little jackass,” swirled around in my brain through the checking-in process. I politely bided my time behind the family of five and an elderly couple from my flght. 

When my turn came I graciously asked about our promised shuttle back to the airport in the morning. For our 6:15 flight, we’d need to depart the hotel at 4:30 a.m.

“Our shuttles don’t begin until 6 a.m,” came the response.

“The airline assured us we’d have shuttle service back to O’Hare,” I replied.

“The airline had no right to say that,” came the tight answer. 

By now all the volunteer passengers had gathered behind me, adding their voices to mine.

“You need to contact your manager immediately,” I countered, “We will have a shuttle in the morning at 4:30.”

This continued for a few heated moments before the receptionist contacted her manager. I didn’t give an inch. Bottom line, we got our 4:30 a.m. shuttle. 

On our way to our respective rooms one man, a New Yorker from his accent, stopped me and shook my hand. 

“You went from sweet little Southern Belle to calculating bitch in the blink of an eye, without ever raising your voice. Well done.”

But I didn’t sleep even a wink that night. I had no nightclothes or clean underwear, and only the hotel room toiletries were at my disposal. Worst of all I’d let my patience slip. Argh!

And, to add insult to injury I never got to use that voucher, so narrow were the restrictions attached to it by Northwest. I refuse to fly with them ever again. It’s a personal boycott, and I hope they feel the pinch.

I found this meme on Facebook one morning this week, and it prompted this post. I think it says it all:

  
I do try to keep the bitch, er, jackass, corralled.

Peace, ironically, people.

A Matter of Lice and Death

Now and again I find it amusing to browse Craiglist for employment opportunities. And who knows, one day I might find the perfect job, namely one that pays me a large sum of money for doing very little work. Oh, and it must be a position to which I can report as suits my schedule. 
Studly assures me that I need not work, but occasionally I’d like to have a bit of my own money so I can purchase things like birthday and anniversary gifts for him without having to fib. “Oh, that $200 missing from our account, um, that was for groceries.” 

He knows I don’t buy groceries, so why do I bother? It’s part of the game, I suppose. 

Anyway, I looked on Craigslist this afternoon and discovered a few interesting positions:

  
Of these, Head Lice Removal Technician and Funeral Associate sound promising. Who’s willing to serve as a reference?

  

Warning: Graphic Content

Unretouched photos of me sunbathing.   

Peace, people!

Love’s Song

I remember the night I fell in love. We were parked in the country sitting side by 

Side in the front seat of his powder blue Plymouth. His arm around my shoulders 

Warming us both. I’d been out of town a week for Christmas break. He’d missed me 

He’d said, and leaned in for a kiss. On a whim I snatched up his motorcycle helmet 

From the backseat and put it on. He kissed me through the face shield. I giggled, 

I think I might like you. Without hesitation he responded, I think I might love you.

He raised the barrier and kissed me again, my lips felt his heat as my heart did its 

Best bird imitation, fluttering helplessly. Life changed at that instant.

Our futures merged in some soothsayer’s crystal ball, ups and downs, crappy days,

Great ones, children and grands. Forty years together began in a Plymouth Fury. 

 


To Wine or not to Wine

For awhile I gave up wine and took up the drinking of beer. But the really good beer is so high in calories and my waistline was growing at such an incredible rate that I had to follow Nancy Reagan’s advice and just say no.

For about ten minutes I considered completely eschewing alcohol in the pursuit of clean living. I actually went two weeks with nothing more potent than a splash of mouthwash. Unfortunately Listerine doesn’t come in a Cabernet Sauvignon or a Chardonnay. 

For the first time since beginning my blog I stumbled headlong into a mild case of writer’s block. Then I ran across a really profound quote:

 
 I wasn’t doing it right! I was writing sober and left with absolutely nothing to edit.
Good old Papa. He also said:

  
Needless to say I’ve begun having a single glass of wine in the evenings. My doctor says it’s fine. I’m finding things to write about again. Life is good.

  
Peace, people!

Just a Scary Night in Jacksonville

Studly Doright and I drove over to Jacksonville last Thursday afternoon to purchase a 2010 Honda Goldwing he’d found on Craigslist. Even though Jacksonville isn’t terribly far from Tallahassee, Studly arranged to take Friday off from work so he wouldn’t be driving home from Jacksonville on an unfamiliar bike after dark. 

Craiglist purchases always make me nervous. After all, there have been cases in which the person placing the ad just wanted to murder and rob someone by luring them to a meeting spot. As a proactive measure once we got to the designated location I stayed in the running car with my finger poised to dial 9-1-1. Studly shook his head and laughed at me. I get no respect.

Once we had the bike and title in hand, I set the car’s GPS for our hotel address and with Studly following on the Goldwing we set off across Jacksonville. Studly had instructed me not to worry if we were separated, assuring me he’d find the hotel on his own if necessary.

As soon as we got on the interstate a car cut in between us and in spite of Studly’s instructions I slowed a bit to allow him to catch up. Before long I spotted him in my rear view mirror making a move to catch me. Unfortunately, the driver of the car fell victim to a bad case of road rage and I watched in horror as he attempted to intimidate Studly.

Now, my husband is a former motocross racer. His reflexes and instincts are still sharper than those of most people I know, but this angry driver was incredibly aggressive and determined to teach Studly Doright a lesson.

When our exit popped up I hoped this person would stay on the interstate, but no, he came off right behind my husband. We immediately hit a stop light, and the driver stopped beside Studly. I was watching intently in case I needed to intervene. Studly was nodding. The driver was yelling; although, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. 

Apparently, the angry man finally felt vindicated and took a left turn as soon as the light turned green. Studly and I made it to our hotel without further incident. 

Once in our room I asked Studly what had happened. “Oh,” he said calmly, “he threatened to shoot me.”

My knees buckled. To think I’d been so concerned about the Craigslist seller and only mildly worried about the road rage guy. I didn’t sleep well that night. 

In the morning we left the Goldwing at the hotel and headed to a diner for a great breakfast. Much to my surprise Studly suggested we find a beach, so we followed the signs to Hanna Park, a gorgeous two mile stretch of powder soft sand. The tide was out, and we plucked a handful of delicate, intact shells from the beach.   

   
The walk and the clean tang of salt and sea cleared my head. All was right in the world, and I banished the potential violence of the night before from my mind. After taking Studly back to his bike we parted ways for the rest of the day. I drove down to St. Augustine to see what the outlet stores had to offer and Studly headed home to Doright Manor.

I hope that stupid driver came down with a bad case of diarrhea followed by extreme constipation and excessive gas. Otherwise, I wish him well. 

Peace, people.

  

Talking to Myself

Have you ever completed a story or poem and thought to yourself, “Wow! That’s really pretty?”

And then responded, “Thanks!”?

I might’ve just done that.

  
Peace, people!