Raising a Glass

Last night I poured myself a Guinness and toasted the memory of my dear friend, Julie.

Smart, funny, caring Julie. She embodied love and laughter, and she lived a beautiful, yet all too brief, life, leaving this world on Saturday morning at the age of 63.

Not long after Studly Doright and I moved to Tallahassee, I went to work part time for an educational research group at Florida State University. My job was to implement lessons designed by educational researchers and at the end of the year, administer diagnostic tests to children at several local elementary schools.

At one of these schools I was working in a room with this woman who just had a way about her. She wore flowy dresses and always had a smile. The children in her groups adored her, and she never had to raise her voice. They just wanted to make Miss Julie happy. Heck, after awhile we ALL just wanted to make Miss Julie happy.

Julie and I became friends. Occasionally she’d come out to Doright Manor, and we’d walk and talk. Her stories were fascinating. She and her very British mum had once lived in Alaska and owned a tea room there. She knew all sorts of interesting people and cultivated great friendships with folks from all walks of life.

After I stopped working for the research group, Julie and I saw each other less often, but we kept in touch via Facebook and text. She invited me along to movies and concerts and we had lunch together several times. I always knew she was “right there” if I needed a friend, and I hope she knew that about me, too.

Julie was the kind of person who’d drop everything and take off cross country to care for an ailing friend. The kind of person who’d show up to listen to a friend (me) tell one of my silly stories in a public venue, and laugh louder than anyone. And oh, what a lovely laugh!

Julie was the kind of person whose door was always open and whose heart was filled with love for people and the planet. I’d never really known a true earth mother until I met Julie, and I’m so much richer for having had her in my life.

Our very last conversation was on Facebook on Friday evening, the night before she died. We’d both gone to see “Yesterday,” at different theaters and discussed it briefly. I wish I’d kept the conversation going into the night and through the next day. Maybe we could’ve made it past the episode that claimed her life.

And the last thing of mine she shared on Facebook? I cried fresh tears when I read it.

Let me assure you, even though she didn’t make it to 65, Julie didn’t take anything for granted. She lived with her entire heart and soul. And I know that all who knew her were enriched by the relationship.

So Julie, this is for you. May your spirit rest in beauty and peace.

Love,

Leslie

Where The Toys Are

My cats, Patches and Scout, have two baskets full of toys. Studly Doright and I get a kick out of watching them sift through the baskets’ contents until they find the toy that most exactly fits their needs at the moment.

Sometimes it’s a weird blue thing with feathers on either end.

Often it’s the plastic ring off of a plastic milk carton.

Most often, though, it’s a stuffed mouse.

We have at least a dozen varieties of mice.

The current favorite toys, though, are catnip filled pillows.

Notice that the edges have been gnawed and drooled on.

All of the toys pictured above, as well as several more, had been in hiding for awhile. I had wondered about the pillow, but the cats have so many toys I hadn’t really worried about a few that had gone missing.

Then this morning I was doing some stretches on the den floor and this is what I saw beneath the sofa:

Now I can’t get this song out of my head:

https://youtu.be/Rk4ZKVKP7Vc

Peace, people!

I’m Really Pissed Off at Death

I’ve railed at the heavens,

Cursed and cried,

Tried to rip out that cold, grey stone that’s lodged itself between my fourth and fifth ribs.

When confronted, Death shrugged and smiled a sad smile,

Like, “What did you expect? You know I’m at the end of every rainbow, the finale to every concert, the resolution of every song.”

So I hauled off and punched him. Right in his smug face.

He acted as if it hurt him more than he’d hurt me.

Part of me appreciated that, but I’m still pissed.

And so very sad.

In the past week I’ve lost three friends–two from my childhood and one I’ve known only a precious few years. Death can go suck eggs. This rant is for Mike, McArthur, and Julie.

Interesting People

A couple of nights ago Studly Doright and I enjoyed dinner in a slightly upscale (for Tallahassee) restaurant. We’d ordered our meal, and Studly excused himself to go to the men’s room. In his absence I looked around the room and listened to the buzz of conversation going on around us.

I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, I promise; nevertheless, my ears couldn’t help but pick up the tale being told at the table just on the other side of an artfully arranged barrier between our table and one a few feet away.

At that unseen, but nearby table, one man was holding court, detailing an encounter he’d had with someone of note. I never quite heard who he’d met, but the oohs and ahhs from his fellow diners indicated he/she was pretty impressive.

The longer I eavesdropped, I mean, listened, though, the more I realized that regardless of who this man had met he’d have made them seem amazing. Maybe it was his daughter’s pre-K teacher. Perhaps he was talking about the cashier at his local grocery store. It appeared to my ears that it was the storyteller who was the fascinating person.

I don’t mean that in a negative way. He wasn’t a boor. He just had a way of holding everyone’s attention and making a story about something mundane come alive. My husband has that ability. When he gets into storytelling mode, people listen.

I only wish I could pull that off. When I launch into a tale chances are 99% of those at the table tune out by the fourth sentence. And that poor sucker who represents the 1% is either too kind or maybe too inebriated to lose interest.

When Studly returned to the table I shifted my attention to him.

“So,” I asked. “How was your day?”

As he began to regale me with his tales of a fascinatingly ordinary day, I pictured someone at another table listening to him with a smile. Knowing an interesting person is infinitely better than being one.

Peace, people.

The Great Revolutionary War Air Battle

Just when we think that trump can’t get any dumber he says or does something so imbecilic that the bar gets lowered another notch or two. On the Fourth of July he managed to take his stupidity to a whole ‘nother level. I’d say it’s the basement, but he’d just prove me wrong again.

For those who didn’t hear his speech at his big 4Th of July, multimillion dollar extravaganza , let me share a portion of it it with you here:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/2019/07/04/independence-day-donald-trump-trips-up-revolutionary-war-history/1638531001/

The meme below says it all:

Yes, that’s right folks, we shut down those airports, thus winning the Revolutionary War.

As you might expect, the internet had a field day with Trump’s stupidity. Here are some of my favorites.

Leave it to General Washington, call signal Cherry Tree, to lead our forces from the air.

I wonder if the flight attendants had to ask passengers to place their electronics in airplane mode.

Or Newark, in a pinch.

Twitter had some of the best posts:

Of course Trump has blamed his gaffes on a TelePrompTer glitch. But didn’t he famously criticize his predecessor for using the TelePrompTer?

Seems like he also ridiculed Hillary Clinton for the same reason:

The truth is that Trump tends to go off script when he feels like his followers’ short attention spans are wandering. He’ll say whatever outrageous statements pop into his head just to rile them up. This week, it’s Revolutionary War airports. Next week, who knows? Martians invading through porta potties to help the North defeat the Confederacy? Hey, it could happen if the TelePrompTer goes out again.

Peace, people!

Snapshot #245

I’m calling this one, Fox, no Henhouse.

This little lady padded across my backyard yesterday morning. I tried to get a better shot, but this is it folks. My cats weren’t impressed, but they did watch her closely to make sure she didn’t try to steal anything belonging to them. I do love living in a forest.

Peace, people!

Parade (Throwback)

Still one of my favorite blog posts. I wrote it my first year as a blogger, and I love it because it paints me as I wish I’d been in high school–the cool chick who did her own thing during the big parade. Instead, I was a band geek afraid to rebel. Oh, to have a few do overs.

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2015/07/26/parade/

These Colors Don’t Run

I’ll wear my patriotic shirt

On a scorching July day

Red, white, and blue displayed

In the shape of a flag, hurray!

RED for valor and strength

Although these days it seems

That bluster and lies have replaced those

The further right we lean.

And WHITE for innocence and purity

Even as we confine kids to cages

Perhaps white stands for blindness now

As we ignore their desperate faces.

BLUE for justice and perseverance–

Justice for whom? Perseverance in what?

When our courts favor a select few

And our system leaves some to rot.

Let freedom ring, we cry

The Stars and Stripes salute

But a kneeling man is chastised

His freedom of speech is moot

I know my verse is lacking, y’all, and I’ll never be a true poet. But my country is hurting right now. And worse, we’re hurting innocents. I’ll celebrate the 4th, but not with a blind eye to the atrocities we’re committing.

Peace, people

Hairy Situation

On Tuesday I had a haircut and color scheduled in Blountstown, but first I had to drive into Tallahassee for a few groceries. I knew that the Publix on Tennessee would have everything I needed, and it’s on my side of town, so I pulled in there. After gathering everything on my list, including some amazing tomatoes, I went to the checkout.

The young lady stationed at the register complimented me on my hair. I thanked her then told her I was scheduled for a trim that afternoon. All perfectly innocent, right? Wrong. The slightly older-than-me woman who came up behind me in the line began a rant aimed at me and women like me.

She began with a rueful laugh, “You modern women,” she sneered. “You think you can ignore God’s law.”

I’m sure my eyes grew large, but I continued with my transaction and smiled at her, hoping to calm her down.

She quoted 1 Corinthians 11:15 in a scary voice, saying, “But if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For her hair is given to her for a covering.”

“You have shamed yourself,” she cried. “God’s word is not negotiable.”

Now, I looked this woman in the eye and calmly said, “Ma’am, I’m a breast cancer survivor.”

You should’ve seen her face. She backed down without saying another word. Of course I didn’t tell her that my diagnosis was 11 years ago, and that since I never had to undergo chemotherapy I never lost my hair, but the self-righteous old biddy deserved a bit of a comeuppance. No regrets.

Peace, people

It’s My Name; I’ll Pronounce it Anyway I Like

When I was a child, a teacher once told my elementary class something that kind of blew my mind. We were discussing spelling rules (i before e except after c, or when sounding like ‘ay’ as in neighbor and weigh) and someone mentioned that her uncle had a name that broke the rule. The teacher then said that proper names don’t have to follow any rules–that one’s name could be spelled “B-O-B” but pronounced “Methuselah” if the person so desired.

Since at that age I wasn’t particularly fond of my given name of “Leslie,” I was intrigued by this revelation. Perhaps I could insist that my name was actually Cynthia or Elizabeth or Kimberly or anything more feminine sounding than Leslie. Well, no one was on board with that, so I just settled for being plain old Leslie.

I do pronounce my name with a soft “s” sound rather than with a “z” sound as many Leslies do. Once a girl who shared my name but used the “z” sound told me that the “s” sound was for males named Leslie, while girls used the “z.” She told me my name’s pronunciation was masculine. I disagreed, so I slugged her.

Just kidding. I politely disagreed with her and went on my way, mentally punching her with gusto. She was rather obnoxious, after all.

My mom gave me the lovely, feminine middle name of D’Aun, (pronounced Dee Awn) though. In fact, she settled on it way before coming up with my first name. Apparently, her best friend at the time had named her daughter, D’Aun, and Mom loved it so much that she wanted to give that name to her firstborn daughter. However, since she didn’t want to copy her friend, she used it as my middle moniker.

For awhile after my birth I really didn’t have a first name, but my Nannie (Mom’s mom) had recently read Giant by Edna Ferber, in which the main character’s name is Leslie. Everyone involved (except moi, dammit), agreed that Leslie paired well with D’Aun, and it was a done deal.

When I saw the film, Giant, I was super stoked because finally a lovely, feminine woman (Elizabeth Taylor) would answer to my name! Surely I’d then be able to embrace this designation. My hopes were dashed when the pronunciation chosen by the filmmakers was “Lezlie.”

Lately I’ve been taking an informal poll of women sharing my name. So far, it’s about 50/50. I’m not inclined to punch the “z” aficionados anymore, but they shouldn’t make any assumptions about my femininity based on an s.

Do you know any Leslies? Which is it, z or s?

Peaze, people.