I might not have mentioned my love of Star Wars in a while, but this is the perfect day to remind everyone. May the Fourth (be with you) is here and deserves some attention.
From the moment I first met Han Solo I was hooked.
When he took me along on his blast into hyperspace I turned to jelly.
When I feared that he might be crushed to death in the trash compactor I forgot to breathe.
And I’ll take Han’s words of comfort with me always. https://youtu.be/3bjEpLoL0ls
Peace, people!
I’ve been called “ditzy” more than once in my life but never “dizzy.” However, after a random dizzy spell threatened to take me out this afternoon I might have to embrace that nickname as well.
I was minding my own business, walking into a department store in search of my favorite brand and color of blush when objects in my peripheral vision appeared to be off kilter, a bit fuzzy. Hmmm, I thought, that’s weird, but continued to the cosmetics counter. Just a few yards from my destination I truly almost passed out. I quickly sat on a stack of ladies’ blouses and placed my head between my knees.
After a moment my equilibrium returned and I continued on my errand—with no luck, by the way. It seems my favorite blush, the one I’ve used for at least a decade is in danger of being discontinued. $&#%?!
Since the episode I’ve felt a bit on edge, worried that it might happen again. I drove home to Doright Manor on backroads just in case I needed to pull over, but there were no further dizzy spells—just the hint of a headache.
Of course being the hypochondriac that I am I now have decided I have either a brain tumor or something equally nefarious. Most likely it’s a sinus issue. Or maybe it’s the ghost of my latent talent rising to the surface and I’m going to be the next superstar on Broadway. Hello, Dolly, er Dizzy.
Peace, people!
There was a time in my life when Sunday evenings were fraught with angst. The weekend so close to ending. A new school week or work week impending. Now, as a self-employed writer I have more ambiguous feelings about a Sunday evening. The angst is gone because my time belongs to me.
I write all through the week, taking breaks when I feel the need, and I often forget what day it is. If Studly Doright weren’t still employed full time I’d likely forget the days altogether.
Speaking of Studly Doright, he still has the Sunday evening angst. Two more years and he too can forget what day it is.
Where are you on the continuum? Still dreading Monday morning or blissfully unaware? The Mamas & The Papas had some thoughts on that.
Peace, people!
I reached a critical point in my sequel to Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort this morning. After I completed the scene I sat back and relished the feeling of a minor accomplishment. Of course when I reread the scene tomorrow I’m sure there’ll be alterations to be made, but the scene has been laid out and that’s huge.
A reward was in order. I took myself to lunch at Sweet Pea Cafe in Tallahassee then I stopped by a local thrift shop to see if they had anything interesting. And, wow! I was rewarded with several neat pieces. I didn’t buy anything, but I was tempted. See if you can figure out which item I almost brought back to Doright Manor.
Peace, people!
I’m not a fitness nut. For a brief time in my life I was, but stuff happened and I reverted back to just being a nut.
At the wonderful age of 64 I have few aches and pains. Both of my knees still work and if it weren’t for a frozen shoulder and some digestive issues I’d feel almost as good as I did at 16. I’m quite a bit fuller figured than I was then, but I’m okay with that. (Hoping I didn’t just jinx myself with all this talk of feeling good.)
Yesterday morning my Apple Watch challenged me to a 20-minute dance workout. I like to dance. No, I LOVE to dance. My morning routine usually includes dancing to at least one of the songs on my Amazon Echo playlist. Three to six minutes of cardio after which I shower and then sit down for a writing session. That sequel isn’t going to write itself, you know. Could I attempt a 20 minute dance-a-thon? Challenge accepted.
And I made it! Granted, every now and then my dancing looked more like me standing in place and snapping my fingers to the beat than actual dancing, but I kept at it—even going a few minutes over time because I couldn’t figure out how to stop the workout timer on the watch.
So now I’m laying in bed trying to decide if I’ll go for it again. Another 20 minutes of sleep or 20 minutes of dance. It’s a tough decision. Yes, it is.
Peace, people.
Many, many years ago I participated in a youth conference at a small Baptist college in Plainview, Texas. The day’s events opened with a large group session at which several speakers welcomed us and offered their own particular brands of wisdom. They were all good, but the only one I really remember was a young man who told a hilarious story about misunderstandings. To this day I think it might be the funniest tale I’ve ever heard. Enjoy.
One day an English Lady was looking for a room in Switzerland. She asked the local schoolmaster if he could recommend anything she might like. She finally decided on a quaint little apartment and returned to the Hotel at which she had been staying. When she got back she suddenly remembered she had not seen a Water Closet (commonly known in America as a bathroom). She immediately wrote back to the schoolmaster asking him if the apartment had a W.C. The schoolmaster upon receiving the letter did not understand the meaning of the abbreviation, W.C. He took it to the local priest to see if he knew the meaning, and they finally decided it must stand for Wayside Chapel. This is how the schoolmaster answered the letter.
Dear Madam:
I am happy to inform you that we do have a W.C. It is located nine miles from the house in a beautiful garden surrounded by a grove of pine trees. It seats 300 people, and is open Monday, Wednesdays and Sundays, which is not real handy if you are in the habit of going regularly.
My dearest ladyship, I suggest you go on Wednesdays for there is an organ accompaniment and even the most delicate sound is audible. The W.C. is very busy during the summer months, so I suggest you go early and get a seat even though there is plenty of standing room. Some families come with packed lunches and make a day of it.
I am proud to say my daughter was married in the W.C. It was there she met her husband for the first time. I remember the rush for seats that day. There were ten people in the seat I usually occupy, and it was very uncomfortable. We have been planning a bazaar, and the proceeds are to go toward the purchase of plush seats, even though they are not needed. We recently had a bell erected on our W.C. which rings every time someone enters. My wife is a very delicate woman and cannot get to the W. C. very often. It has been six months since she last went, and it hurts her very much to go.
Well, I must say good-bye for now, and if you are still interested, I shall be happy to save you a seat next to mine. Sincerely,
The Schoolmaster
Oh mercy. It still cracks me up.
My sequel to my debut novel, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, is coming along nicely. I’m about 65,000 words in and the penultimate scene is staring me right in the face. I went to bed last night feeling pretty good about my efforts. Then around two a.m. I woke up thinking, It all feels a little Nancy Drewish at best or a grown up version of The Little Rascals at worst.
Somehow I managed to go back to sleep hoping my subconscious mind could find a solution. When Studly kissed me before he left for work around 5:30 I told him my early morning thoughts.
“Easy fix,” he said. “More cleavage. Cleavage in every scene.”
I laughed and laughed.
Later, at my typewriter: Paula leaned over the counter, treating Mark to a view of her well-defined cleavage. In his mind’s eye he replayed all the cleavage he’d ever been privileged to see. “In all my years I’ve never encountered cleavage as perfect as yours, Paula.”
Bolstered by his compliment, Paula exposed even more of her bosom. “Thank you. I do special cleavage-enhancing exercises.”
Mark smiled. “I apologize for ever confusing you with Nancy Drew. Her cleavage is nothing compared to yours.”
Paula winked. “I know. I sabotaged her efforts to have nice cleavage in the book, Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Missing Cleavage.
Of course I promptly deleted all that.
Today I shall attempt to fix my work in progress with little to no mention of cleavage.
Peace, people!
Yesterday morning while still in bed I attempted a selfie to test out a different setting on my iPhone. Now, I darn near blinded myself with the flash. I was still seeing the afterbursts an hour post-photo. But the worst part was the horrifying image captured by the camera.
I won’t share it here, but let’s just say Jabba the Hutt might have a fraternal twin.
Note to self: Camera angle is everything.
Peace, people.
In Tallahassee estate sales are often nothing more than glorified yard sales. I never get my hopes up that I’ll find something that will make my heart smile. But occasionally I come away with a perfect purchase.
Saturday morning I followed my GPS directions to a home in an older part of Tallahassee. Parking was interesting. The street adjacent to the house was narrow and curvy and the home sat atop a hill with a driveway right out of the Alps. One had to walk up the hill to access the home, and I felt like yodeling when I crested the rise. The reward for that climb was a nondescript home surrounded by overgrown shrubbery.
I considered just walking back down the steep incline and going to brunch, but my heart was still thumping from the walk up to the house, so I decided to go inside and just meander around until I could catch my breath.
So glad I did. If ever there was a truth behind “don’t judge a book by its cover” this was it. My only problem was not having enough money to buy every piece of art in the home.
Two professionally framed prints by artist Ted DeGrazia came home with me.
They look beautiful in my Texas-themed bedroom, replacing a goofy painting of a sunflower that I did years ago. I’m a lousy artist, so the sunflower will likely go to Goodwill or into a dumpster. I’m not sure Goodwill will accept it.
Peace, people!
It’s early Sunday morning on what promises to be a beautiful day in the Florida panhandle. Studly is on his way to the golf course, and I’m considering a trip to St. George Island. I just can’t make up my mind.
Pros: Sun, sand, waves, pelicans, beautiful views
Cons: Driving distance (about an hour and 45 minutes each way), potential for sunburn (going solo, there’s no one to apply suntan lotion to my delicate, lily-white skin)
I’ll ruminate in the shower and then flip a coin until I get the answer I want. Don’t laugh; it’s a tried and true method.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 