A Tragedy in One Ridiculously Short Act

Rob Moore: husband/father
Shelley Moore: wife/mother
Randy and Jill Moore: Offspring of the above
Gate Attendant
Mr. O’Rourke, supervisor

Setting: Dublin airport. Chicago departure gate, summer 2018.

Scene: The Moore family hurries through the Dublin airport to catch a flight home after two weeks vacationing in Ireland. They’re an ordinary middle class family exhausted after the adventure of a lifetime.

Rob (yawns): C’mon everyone. Here are your passports. Randy, got your stuffed leprechaun?

Randy: Yup! Hey can we rent a movie?
Rob (rumpling his son’s hair): We’ll see. I’m betting you sleep the whole way!

Shelley: Honey, check the kids in. I need to grab some ibuprofen before we board. I’ll be right behind you.

Rob: Make it quick, hon. Jill, stop sulking, put your phone in your bag and get in line.

Jill (dragging her feet): I don’t want to go!

Rob (smiling indulgently): That’s what you said when we left Chicago. 

The family, minus Shelley, boards the plane. Shelley finds the closest kiosk and purchases a mild pain reliever. She returns to the boarding line.

Gate Attendant: Passport and boarding pass, please.

Shelley (smiling): Here you go.

Gate Attendant (frown): Mrs. Moore, can I get you to step aside?

Shelley: Um, sure, but my family is already on the plane….

Gate Attendant (motions to a supervisor): Mr. O’Rourke, could you check Mrs. Moore’s identification?

Mr. O’Rourke (smiling): Certainly. Come with me, please, Mrs. Moore. 

Shelley: But….

Mr. O’Rourke: Just a matter of clarification. Let me look up your information. (Punches information into computer) 

Mr. O’Rourke: Oh.

Shelley: Oh, what?

Mr. O’Rourke: You’ve been flagged as a possible terrorist. 

Shelley (looks down at her mom jeans and Coexist tshirt.): Honestly? Do I LOOK like a terrorist?

Mr. O’Rourke: Well, to be honest Mrs. Moore you look perfectly reputable to me, but have you by any chance registered as a Muslim in the past year or so.

Shelley: I did. I’m a Christian, but I wanted to stand up to Trump and his crazy Islamaphobia. 

Mr. O’Rourke: Ah. I see. Could you step behind the screen here for just a minute?

Shelley (following request): Sure, but…Wait!

Muffled Bang

Mr. O’Rourke (Coming out from behind the screen): Shame about all those Americans.

Gate Attendant: Indeed. But the Trump Foundation is paying such a good bounty on each head. 

On board the plane the remainder of the Moore family has gotten settled into their seats and immediately fallen asleep for the long flight to Chicago. 


Cooking for Studly: Thanksgiving for Two

Those of you who are new to my blog might not realize that I have a life outside of bashing our president-elect, but I do! I live with my husband, Studly Doright, and our two feline supervisors, Scout and Patches, in our own little piece of paradise that I like to call Doright Manor.

We have two perfect children and five absolutely superior grandchildren (funny how that works, seeing as how Studly and I just barely peek over the average range), but they live far away from our home outside of Tallahassee, Florida.

Studly and I were high school sweethearts in Texas, and in forty years of marriage we’ve moved 14 times, lived in five different states, and I’ve lost count of the number of homes we’ve shared. We aren’t retired yet, but it’s number one on our bucket list.

Studly married me thinking I’d turn out to be a great cook like his mom (Saint Helen) or my mom, (Gingymama), but I had neither the aptitude nor the attitude to develop into much more than a mediocre heater upper. Poor, poor Studly.

Twice a year, though, I focus all of my energies into cooking a kick ass holiday meal. I plan and prepare and check ingredients off of lists and shop and preheat–all the necessary stuff. Sometimes, it all turns out perfectly. Other times we pretend. Wine helps.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day here in the US. So today I’m baking a pecan pie, hard boiling eggs, and making cornbread. Doright Manor smells amazing. I’ll arise early tomorrow to prep and roast a turkey, make cornbread dressing, a fruit salad, and deviled eggs, along with Studly’s favorite green bean casserole (ugh!) and cranberry sauce. With any luck neither of us will need to pretend that it tastes great. Again, wine helps.

It’s just going to be the two of us for dinner, well and the cats, but I’m thankful that we are healthy and have each other. I’m most thankful that at Christmas we’ll get to see our kids, grandkids, and Saint Helen, when we congregate in Nashville, Tennessee, for a family holiday extravaganza.

Now, the smoke alarm hasn’t sounded even once this morning, so all is well at Doright Manor. I’d best go, though, and open a bottle of wine. Just in case.

Peace, and Happy Thanksgiving, people.

A “Must Read” Award

Every now and then I’m nominated for an award on WordPress. The first time this happened I was all aglow. What an honor! And truly, it’s always an honor for someone to consider my humble little blog worth a mention.

But the awards come with rules:

Nominate 5 or 8 or 135 bloggers and link to them.

Answer a dozen questions.

Thank people.

Stand on your head and wiggle your toes while whistling “Yankee Doodle.”

And while I might’ve made that last one up, the sad truth is I’m a lousy rule follower, and the last few times I’ve found myself a nominee I have politely excused myself from the game.

 So I thought, what if I just  made up my own award? With no rules, only a suggestion. Ta da! It’s the “Must Read” award. I’m awarding it to Mike Steeden, one of the most imaginative writers I follow. He is a quirky genius with a flair for the absurd, writing a mixture of prose and poetry that I find delightful. I highly suggest you read Mike’s blog:

The only suggestion attached to this award is that Mike might give out his own “Must Read” Award to anyone (other than me) that he absolutely thinks others will enjoy. Since I faithfully follow Mike’s blog perhaps I’ll pick up a new author to follow, as well. 

So go on now. Read Mike’s blog. Thank me later. 

Disclaimer: I’m sorry if there’s already a must read award out there. My lack of originality is appalling in that case.

Old White Cars

My subconscious has been working overtime during many mangled hours of sleep. Since Trump secured the electoral college numbers to make him president-elect, I’ve awakened from uneasy dreams multiple times in the middle of every night with a horrible taste in my mouth and a lead ball feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m pretty sure that along with the nightmares I’ve developed an ulcer. Note to self: Buy stock in Rolaids.

A couple of nights ago I had a dream that keeps nagging at the corners of my mind. I know it’s political, and not even very subtle. Tell me what you think:

I’ve gone into a shopping mall leaving my beautiful blue car in a parking spot at quite a distance from the building, the better to get my 10,000 steps in for the day. After walking around the mall and trying on clothes in various boutiques, I return to the parking lot only to find my car has been taken. I’m devastated. The car was my favorite. 

I flag down a security guard on his little golf cart and we make several loops around the enormous parking lot with no success. Finally we call 911. When the police officers, Bill and Jill arrive I give them a detailed description of my car:

Medium blue, 2008 model, Chevy Allegiance.

“Ma’am,” Officer Bill says, “We’ll get right on that.”

“Can we give you a ride home?” asks Officer Jill.

As I’m getting into the officers’ patrol car, two older white men suddenly appear beside me. 

“We found your car!” exclaims Man #1.

“It’s right here!” enthuses Man #2.

And sure enough, there’s a huge car covered by a white cloth just a few parking spots away. I follow the two men who are so excited about showing me my car. With a flourish, they pull the covering away to reveal a beautiful antique car. It’s a gleaming white  Duesenberg.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” crowed Man #1. “It’s the 1933 model.”

“Yes, it’s lovely, but it isn’t my car.”

“It is now,” intoned Man #2. “Enjoy the ride.”

That’s when I awakened. Isn’t it amazing what one’s mind can do? A Chevy Allegiance? No such thing. A ’33 Duesenberg? 1933 was the year Hitler became chancellor of Germany. Coincidence? 

As Trump assembles his team of alt-right racists and hard core hawks, this dream has become even more nightmarish. I just want my blue car. 

Peace, people.

WordPress Premature Publication or Textual Dysfunction

I’m having an issue with premature publication on WordPress. Often, I’ll have several pieces queued up to publish on future dates. If I go into a piece to edit it, WordPress totally ignores my original date of scheduled publication and publishes it immediately when I click the update button. 

This makes me say bad words as I rush to change the date and delete the post from my Facebook page. I’m becoming fluent in bad words. Ok, I was already fluent in bad words, but the ones I’m using are beyond the pale. 

Any suggestions for preventing premature publication, viagra, perhaps for textual dysfunction?

A Lincoln Perspective

Vice-President elect Mike Pence had his precious little snowflake feelings hurt when he was booed while attending  a performance of the Broadway musical, HAMILTON, this past weekend.

What did the homophobic Pence expect? A standing ovation for advocating conversion therapy for gays? A ticker tape parade for denying the rights of gay couples?

Gosh, poor Pence was really treated disrespectfully. 


On the other side of the desert, behind the third dune on the left, lies a patch of emerald

Lushness surrounding a small, irregularly shaped pond of surprisingly bright turquoise 

Wanderers of every type have marked this oasis on their maps in bold strokes of ebony

Lest they venture off course and forget to count the dunes or consult the compass rose

I traveled there once, in the days of my youth on a humped beast, coarse hide of camel

Down hearted, discouraged, my lover lost to another, and I trapped by the monster green

In paradise I languished until roused from my reverie by a note written in crimson

Return home, my love, the words inscribed, without you here all the days are turned to gray

The choice was mine, remain in the land of dunes eating figs or settle for black and white.

Just for grins, here’s Maria Muldaur’s Midnight at the Oasis.