I created something there on stone strewn grounds
Scattered the remains across the fields
Shook my fist at an orange sky
My works crumbled in the making
Two figures approached
Appraising, frowning, drowning
I tried to explain how the piece should look
My entreaties were not sufficient for the cause
Melting words in a melting world
Pompeii
When I don’t have anything to say, I let others do it for me. Some of these I found on Facebook, others on Pinterest. I figured we could all use a giggle. Note that I’ve grouped them for your consideration.
Diagnostic jokes:
Acupuncture, anyone?
Something to make you think:
A couple of unicorn jokes:
A bit of humor for the aging:
And one that made me snort:
Finally, Studly Doright and I laughed ourselves silly over this YouTube video. I really wish you all could hear his laugh. It’s really why I stay married to the man. 😉😉
https://youtu.be/HFFgCTKy2c4 Peace, people!
I call this one, “The Shadow”.
And this one, “The Shadow Knows”.
This next week is going to be spent preparing for fun. I’m leaving on a road trip to spend some time with a good friend in Kingsport, Tennessee, on the 9th, and that kind of fun requires some serious forethought.
My car needs an oil change and a good cleaning. My nails need to be manicured and pedicured. I have to think about what needs to be packed. My hair needs to grow an inch. Okay, the last one’s unlikely to happen unless a miracle occurs, but I can wish, right?
Of course Wednesday is the 4th of July. I’m not feeling particularly patriotic this year, but Studly Doright will have the day off. We’ll most likely cook burgers on the grill and maybe catch a matinee. Oh, and we’ll probably spend the night being annoyed by firecrackers. When did I get old?
On Thursday I have my annual physical. Whoopee. There’s nothing like being poked and prodded and having to pay for the privilege. And when one is in her sixties, as I am, there’s no telling what one will learn. Cholesterol too high? Blood pressure out of whack? I can’t wait to see what’s wrong with me this year. Again I ask, when did I get old?
On the less depressing side, my husband, Studly Doright, is doing better on his road to recovering from minor back surgery. He’s been able to sleep, and he’s gotten his appetite back, so he’s not nearly as justifiably grouchy as he’s been since the procedure. Life is pretty good, even for a couple of old folks.
Peace, people.
“Pretty Patches Poses with Posies”
As I drove through a pop up thunderstorm on my way into Tallahassee yesterday I glanced over to make sure my umbrella was tucked into its appropriate spot in the catch-all pocket of the passenger seat door. Sure enough, there it was just waiting to provide an invaluable service. And if it hadn’t been there I knew there was another umbrella in the pocket behind my seat.
Studly Doright and I keep two umbrellas in each of our vehicles, plus spares in the house for visitors and one in his shop. We are a proud, multi-umbrella household.
For most of my life I didn’t even own such a device. I thought they were pretty when characters on tv and in movies unfurled their umbrellas to stroll through a gentle rainfall. In theory I knew they could be useful, but I grew up in the dusty Texas panhandle where most days it was too dry to whistle.
Unless one is an umbrella fetishist there is absolutely no use for an umbrella in places that might get rain three times a year. And when it does rain in Floydada, or Claude, Texas, the howling winds generally render an umbrella useless.
When our daughter was small she desperately wanted a colorful raincoat with matching galoshes and umbrella. We were barely living paycheck to paycheck back then, so something the child might get to use once in her life wasn’t high on my list of priorities. But she’d have been adorable in matching rain gear. Damned poverty.
How many umbrellas do you own? Is the number directly related to where you live? I considered making the claim that I could tell where respondents reside by the number of umbrellas they owned, but decided I’d just be guessing. I’m no umbrella soothsayer, after all.
Peace, people.
Peace, people.
How’s this for something different? I call it “Studly’s Foot Watching Golf.”
He has a nice foot, don’t you think?
A few days ago I read a hilarious post by a blogging friend. Here’s the link for her “I May Have Clothestraphobia” post:
https://ellenbest24.wordpress.com/2018/06/24/i-may-have-clothestraphobia/
Reading the blogs of others is one of my favorite things, not only because they make me cry, or laugh, or think, but because they often remind me of events in my own life that might be blog worthy. Ellen’s post above took me back to a bout of “clothestraphobia” of my own.
There was a time when I was very slender. Indeed, I was Twiggy before there was a Twiggy. Well, I wasn’t that cute, and I had no major modeling contracts, but otherwise, we could’ve been twins. Maybe not, but trust me, I was skinny.
I’m fairly sure this is Twiggy, but it could’ve been me.
Then I had two children two years apart, and I wasn’t so skinny anymore, but part of me still thought, and to this day still somehow believes, that I was/am skinny. I have a really bad case of backwards body dysmorphia that often affects my choices in clothing.
When our kids were in elementary school and junior high Studly Doright and I were heavily involved in their youth activities. We coached both in various sports, but mainly focused on coaching Little League softball and baseball. On some summer evenings we’d barely see each other as we’d run in from our respective jobs, and change clothes before running back out the door to take our daughter and/or son to practice or a game. On top of that, Studly coached an older girls’ softball team that our daughter wasn’t even old enough to play on. We were busy and having a blast.
“Now what does all that have to do with your clothestraphobia?” you might ask. I’ll tell you.
On one hot, sticky summer afternoon I hurried home to change clothes so I could be at our son’s baseball game. Studly had called me at work saying he’d be late, so I needed to be at the field within the next 30 minutes to get the lineups ready and corral the kids. He promised he’d be there before the umpire called “Play Ball!”
No problem. We lived in a small town and I had plenty of time to change, pick up the kids from the sitter, and get the ball rolling at the ball field. I hurried to the bedroom, discarding my button down top as I went. Halfway done, I now only had to take off the matching pull-on skirt. I loved this set. It was light blue with little flecks and the full skirt made me feel so feminine. So the waist might’ve been a little snug, (I still thought I was skinny, you know), but the skirt had deep pockets. I adore skirts with deep pockets.
Remember I mentioned that the day was hot and sticky. We did live in the Texas panhandle, after all. And also recall that I said the skirt was of the pull-on variety. There was no zipper, just a fixed waistband with a tiny bit of elastic on each side.
I first attempted to step out of the skirt, but it refused to go over my hips. Hmmm. Hadn’t I stepped into it just that morning? Maybe not. I scootched it up in an attempt to pull the skirt over my chest, but it wasn’t having that either. Perhaps, I thought, I could lower it a bit and get one arm inside the waistband. By this time I was perspiring profusely as I watched my time slip away.
There was no way my arm was fitting inside the now constricting waistband, but I did manage to get one breast out so now the whole shebang was hanging lopsided, and I couldn’t get it to move up or down. Now I couldn’t even consider just wearing the damned skirt to the game. I did the only thing I could think of with time running out. I fetched the scissors and awkwardly cut myself out of the skirt.
I cried as I did so, but I sacrificed the skirt I loved to be at my child’s baseball game. Statues may never be erected in my honor, but I took one for the team that day. I’ll bet Twiggy never did that.
Peace, people.
Last week I found myself attending social events on three consecutive evenings. I haven’t been out that many nights in a row since I was a busy mom driving kids to and from various activities. And don’t tell them, but this past week was (marginally) more fun. I’m not quite a social butterfly yet, but I am a fun-loving caterpillar.
On Wednesday I went to a group painting activity at Painting With a Twist in Tallahassee. Thursday evening I saw Train at Cascades Park. Then on Friday I attended an art show at Florida State University’s Museum of Fine Arts.
One of the women I’ve met through the Tallahassee Women’s Meetup group had a piece selected for the show, and I went to support her.
That’s Martha M. Lord, below, with her oil painting, Spring Haven. The painting was displayed incorrectly. It should have been rotated 90° to the left, and my photo doesn’t do it justice. These manatees make me happy.
I wandered around the event like I knew what I was doing, admiring art, oohing over some pieces, looking bemused at others.
Below, No Bee=No We by Rita Barker.
Magnolia by Charlie O’Toole
Boots on the Ground by Judy Lipman Schecter
I didn’t get artists’ names on these, but they all caught my unpracticed eye.
The evening was fun. I didn’t turn into a butterfly, but I think it might be time to spin my chrysalis.
Soon….
Praying for Eyebrowz 