Tag: blogging

But I Don’t WANT To Write

I write something for this blog and post daily. I’ve done so for several years now, but last night the toddler in me was balking. Toddler Nana didn’t WANT to write anything, and nobody could make her.

When I crawled into bed I said to myself, “Self, you don’t have to write anything tomorrow if you don’t feel like it.”

I congratulated myself profusely. Then my brain spent the next hour and 20 minutes churning out one forgettable blog post idea after another.

“Okay!” I snarled at myself. “I’ll write SOMETHING, but I won’t enjoy it.”

Good news: I purchased some new eye liner and will most likely be able to find humor in the application process for a future post. Grasping for straws, folks. Ooh! There’s a title.

Peace, people.

Odds and Evens

Odds and Evens

I’m on a roll with the odd word, feeling lucky in this odd world, moreover,

Never tell me the odds, even if I plead, even if they favor me. Odd one out,

Even Steven, even playing field, even I can read the writing on the wall. After

All, I’m an odd duck, even on my best days, even when I try to fit in. By

The way, this isn’t even one of those days. Odd, don’t you think? Then we’re even.

This piece of nonsense came about when I realized my previous two posts had the word “Odd” in the titles. Since two is an even number I had to go for a third post using the word “odd”; because I believe in evening things out. Or something.

Additionally, I spent the day frittering away my time, getting my hair cut and colored. Holy cow, is my hair dark! I’m even odder looking now. See what I did there?

Peace, people!

Odd Girl Out

Odd Girl Out

I’m well aware that social niceties aren’t always in my repertoire

My pinky doesn’t crook just right when I sip red wine through a plastic straw

My language isn’t ladylike, and I’m far too fond of bawdy humor

And any talk of my good graces are seldom more than just a rumor

Polite company eschews my presence

Seems I’ve never learned my lessons

I can’t behave, cannot sublimate all the crazy ideas running willy nilly through this brain.

Everything lost; nothing to gain.

I wrote this whilst listening to Freebird in a funky downtown pizza shop.

https://g.co/kgs/H3PWAF

Odds and Ends

1) Our younger cat, Patches, pooped on the rug in the guest bathroom this morning. This, in spite of having easy access to three litter boxes. We’re fairly sure it was done in spite. She and her “sister” Scout dislike each other immensely and are in constant competition for our attention. I scolded Patches and made her watch me clean up her mess. She seems somewhat chastened. We shall see.

An older photo of the cat in question.

2) The New England Patriots defeated the Jacksonville Jaguars 24-20 on Sunday. &$@#%!?!!!!.

3) Studly Doright and I met friends at the AMC movie theatre in Tallahassee on Sunday afternoon and watched Darkest Hour. Excellent film! Gary Oldman is superb as Winston Churchill. When I think of how close England came to negotiating with Hitler I get sick to my stomach. Also, I had difficulty understanding all of the dialogue. Too many years of loud rock and roll?

4) I got my days mixed up and missed a meeting of my book club on Saturday. I was so looking forward to discussing Kristen Hannah’s The Nightingale. It’s a fine book and the capitulation of France’s government to Hitler’s regime dovetailed nicely with the Churchill film.

5) I hope the Eagles prevail over the Vikings tonight, but I have yet to pick a winner this year.

6) Dinner on Sunday night was cheese, nuts, and red wine. Bohemian, right?

7) For two consecutive nights I enjoyed seven hours of sleep. Yay me!

That’s it. Another weekend in the books. Y’all have a great week.

Peace, people!

Wine Fueled

Saturday came with its easy vibe, cloaked in laziness and splendor.

A chaise lounge beckoned, and I reclined, the better to revel bodaciously.

A glass of red in hand, the radio on a slow, low, sexy jam, stretch out your hand

And touch me there, and here. Oh, the wine might fuel me, but it’s you who

Moves me, every time, every single time. Come closer, and kiss me.

Do I Look Like a Twinkle to You?

I’ve been called by a variety of names over the course of my 61 years on earth: Leslie, Sis, Mommy, Mom, Nana, Boobsie (don’t ask), and a few less flattering ones I’m not going to mention. But a couple of days ago I was offered a new moniker.

On Thursday afternoon I had volunteered to transport a meal to a group of young single moms in Tallahassee. The coordinator paired me with someone named Robin who would prepare a meal, and my task was to meet up with Robin and then deliver the meal to the meeting in a timely fashion.

In spite of numerous texts and emails between Robin and me, we managed to get our wires crossed and ended up at two different locations. I was at one truck stop and Robin was at another just down the road. Before we resolved the issue I was standing outside the Flying J restaurant looking for someone who might be Robin. Since we’d never met I scrutinized everyone.

A car pulled up beside me and a middle-aged man rolled down his window. I thought, “Hmmm, maybe Robin is a man.” I have a male cousin named Robin, so it was a possibility.

Before I could say anything the man asked, “Say, are you Twinkle?”

Briefly taken aback, I retorted, “Hell no. Do I look like a Twinkle to you?”

He quickly rolled up his window and sped away. I got the giggles. I believe he thought I was a prostitute! Me! In my mom jeans and Star Wars t-shirt. Then it occurred to me that the “Twinkle” he was looking for was likely to be a trans prostitute. Guess I fooled him all around. Studly doesn’t call me “Boobsie” for nothing!

A Lizardless Winter

We’ve been living at Doright Manor for four years now, and I believe this is the first winter we haven’t had a small lizard living in the mailbox. Every day I open the mailbox with anticipation and a bit of trepidation, and every day that there’s no lizard I feel a little let down, but also a bit relieved. Sometimes those guys scared the crap out of me.

The temperatures have been colder than usual this year, so I’m not sure if it’s simply too cold for the lizards or if they’ve moved to better digs. I can’t do a thing about the weather, but I can do something about the accommodations. Maybe I’ll redecorate the mailbox before next winter, put in a nice recliner and a rug.

Or perhaps I’ll knit a sweater and attach a note with care instructions.

It couldn’t hurt, right?

I do hope the lizards are somewhere safe and warm.

Peace, people.

Stretching Like an Athlete

Athletics were never my thing. As a card carrying klutz, I’ve shied away from anything requiring physical prowess for most of my life. Oh, there was a brief period during which I played racquetball, but even then I managed to hit myself in the face with the racquet on more than one occasion. I tried golf, but was soon spending considerably more on chiropractic treatment than on greens fees.

As a result, I kind of gave up on doing any activity that was physically demanding. I have tons of other excuses: a disdain for gyms, a dislike of workout classes, an allergic reaction to sweat….You get the picture.

Now, at 61, my body is telling me I should have done something to keep myself fit. My hips hurt, my back aches, and my arms are flabby wonders that wag even when I try to get them to play dead. I feel like a bag of lumpy gravy.

I see a chiropractor, Dr. Verrier, on a regular basis. He’s helped me a great deal. Before I began regular treatments with him I couldn’t walk without significant pain. He’s worked wonders, but I still had some issues with my hips that keep me awake at night.

Then Studly Doright suggested I also see someone at a Tallahassee business called Stretching Your Life. One of his golf buddies recommended the business and Studly wanted me to check it out.

Stretching Your Life is owned by kinesiologists who teach their clients to stretch like athletes. They’ll even spend an entire hour stretching you! I’ve had two sessions of intense stretching and am amazed at what I’ve missed out on all these non-athletic years. I still have a long way to go, but my kinesiologist, Jen, is upbeat about getting me to a healthier place in my life.

Here’s a link to Stretching Your Life. Their website alone has a great deal of helpful information along with exercises to do at home. (I receive no compensation for sharing this information, by the way, but I wanted to spread the word.)

https://g.co/kgs/Fbs46h

I’ll give updates on my progress with the stretching. Hopefully I can work out some of these kinks that have begun to feel like the norm. I don’t mind being 61, but I do mind feeling like I’m 91.

Peace, people.

Art or Nart

I had tons of time to come up with a blog post yesterday, but zero ideas. While I was watching Ellen Degeneres’s new show “Game of Games” I played with the doodle option on my iPhone instead of preparing something for this venue. So this is all you’re getting this morning.

I call this, “Art or Nart”

Playing Hole #5 on a Blustery Winter Day in Florida:

The Emperor Reimagined:

Beach Day:

Hello from the Other Side, Kandinsky:

I’m hanging on to these pieces of art. If I become famous one day perhaps they’ll be worth a fortune. Or nart.

Peace, people.

You May Say I’m a Dreamer

You may say I’m a dreamer, and in my household I am the only one. Where my dreams are typically vividly technicolored, Studly Doright’s are seemingly non-existent. So when I got this text first thing Monday morning, I was intrigued:

(Ignore the odd punctuation. If I’d known this was going to be blog fodder (blodder?) I’d have taken more pains with my text.)

According to Studly, he never dreams. Of course I’ve informed him that we all dream every night, but not everyone remembers their dreams. Stubbornly he persists in claiming that he is the exception.

All day I waited for him to come home, so I could hear the details. Part of me hoped he’d dreamed winning lottery numbers. Had that been the case, I’d have bought a dozen tickets immediately. Another part of me was concerned he’d dreamed about his soul mate–and it wasn’t me! As promised in the text I made potato soup for dinner, always with one part of my brain on Studly’s dream. Do I need a life? Most likely.

The second he walked in the door I asked the million dollar question. “What was the dream?”

“Mmmm, that soup smells good!”

“Damn it, you don’t get soup until you spill the dream beans.”

He said, “It was weird. The whole time I was dreaming I kept thinking it was the kind of dream you’d have.

“There was this creature, maybe an alien, maybe an animal, and a little boy. Somehow they communicated, and if there was any danger the creature would surround the boy with a protective cloaking shield.”

I managed to nod encouragingly, all hopes of a winning lottery number dashed.

“And this kid had family members he could pull inside the shield.”

“So, what happened?”

“Nothing! I couldn’t get past the shield part. The dream never moved forward. It was frustrating.”

As we ate our potato soup and cornbread I tried my amateur dream interpretation skills on him:

1) Studly is the little boy who feels like he needs protection for himself and his loved ones.

2) Or he is the outsider providing protection for others.

3) Or he had an upset stomach and as a result a weird dream.

4) Or he was hoping for potato soup for dinner.

At least he didn’t dream about his soul mate. Unless, of course, the alien filled that role.

Peace, people!