Tag: blogging

Look What I Made!

I met with members of the Tallahassee Women’s Social Meetup group Sunday afternoon to work on our hats for cancer patients. I’d begun working on the hat pictured above shortly after meeting with this group before Christmas and was anxious to find out if I’d remembered the instructions correctly. To my immense surprise, I had!

I’d taken the hat to a point at which I needed further instructions, and was pleased to learn I would be able to complete it this afternoon. The only thing I’d gotten wrong was the type of yarn to use. Apparently there’s a specific yarn recommended for cancer patients and mine is a bit on the scratchy side. Next time I need to purchase this brand:

One of the ladies knitted a hat for a preemie this afternoon. It’s so adorably tiny!

I had to try on my completed project:

Okay, I’m not a super model. I’m pretty proud of my hat.

Peace, people!

A Post About Something I Didn’t Get to Do

One of the MeetUp groups I’ve become involved with had planned to visit a local Tallahassee historical site, the Lichgate House on High Street on Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately a private event was being held at the venue, so we ended up meeting for lunch at Newk’s, a local eatery.

I’d never heard of Lichgate, but it’s a site I’m eager to visit now. This is a place I’ve driven by dozens of times without realizing what lay behind the foliage. There’s only a small sign marking the site.

The story of Lichgate House is compelling:

http://www.lichgateonhighroad.org/

I hadn’t checked my email before going to the site, so I got a glimpse of the grounds from the parking area where I learned we wouldn’t be able to enter, but would instead go straight to lunch. We’ve had a cold front move into the area, so maybe the cancellation was for the best, and we can visit on a warmer day.

Pinterest had some photos from Lichgate:

I can’t wait to see this for myself.

Peace, people.

Scraps from Their Pasts

For Christmas I put together scrapbooks of their early years for our two children. The idea wasn’t an original one. Studly Doright’s mom, Saint Helen, had given Studly and his four siblings scrapbooks several years ago as Christmas gifts and for him at least, it remains one of his all-time favorite gifts.

I’m not a very crafts minded person, but in preparation for assembling these scrapbooks I made multiple trips to Michael’s (for non-Americans, that’s THE place to go for creative types) in order to purchase the books and to find appropriate decorative touches for each page. I bought tons of stuff and ended up using only a fraction of it. Project ideas, anyone.

I’m so awful at this type of thing that I actually started all this at the beginning of 2016 and had planned on presenting them with their gifts at Christmas that year, but I got bogged down in the minutiae, and it took me almost two years to complete the task. I’m still not sure how my mother-in-law put together five such books without going crazy, because I’m fairly certain some of my sanity was lost in the process.

I’d looked forward to presenting the books to my kids in person when we were all in Nashville that Christmas, but since I was an entire year behind, and we weren’t getting to see them for the holidays this year, I had to put them in the mail.

Now, I’d worked my butt off cropping photos and arranging them with curlicues and doodads. I’d spent countless hours searching through old school pictures and awards. The thought of trusting these works of heart to the mail almost drove me crazy(er). So, before I boxed them up for shipping to Dallas, Texas, where our son lives and to Port Byron, Illinois, where our daughter resides, I documented each and every page with the help of my trusty iPhone camera.

I’ll spare you from viewing all of the pages (you’re welcome). While I wasn’t there when they opened the books they both assured me they’d enjoyed their trips down memory lane. I’m so glad I spent the time creating these, but even more glad that I had only two children.

Peace, people.

The Best of 2017

I have a confession to make. I’ve been blogging here on WordPress for several years now and didn’t realize I could go into my stats and identify my posts in order of the number of times they’d been viewed by year.

I kept wondering how fellow bloggers were posting their “best of” retrospectives with such confidence. Were they guessing? Had they kept daily notes? And y’all wonder why I haven’t yet had anything published–I’m overwhelmed by the details of such things.

At any rate once someone pointed me to the right tab I realized I, too, could post a best of 2017 article. Since we’re well into 2018, I’ll just do a list with links rather than reblogging the top five in separate posts. Of course, that’s if I can figure out how to do all that.

Without further ado, here are my top five posts in order:

#5 Not That Desperate

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/09/09/not-that-desperate/

#4 Shipping Label Humor

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/10/05/shipping-label-humor/

#3 When in Ireland

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/06/23/when-in-ireland/

#2 Vagina Wars: A New Hope

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/02/21/vagina-wars-a-new-hope/

#1 was my Home Page/Archives with almost 5,000 views this year. Not bad for a blogger who hasn’t figured out what the heck she’s doing here!

Above: irrelevant photo of Elsie Leslie Lyde, a mid-19th century actress. I figured she wouldn’t have figured out the stats tab thing either, plus I liked her name.

Swing into Spring

In my junior year of school at Floydada High, I took Distributive Education (DECA) classes. Even though I planned on attending college, I needed to earn some money, and these courses allowed me to work for a couple of hours each afternoon. In retrospect I wish I’d gone the purely academic route, but I didn’t have a great deal of career guidance coming my way. In the end it all worked out okay, I suppose.

DECA was interesting, though. We learned a variety of things about working in retail businesses, including how to display goods and market them to the consumer. Our teacher, Mr. S, was rather limited in his understanding of marketing strategies, but that didn’t keep him from trying. I remember one lesson in which we were to come up with an advertising slogan to promote a product.

The only slogan Mr. S could come up with as an example was “Swing into Spring!” Given that we lived in the Texas panhandle this sounded a great deal more like “Swang into Sprang,” and every time he said it I’d dissolve in a fit of giggles.

Mr. S was not amused. In fact, he threatened to send me to the office if I couldn’t stop laughing. Of course that made it worse, and I ended up trying to explain to the principal that I wasn’t being disrespectful to Mr. S. Apparently the principal wasn’t amused either, but rather than calling my parents to report my transgression he allowed me to stay in his office until it was time for me to report to my DECA related job, the better to compose myself before I found myself in the presence of Mr. S again. As punishments went, it was pretty sweet.

Ironically, just a few short days after my trip to the principal’s office I received a note to call my mom during DECA class. We didn’t have cell phones, kiddies. This was back in the dark ages. The only phone available to students was in the main office.

All the way there I imagined I could hear the other shoe dropping. Somehow, I figured Mom had learned of my previous transgression and was going to read me the riot act followed by a few weeks of grounding. I’d had a feeling I’d gotten off too lightly from the start.

Instead Mom had called to tell me that my dad had been offered a job in another town and that we’d be moving before school’s end. I was supposed to begin wrapping things up. Man, how I wished she’d been calling to ground me instead.

I returned to class sobbing. My friends gathered ’round to console me, but I could tell Mr. S was feeling pretty smug–he figured I’d gotten further punishment, as well. He looked a little less smug as my story unfolded, but was probably relieved that I’d be out of his hair.

The joke was on him, though. In the end my folks arranged for me to live with my maternal grandparents to finish out the school year in Floydada. I still wasn’t happy about leaving my friends and the only schools I’d ever attended in my last year, but it was a workable compromise. Plus, I met Studly Doright in the new town, so that was a positive.

And the next time I got the giggles over “Swang into Sprang” again, Mr. S let it go. I guess he figured I’d had punishment enough.

Candlelit Mindfulness

Don’t be fooled by the title. This post is neither romantic nor particularly mindful; although, if having an abrupt wake up call makes one more mindful, then maybe it’s partly an accurate title. The thing is, I kind of set my underpants on fire this morning.

I lit a candle to start the day off with a pleasant wake me up ambience, and placed said candle on the counter in the kitchen. Then I went about my morning chores. I was putting away Christmas decorations and doing loads of laundry while awaiting the arrival of a service man, keeping one eye on the clock so I didn’t forget to watch for the Orkin guy.

The dryer buzzed, and I took out a load of clothes that included a few pair of my undies. As I turned away from the dryer, the doorbell rang signaling the service man’s arrival, so rather than carry the clothes with me to answer the door, I plopped them on the kitchen counter.

As I opened the door it occurred to me what I’d just done. “Come in!” I cried at the startled Orkin man. “Shut the door behind you, I think I just started a fire in the kitchen.”

Thank goodness only one piece of clothing had fallen into the candle. There were no flames, just a bit of smoldering cotton. And fortunately my mistake only affected a pair of undies that should have been relegated to the rag bag a long time ago.

Nevertheless, I learned a lesson here. Be careful where you drop your drawers.

Peace, people.

Barely Bearing Up

I used to be a hardier person. At least that’s the story I tell myself. It’s become more difficult to believe, though, as I find myself whining about the less than balmy weather we’ve had in Tallahassee these past couple of weeks. Some days we barely climbed above 40°!

When Studly Doright, and I, along with our two kids, lived in North Dakota we went entire months without seeing temperatures above 30°F. I drove daily on icy roads, supervised playground duty in sub-zero weather with three feet of snow on the ground, and went about my business even with blustery winds gusting at fifty miles per hour. And those were the more temperate winter days! Somehow, we adapted.

Neither of us were accustomed to long term cold, having grown up in the panhandle of Texas. We knew brief periods of winter that often were replaced by spring-like weather, within a space of six hours. I can remember mornings that school was cancelled due to snow that found us playing outside sans coats by 3 pm.

I’m rambling, I know. It’s this darned cold weather to blame. I’m barely bearing up under these conditions. My feet have forgotten how to wear flip flops and will require remedial instruction once the temps begin to rise once more. That’ll most likely be next week. And, as God is my witness, we will rise again.

Kind of a Big Deal

Several years ago during spring break a friend and I were visiting Nashville, Tennessee, for the first time. We’d gone on a bus tour of the city and sung karaoke in a downtown bar. We’d even checked out Coyote Ugly, which was a bit disappointing. Maybe if we’d been a couple of guys it would’ve been more fun.

One of the oddest occurrences from the trip was when an obviously drunk guy in a well-tailored grey suit stumbled across a crowded bar, weaving between tables as a singer belted out a Charlie Daniels cover from the stage. To our shock, the drunk approached our table, pulled out a chair and sat down.

With no preamble the first words out of his mouth were, “I’m kind of a big fu**ing deal.”

My friend and I exchanged looks, rose from our seats, and left the bar. Neither of us needed this guy’s line of b.s.

I feel like Donald Trump is the drunk at my table. He keeps telling me what a big deal he is, and I keep walking away. He keeps spewing b.s., but no one holds him accountable. When will the GOP controlled Congress say, “Enough!” and walk away from the table? Once Kim Jong Un hits the nuclear button, it’s gonna be way too late.

“Forget the Iguanas” Stew

Ladies and gentlemen it’s cold outside! Not so cold that I’m liable to get frostbite if I’m out for more than a few minutes, but cold enough that in some parts of the Sunshine State cold-stunned iguanas are falling from the trees. That I could possibly be walking along and have a lizard fall on my head almost makes me hope for hypothermia instead. Almost.

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/frozen-iguanas-falling-from-trees-during-cold-snap-in-florida/

Can you imagine? The thought creeps me out.

I couldn’t stop thinking about falling iguanas, so I occupied my mind by chopping vegetables for a stew. Now all I had to worry about was losing a finger. I’m not all that good with knives.

Once the veggies were all chopped and the stew was simmering on the stove, wafting savory odors throughout Doright Manor, I once again found myself contemplating falling lizards. What to do? How about I type up the stew recipe for my readers?

“Forget the Iguana Stew”

1 lb. very lean ground beef, (I use 93% lean) browned and drained

3 C. potatoes, cubed

1 1/2 C. celery, chopped

1 C. onion, chopped

2 C. carrots, chopped

1 1/2 C. frozen peas (Studly prefers corn, so that’s what I used)

1 3/4 C. chunky style Italian tomato sauce or Italian style stewed tomatoes (I can’t always find the chunky style, so the stewed tomatoes work fine.)

1 C. tomato sauce

1 1/4 C. beef broth

Salt and pepper to taste

(I usually add a tomato sauce can of water–the recipe as it’s written doesn’t seem to have enough liquid.)

Cook for a couple of hours, while the potatoes soften and all the flavors mingle, and stir frequently. I cook it on medium heat and then switch to low once the veggies feel soft.

If you cook this in the crockpot, cook on low for 6-8 hours.

No iguanas were harmed in the making of this stew.

Peace, people

Loco for Coco

With Studly Doright out of town on Wednesday evening I treated myself to a movie that I was fairly certain he’d never go see in a theatre. It was a spur of the moment decision to go, and I was still trying to choose which film I wanted to see when I approached the ticket kiosk.

It came down to a tossup between three movies: the third Pitch Perfect movie, the one about Winston Churchill, and the Pixar film, Coco. In the end I chose Coco because it had an earlier starting time.

Coco was wonderful from start to finish. I’m no movie reviewer because I’m such a pushover, but I’d put this film up against anything I’ve seen in many years. The music is wonderful, the animation is outstanding, and the story so sweet that the grandmother sitting next to me sobbed as much as I did through the last five minutes.

On that note, I must warn you that the story is pretty intense and might be hard for some children to handle. Plus, there are dead people in it. Well, dead cartoon people, but it might be a bit scary for some young viewers.

Let me know if you’ve seen Coco. I’d like to discuss it with others.