Tag: friends

Succulent Succulents

I had a wonderful time hanging out at Tallahassee Nursery yesterday. I’d signed up for a workshop on the planting and care of succulents, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I might’ve even learned a thing or two.

Here was the first container I selected, but it didn’t have a hole in the bottom to facilitate drainage, so I had to find a hole-y one.

The event was well attended with long tables holding all the requisite supplies set up under sprawling oak trees:

After selecting my plants I arranged them in my hole-y planter and looked around the delightful grounds of Tallahassee Nursery with friends. That’s Julie admiring a gazing ball.

We went for lunch afterwards and then I headed home to Doright Manor. Here is the end product of my workshop experience. It wasn’t the prettiest arrangement created, but it’s mine. Now all I have to do is keep the plants alive.

Peace, people!

Smelly Car

Studly Doright likes to trade cars. When he’s had the same vehicle for the span of a year I can feel him getting antsy to find the next great deal, so it came as no surprise when he sheepishly showed me a photo of a little Cadillac sports sedan and told me he’d bought it on eBay.

“It’ll be my golf vehicle,” he said.

“I thought the Dodge pickup was your golf vehicle,” I countered.

“Well, it was, but I’ll sell it.”

“What about the little Nissan convertible? Wasn’t it also your golf vehicle?”

“You know it gets lousy gas mileage. I’ll sell it, too.”

As long as I have a decent car to drive I really don’t care what Studly drives, but I had to give him a hard time. When the car didn’t arrive on time I began needling him.

“Are you sure you’re dealing with reputable people?” I asked. “What if they never deliver your Cadillac?”

“It’ll be here. It’s in Detroit and they had a huge blizzard last week.”

Two days later, still no Cadillac. I again questioned the prudence of buying a car sight unseen. Finally, though, the transport driver called to say he’d be in Tallahassee on Sunday afternoon, so when he sent an address I drove Studly into town to meet the truck. 

The car was badass: Silver, with black leather seats, and every bell and every whistle one could ask for. It also came with one unexpected bonus–the nastiest smell I’ve ever encountered outside of a garbage dump.

The smell wasn’t organic. Nothing had died in the car. It was a chemical type smell, as if  someone had used it as a vat for tanning animal hides. Gag!

Studly was in denial.

“It’s not so bad,” he protested, when I refused to ride in the car.

“Three Mile Island was less toxic than this car,” I said.

“Maybe it just needs a coconut scented air freshener,” he didn’t actually say, but I knew he was thinking it.

“Let me deal with it,” I sighed.

So for the past week while Studly has been at work I’ve coaxed the nasty smell out of his Caddy. Long drives down country roads with every window rolled down and the moon roof fully open have made a huge improvement in the car’s smell. It’s not yet quite to the pleasant stage, but I have a reasonable expectation that it soon will smell almost like a new vehicle. And it’s such fun to drive.

Maybe Studly has learned a lesson about buying cars on eBay. Or not. Regardless, life with him is never boring.


Phoebe Buffay knew a little about smelly things:

https://youtu.be/XNXIZuIBJKs

Snapshot #97

I’ve begun walking around our neighborhood with a couple of friends. The steps seem to come much more easily with the exchange of witty banter, and I am racking up the miles. 

One friend led us across the dam that borders Lake Yvette, and I snapped this picture halfway across. I’m calling it, “Damn Fine Dam View.”

Hands

My hands are sixty years old, and not the least bit shy about letting everyone know. Several years ago, back when they were only fifty, my hands and I had lunch with two of my oldest and dearest friends. I hadn’t seen these ladies in quite some time, so we had much catching up to do.

We chatted with each other over plates of delicious Tex Mex cuisine at a restaurant in Dallas, alternately reminiscing about our shared histories and filling in the blanks where our paths had diverged. 

They’d both gotten their degrees four years after graduating from high school, marrying and having children only after they’d accomplished that educational milestone. My route was different. I’d married Studly, had two children, and then worked on earning my college diploma. By the time this luncheon took place I was already a grandmother, while they still had children at home. Different paths, many joys.

After the plates were cleared I noticed our three sets of hands on the table. Mine were clearly older than theirs. Where my friends’ hands were soft, smooth, and unmarred by age spots, mine were like a satellite image of a desert land, mottled and wrinkled, freckled and uneven.

I brought my friends’ attention to our hands. 

“Look at how much older my hands look than yours do!”

They looked at me like I was slightly nuts. Why would I call attention to such a thing? I even wondered that as I left the luncheon.

Maybe I like my old hands. They’re certainly the oldest looking part of me. Good genetics, for the most part, have kept the rest of my body and even my face, from reflecting my true age. I’m not terribly wrinkled yet, except for a few crinkles around my eyes and several decent laugh lines around my mouth. (I’m probably pissing off the gods of aging right now and will soon be inundated with wrinkles.)

But my hands show everything: Years of helping Studly Doright mow lawns in the summer Texas sun to help ends meet during some very lean years, years of being an assistant Little League softball and soccer coach, years of piloting a motorcycle without wearing gloves (stupid!).

Nowadays they’re more pampered. They receive occasional manicures and are treated nightly to a fairly expensive cream to keep them from further deterioration. But they still look old.

On the other hand, they might look sixty, but they are still nimble. They can tie shoelaces and dry tears, pat people on the back, and occasionally shoot someone the finger. My hands are terrific at picking pennies up and at wielding an ink pen. They text pretty well and can scroll through pages on the internet like hands half their age. 

I think I’ll take them shopping today. “C’mon, hands, we’ve got stuff to do. You, middle finger, show some restraint. That’s a good girl.”

Peace, people.people.

Snapshot #66

When our first child was born in May of 1978, the mother of one of my closest friends created this ornament for him. I loved her like a second mom, and although she passed away several years ago I feel her presence every year when I place this ornament on our tree.  

I call this one, “Sweetest Memories.”

Pest Control


One night last week I killed a Buick sized roach in my bedroom closet. Now the pest control company, Orkin, and I have this understanding– I pay them a substantial amount of money, and they make sure I don’t see any creepy crawlies inside my home. I assure you, I’m  keeping my end of the bargain.

This post isn’t about my one roach. Roaches aren’t really newsworthy in the Florida panhandle, but I have a friend who recently moved to Oregon and her pest issue is enormous: 

http://www.dailyastorian.com/Local_News/20160719/animal-versus-animal-as-elk-dogs-clash
Elk are taking over her yard, creating divots that she patiently replaces, and generally terrorizing the neighborhood. And they can be aggressive. I worry for her safety. Say what you will about roaches, but I’ve never heard of anyone being trampled to death by one.

In our text chat on Wednesday morning I suggested various remedies:


Granted, the spikes might be ill-advised, and we are animal lovers, after all. My friend did say they’d tried spraying wolf urine around the edges of their lawn with no success. Can you imagine going into the local feed and seed store and ordering thirty gallons of wolf pee? And having that pee fail to do its job?

I don’t guess Orkin handles elk. On the plus side, one isn’t likely to find an elk skittering across the bathroom floor at 2 a.m.


I hope my friend and her husband find an elk solution soon, but I fear nature will have its way in this case. 

Peace, people!

Popularity

  
A caution duly noted,
“those words will not increase
your popularity.”

My response: screw popularity
I’ll say what’s right
and damn the consequences!

And when you’ve exhausted
everyone’s good will?
Then what?

I’ll create imaginary
friends and we’ll dance
and sing and exchange witty barbs.

But won’t you be lonely,
woman? Sitting by
yourself, whistling in the wind?

I’d rather be lonely
surrounded by truth than cradled
by those who spout lies.

  
peace, people!

Habit, Just Saying

Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:

Quirk of Habit

Which quirky habit annoys you the most, and what quirky habit do you love — in yourself, or other people?

Some things just annoy the heck out of me, but because I am polite and civilized I never call people out on these niggling bits. Okay, every now and then I might say something like, “Are you a freaking idiot?” That’s polite, right?

There are two verbal tics that make me clench my jaw and grind my teeth. The first is the insertion of the phrase, “you know” into every sentence–sometimes multiple times. 

Example: I was, you know, going to, you know, buy a new brassiere, but, you know, they’re just too, you know, expensive.”

You might think I’m exaggerating, but my college roommate was a world champion “you knower.” I found myself copying her speech pattern and flipping “you knows” about like pieces of confetti. When I realized what I’d done I had a long talk with myself and banned the phrase from my vocabulary. You know, I’ve been fairly, you know, successful. 

The other thing that drives me crazy is hearing people, most often women, order their food in a restaurant by saying, “Could I have…?” Even if I don’t know the person, even if she is sitting two tables over I want to leap up and say, “It’s on the damned menu! Of COURSE you can have it.” 

Instead I say a silent curse at whatever cultural practice makes women think they have to ask for permission to order something that is clearly available for purchase. It’s the same as our reflexive “I’m sorry” for things that aren’t our fault. I’m guilty of that one, lest you think me perfect. And I am so sorry.

http://videos.nymag.com/video/Inside-Amy-Schumer-I-m-Sorry
Quirky habits I love? That’s a little more difficult. I love the way Studly Doright can fall asleep and begin snoring softly the minute he closes his eyes. Of course sometimes this habit falls into the annoying category if I’m unable to join him in slumber within five minutes.

Another habit I love is one found in those people who are so filled with gratitude that “thank you,” in many different forms has become habit. My friend LeeAnn is one of these people. Her conversation is peppered with sincere expressions of gratitude, “How kind!” “What a blessing!” and, “I’m so thankful.”

Likewise my friend Janie has made a habit of finding the good in every situation. She calls herself a “lucky, lucky girl” and she makes everyone else more observant of the good in their own lives.

I’m sorry, but I’m just not good at being thankful, you know. Sorry. You know, I’m working on it.  

 

From the book, Nuns Just Wanna Have Fun.
 
Peace, people!

The Spotlight

In response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:

Witness Protection. When you do something scary or stressful–bungee jumping or public speaking, etc.–do you prefer to be surrounded by friends or by strangers? Why?

No shrinking violet, am I
Yet the circumstances do decree
If an audience of strangers or friends
Is preferable to me.

When speaking to a group
Of unfamiliar folks my
Sense of timing is impeccable
And I’m full of witty jokes.

At karaoke, though, I find
The better I know the crowd
The more relaxed my vocal chords
So I sing out loud and proud.

If ever I should bungee jump
I want six friends around
To serve as my pall bearers
In case I splatter on the ground.

Peace, people!

Relief

Last night I posted the following post on my Facebook page:

  
A few people responded directly, but no one took me seriously. My friends know I have nowhere near a gazillion dollars. Right at this moment I barely have twenty dollars, and that has to last me all week. 

The interesting thing that occurred following that post was the number of rather lascivious offers I received on my private message board. So many that I ended up deleting that app from my phone. Who knew that my itchy back could inspire so many perverted responses? 

Back to my back. I cannot tell you just how agonizingly itchy it is. Apparently one of the side effects of withdrawing from the antidepressant Effexor is itchy skin–along with vivid nightmares and brain zaps. There isn’t much I can do about the last two, but I can put lotion on the offending body parts. At least the ones within reach.

Studly Doright was out of town last night, and he’s my go to lotion application expert. Without him I was reduced to all sorts of physical contortions that still left my back untreated. One of my Facebook friends (not a creep) suggested that I do the following:

” get a very thin dishtowel, lots of lotion. roll up the towel, lotion top to bottom, hold it as if you want to dry your back, like this / right top to bottom left, lotion side toward your back, and rub up and down. reapply lotion, switch hands, repeat.”

What a great plan, I thought. But what if I went a step further and got an old white tshirt, one of Studly’s of course, and squirted lotion all over the inside? Then I could just put the tshirt on and voilà, lotion would magically be applied to my back!

This was not a terrible idea; although, I did end up with copious amounts of lotion in my hair. The important thing, though,  was that my back was thoroughly moisturized and for a wonderfully, blessed time wasn’t driving me ape sh*t crazy. 

In retrospect I should’ve used a button down shirt which would’ve prevented the whole lotion in the hair scenario. I’m now thinking of designing and patenting the exciting new MOISTURE SHIRT! Available where fine personal care items are sold.

Today I took a proactive stance. That’s something I seldom do, so applause might be in order. I’ll wait while you give me a standing O…. I purchased a product that should make applying lotion much simpler:

  

I gave it a trial run this evening, even though Studly is home. Honestly, this lotion applicator might be my new best friend. It worked exactly as advertised and doesn’t need any laundry done or dinners cooked. If it knows how to change a tire I might not need Studly at all. 

Peace, people!