Tag: humor

Exodus Angst

Studly Doright and I didn’t have to evacuate for Hurricane Matthew. Tallahassee is far enough west of the Atlantic that we might not even get any significant rainfall from the storm. However, we are experiencing an unpleasant influx of folks running from the hurricane, and I have strong feelings about that. 

I stopped at the truck stop nearest our home this morning where the queue for the gas pumps was ridiculous! I waited an unthinkable five minutes before having to pay $2.29 a gallon for my gas. Can you imagine? It was outrageous!

Once inside I had to stand in line behind ten people just to get to the Cinnabon counter, and by the time I was served, my favorite Cinnaminis had been decimated. I cry “Foul!” Plus, several of those in line didn’t even look or sound like Floridians. I suppose some of them might be good people, but I swear I heard New York accents. 

Dadgum refugees in their Bermuda shorts and sundresses. Should have brought their own snacks instead of taking my valuable resources. And they’re clogging up MY roads and my restaurants and my movie theatres. Stupid east coast migrants. Don’t they know we barely have enough to survive without the burden of caring for them? Maybe the Florida panhandle should secede from the rest of the state. Build a wall. Make Tallahassee great again. 

Little Things on the Occasion of My 60th Birthday.

I’m going to admit to starting out this first day of my sixties feeling a little sorry for myself. Yes, I’d enjoyed a surprise birthday weekend with Studly on the gulf coast, but today was the DAY and I had nothing going on. No party. No family here (except for Studly). No cake. No dancing. Poor pitiful me.

My long time friend, Hunny, turned 60 on the third of this month with a flourish. Her kids threw a surprise party and there was live music and her grandbabies were in attendance. I might have felt a twinge, ok, a rush of envy, knowing there was no way I was going to be feted in such a manner.

But on my way to work this morning I got a FaceTime call from our youngest grandchild who sang her special version of Happy Birthday. Then in the office at the school where I’m working a second grade boy told me he thought I was pretty. Just out of the clear blue sky. When I thanked him and told him that today was my birthday he said, “Well, that explains everything!”

Throughout the day I’ve received  hundreds of birthday greetings from friends on WordPress and Facebook, and each one makes me smile. I also have two gifts to open later tonight and Studly has promised to take me to dinner. 

On my way home from work I was listening to John Fugelsang’s show and his guest, one of my favorite poets, Taylor Mali, read his poem, My Deepest Condiments. It was as if this poem was meant just for me today. So I’m feeling pretty awesome. No more pity party. It’s great to be 60. 

Here’s Taylor Mali. Enjoy.

http://youtu.be/P8NF6WJw50k
Peace, people.

Me at 60.


Pre-Sixties Inventory

‘Twas the night before sixty
And while tossing in bed
I considered my body
From my toes to my head.

My arches have fallen
My calves ache with fatigue
Poor ankles are swollen
Oh, where’s the Aleve?

My thighs nicknamed thunder,
Hips ache all the time.
Stomach pooches with abandon,
Breasts droop, it’s a crime!

My neck’s crepey like a chicken’s
My face wrinkled like a Sharpei’s
But brown eyes still a’twinkle
While brown hair’s turning gray.


The changes have been gradual,
And not overnight
Thank goodness I’ve had time
To deal with the fright.

Today’s the day I kiss my fifties goodbye. I’m really looking forward to this decade. If it weren’t the middle of the week I’d go out dancing until 2 a.m., drink my companions under the table, and run naked through the streets singing “Born to be Wild” at the top of my lungs. Good thing it’s Wednesday. 

http://youtu.be/xm5DPlNCmtk
Peace, people!

Slotted Spoons

I have a spoon for every need:
slotted,
bouillon,
curved and
Chinese,
cutty,
demitasse, and
dessert,
egg spoon,
grapefruit,
even a spork,
And yet all I require
Is a proper tool
with which to eat
my ice cream.

Strike While the Flower is Right

Three different times on Thursday I passed a garden area adjacent to the school at which I’m working. This garden featured the most gorgeous purple flowers. If I knew anything at all about plants I’m sure I’d be able to tell you their names, but I don’t, and I can’t.

Each time I walked by I thought to myself, “Those gorgeous flowers for which I have no name would make a perfect snapshot of the day on my blog,” but twice I didn’t have my camera with me and once my arms were loaded with testing materials.

Finally at the end of the day I found an opportunity to slip outside to take a photo of these breathtakingly beautiful plants. Alas, I was too late. Each of the blossoms lay wilted on the ground.

Now I have no idea what happened. Perhaps some group of ornery elementary students couldn’t help themselves and dashed the flowers to the ground. Maybe aliens were responsible for their demise, shooting death rays from the depths of space thinking to annihilate life on earth, but succeeding only in killing certain flowers. In that case we dodged a bullet, wouldn’t you agree? 

But maybe it was just that time in the flowers’ lives. They’d reached the pinnacle of their collective existence and then simultaneously expired depriving me of a lovely photograph and the world of their fragrant beauty. 

You know there’s a moral to this story, right? Stop and snap a photo of the unknown purple flowers. Gosh, that might just catch on.

Peace, people

Best Laid Plans

Studly Doright never sets an alarm. He’s been getting up at the same early hour for the past 40 odd years now unless he’s sick or on vacation. So when I realized he was still in bed at 6:42 this Friday morning I immediately checked to see if he was still breathing.  

Having confirmed that was still among the living I shook him vigorously. “Hey! You’re still in bed.” 

“Mmphm,” he replied.

“You are late for work,” I persisted.

“Not going in today,” he mumbled. 

“Oh.”

“I’m taking you to the beach for your birthday.”

Well, alrighty then!”

So here I am, sitting outside a hotel in Destin, FL. There’s not a beach within a mile.

“I swear,” Studly swears. “I booked us a room at the beach.”

There might be a reason I always book the hotels. Sigh.