Tag: humor

Just Another Nail in the Wall

I’ve been a busy little decorator these past few days. After two years of living in the home I’ve dubbed Doright Manor I’m finally hanging some artwork. 

Now, the term “art” is used loosely here. There are no Ansel Adams or Georgia O’Keefe pieces gracing our walls. Instead, I’m fond of framing pretty greeting cards and random pictures from glossy magazines, a holdover practice from our days of living below the poverty line, along with finds from estate and garage sales. 

I like to say my taste in art is eclectic. That sounds so much better than questionable or dubious. The few pieces I’ve purchased from art galleries don’t do anything for me once I try to find a spot for them. I really have fared much better with my more frugal purchases.

Regardless of cost or source all of my pieces have something in common: They hide multiple nail holes. Never mind the amount of time I spend measuring and calculating, marking and leveling, I never get it right the first time. Even if I’m hanging a single picture I end up with roughly 9,643 holes in the wall. Ok, that’s an exaggeration, but just barely.

My expertise comes in cleverly masking those holes. “Oh, look, you placed a butterfly on the corner of the frame! How cute!” people exclaim. Damned straight, Skippy–that butterfly is camouflaging at least three holes. 

I know at this point in the post I should provide a photo of a few of my displays, but no good could come of that. My readers will either pity me or laugh at me. And I’m not sure my fragile ego can handle that. 

Ok, just one. No laughing. Pity’s ok, though. Or vice versa. 

 

One of my garage sale finds. It makes me happy.
 
Peace, people!

Phobia

I have no phobias as far as I can tell. At one time in my life I was fearful of escalators, but only those heading down. After years of traveling through airports and department stores I overcame that fear. The time it took to circumvent the escalators cut drastically into my travel and shopping time, so I cured myself.

I do understand irrational and deep seated fear, though, and I’m sympathetic to those who suffer from phobias. Having said that, some of these are a bit hard to swallow:

Pharmacophobia is the name given to the fear of medicines.

Quackery

 

Do not go into nursing or motherhood if you suffer from this.
  
Really?
  
A weird one, granted, but those black symbols can be daunting.
  
I forgot to be afraid of this one….
  
Studly Doright has an odd fear of lakes.
  
Totally understandable. Only the shadow knows what’s in the shadows.
  
That explains why people scream and run away when I enter a room.
  
I can understand this! Ventriloquists’ dummies are pretty creepy.
  
Could I claim this one after 39 years?
 
And then there’s

 

I might develop this.

Peace, people! 

Pitching an Idea

If an average person had a brilliant idea for a movie based on a true story what course of action should that average person take?

One can hardly call up Mr. Scorsese or Mr. Spielberg and say, “Hey man, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground, but I know of this story from the early 1900’s that has the potential to be as big as Forrest Gump.

“It’s got everything audiences clamor for: action, adventure, inspiration, obstacles, and humor.”

So what does the average person do? I’m not a screenwriter, and have no desire to be, but I would love for someone to tell this story. Any advice?

  
Peace, people

Unintentional Dating 

Unintentional Dating 

My lonely life revolves around shopping, blogging, and Facebook, but at least I have a life of sorts. On Facebook I’m particularly vulnerable to clicking on tests–“How Smart are You?” “What Does Your Color Preference Indicate about You?” “Are  You a Sociopath? Find out in 10 Easy Steps.”

 

For the record, there’s a unicorn inside me, which explains the gastric distress.
 
Like most facebookers, I take the results of these tests with a grain of salt, meaning if I like the results it was a righteous test; if I don’t, it was a lame questionnaire with no legitimacy. I still maintain that I am not a sociopath. Stupid test.

Most of the time these little activities are straightforward and harmless: Click on the site, answer a few multiple choice questions, receive your results. But one day this week I took a quiz and was automatically transferred to the online dating site, FirstMet.

I didn’t answer a single question and left the page immediately. However, the site was linked to my Facebook profile so now I’ve been receiving dozens of emails from potential suitors. They include

Gary, a 55 year old male in Tallahassee who’d like to rock my world. His hobbies include listening to Rush Limbaugh and going to tractor pulls.

Mark, 58, is retired and enjoys television and Chinese take out.

Walt, 62, likes the Hunger Games and country music. Walt has a comb over (I saw his photo). 

I thought I could ignore these emails and they’d go away, but they keep coming. Either I’m much more desirable than I ever thought, or these men are slightly desperate. Let’s go with option #2.

Studly Doright really doesn’t want me to date. And honestly, unless Harrison Ford, Huey Lewis, or Adam Levine show up in an email I’m not all that interested. 

Finally a Facebook friend showed me how to stop receiving the emails from FirstMet, so maybe my suitors will fade away. Of course now I won’t have any way to know when Harrison tries to contact me. That’s the downside.

Ok, I’m going to go retake that sociopath assessment. Must be more careful this time around. Bwahaha.
Peace, people!

It’s a Trap!

You can’t be too careful. 

 
I believe I’ll stick with the “Eat Bacon, Don’t Jog” diet.  

 It’s legit. 

Peace, people!

Funny How This Works

A blogging friend shared this post today:

Nachos..

Posted on March 29, 2016 by A Not So Jaded Life

I called for a nacho night, awesome right? Except I ate almost all the cheese before it went on the corn chips… Why do I do these unforgivable things. 

I can certainly identify with her dilemma. Nachos sans cheese are just chips. I imagine that  when the ingredients met up in her stomach they probably recognized their respective soul mates and did a happy dance.

  
But her tale reminded me of one from my very early childhood. I commented:

When I was very little my mom made up a mixture of peanut butter and Karo syrup to put on toast. But while she was toasting the bread I devoured the mixture. She got so tickled because I thought the peanut butter and syrup was my breakfast. I remember that vividly and I was only three or four at the time. Your post brought that back to me. Thanks!

I can still picture the confusion on Mother’s face when she brought the toast to the table and found that the peanut butter and syrup bowl was empty–probably licked clean. It was my first taste of that lovely concoction and it was bowl licking good.

Then she began to laugh. And it was a wonderful laugh. We mixed up more of the good stuff and enjoyed it on our toast. And then I watched Captain Kangaroo.

This is why we share our lives through our blogs. The exciting and mundane, the shocking and the bland can provide meaningful connections. You never know when your post is going to trigger a lost memory.

Heres a link to my friend’s site. Check her out!

https://anotsojadedlife.wordpress.com/author/anotsojadedlife/

Peace, people.

Peanut butter and Karo Syrup: Food of the gods.

My Next Tattoo?

 I’ve always heard that once you get a tattoo you’ll soon be jonesing for another. 
Of course this one’s been taken now. Cross it off my list. 

Peace, people

Isn’t It Amazing?

Oh Pan, how could you do the unthinkable and grow up? You promised we’d happily inhabit 

Neverland forever, crowing the dawn into existence, sharing feasts with fantastic

Friends and fiends. You taught me to fly, but without you the gift is but another

Form of transportation–lonely, neck straining, wind-battering air travel.

The Lost Boys still sing your praises, I can only cry. My tears turn into streams, then into 

rivers. Come back Peter! We can pretend you never left. Pretending is what we do best.

  

I purchased this bracelet a couple of days ago at Magnolia Mercantile, a funky, fun little shop in Tallahassee, Florida. The saying on the bracelet forced me to write the poem. Honest. 

Notice the cute little Tinkerbell dangling from the chain. Is this perfect or what?

Peace, people!

In One Basket

Always the finder of the fewest eggs,
A dubious prize at best.

Like being crowned Miss Congeniality
In a field of wild weeds.

I never declined the questionable honor,
But smiled winningly enough

To hoodwink the shepherding adults into
believing I was honored,

When all I ever really wanted was to have the fullest basket

Just one Easter.

  

In Praise of Eyeglasses

I petted a rug this morning. Bent down and stroked it before realizing it wasn’t my black cat.

Granted the lighting was dim, and I hadn’t had my first sip of coffee yet, but I talked to the rug in the voice I generally reserve for my black cat long before I got close enough to pet it.

I should’ve known something was up when she didn’t talk back.