We’ve recently found ourselves saying final goodbyes to musicians who’ve left indelible marks on this world. Songwriters and vocalists who were the voices we turned to for solace and inspiration. David Bowie, Glenn Frey, and Natalie Cole have all been taken from us way before their time. It’s been a depressing way to begin 2016.
BowieFrey
Cole
But as I was shopping for lotion and makeup at Ulta this morning, I heard these groundbreaking lyrics, “Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow,” and thought, yes, we are doomed. It wasn’t a lullabye, and it wasn’t a commercial for cat food. There were additional lyrics, but the meow really was the best part of the song.
And to think I have talented friends and relatives waiting for their respective big breaks in the music business and some schlub gets air time repeatedly singing “meow.”
A few weeks ago, Studly Doright and I spent all afternoon moving furniture from one end of Doright Manor to the other.
When we moved in nearly two years ago I made an error in measuring our guest bedrooms. Ok, let’s be honest, I didn’t bother measuring, and one of the bedrooms ended up being cramped and claustrophobic, while the other felt cavernous. With two sets of company coming for a long weekend, we decided to right that wrong.
One set of bedroom furniture is antique and fragile. It belonged to my grandmother, and even though I’m sometimes tempted to sell it I just can’t bring myself to part with it. While the headboard and footboard are massive the bed is a small full size and barely allows one adult to sleep comfortably.
The other set is fairly new, acquired when my dad lived with us. The queen sized bed and armoire are nothing fancy, but the mattress is top notch. I’ve dubbed it, The Texas Bedroom, and it holds my go-to bed when Studly’s snoring passes the merely annoying stage and heads into the sonic torture realm.
The moving process from one end of the house to another was tricky, in that one room would need to be completely empty before the other furniture could be moved down this hallway:
Studly, a self-proclaimed master of both logistics and wiseassery carefully studied the necessary steps for a week before finally declaring, “Well, this is gonna suck.”
It did indeed suck. Neither Studly nor I are young any more, and that antique bedroom set is both heavy and unwieldy. Add fragile into the mix and we had ourselves quite an afternoon of gently persuading the pieces to hold together while we balanced them precariously on moving dollies. At the end of the day copious amounts of both wood glue and Ben-Gay were involved.
The results, though, were pleasing. The beds are much better suited to their respective rooms, and I am a happy camper. And in the end, isn’t my happiness what it’s all about?
Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:
Key Takeaway: Give your newer sisters and brothers in WordPress one piece of advice based on your experiences blogging.
————–or————–
If you’re a new blogger what’s one question you’d like to ask other bloggers?
I’m a blogging addict. At least once a week for the past year and a half I’ve pledged to quit, and yet here I am, plugging away. Pledging and plugging in an endless cycle of despair and euphoria.
If new bloggers are looking to me for advice then it’s a very sad state they inhabit. Nonetheless, here is my one piece of wisdom:
Just write and publish something every single day. Don’t make apologies or excuses, just write.
You’ll hit a lot of easy out pop flies, but occasionally you’ll get a triple, and on that rarest of days, a grand slam home run. Those are the days that stoke the writing fire, and to continue mixing metaphors, feed the addiction.
And because I don’t follow directions very well, here’s one more piece of advice: Read the work of a diverse mix of bloggers. Interact with them and savor their unique talents. Perhaps the best part of having begun writing has been the exposure to this great wealth of writers, poets, and photographers.
On Saturday night a light snow fell near Havana, Florida. I looked out the window and told Studly Doright that I saw white flakes fluttering on the breeze, but he was too busy polishing his golf clubs to get up and look for himself. He didn’t see snow; ergo, it did not snow.
When he returned home from playing golf on Sunday afternoon his first words were, “Hey, did you know it snowed here last night?”
I swear, one of these days that man is going to wish he’d paid attention to me!
Someone must have given this guy a lift to our neck of the woods.
The best thing about Florida living is that cold snaps are invariably followed by warm, sunny days.
Written in response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Not Lemonade. When life hands you lemons…make something else. Tell us about a time you used an object or resolved an issue in an unorthodox way.
Weekly travel was once the norm for me as a consultant for a non-profit educational foundation. One week I’d be in Devil’s Lake, North Dakota, and the next week I’d be in Detroit, Michigan, or Albuquerque, New Mexico, or some point in between. As a result of all this travel, I’ve stayed in more than my share of hotels. Some have been luxurious. Others have been dumps.
Detroit
One thing they all have in common, besides the requisite bed, is a notable lack of a plunger for the toilet. On more than one occasion I’ve managed to clog a hotel bathroom toilet. Blame it on faulty plumbing setups or questionable Mexican food, but a clogged hotel john is a lemon of the worst kind.
Typically the clog occurs in the middle of the night, and even if one could face the embarrassment of calling the front desk for assistance, seldom would anyone answer the call. I don’t know what the main desk clerks do at night, but fixing toilets apparently isn’t a priority.
I quickly learned that I had to be my own best plumber. (If you’re squeamish, just stop reading now and imagine fuzzy bunnies and pink flowers.) the first time I was faced with the clogged toilet predicament my initial instinct was to use a pair of my own underwear to cover my hand for a foray into the bowl. But that was an indescribably icky thought, and I don’t buy cheap undies.
Casting around for anything to keep my hand dry I spotted the small trash bin with the ubiquitous clear plastic liner. Channeling my inner Archimedes, I shouted, “Eureka!” while inserting my right hand into the liner and then quickly into the bowels of the bowl.
My idea went swimmingly! The clog came free. A flush took all of the waste away, and no one but yours truly knew there’d ever been an issue. Well, I did have to swish the liner around in the clean toilet to remove any evidence of my activity, but that was a minor task in the scheme of things. After one’s arm has been in poop up to one’s elbow, everything else is, well, lemonade.
I’m not gonna lie. I looked really cute Saturday afternoon. I was dressed in black leggings and a gorgeous red tunic my daughter sent me. I paired them with my tall black Frye boots and a black and white scarf. I was turning heads, baby. Strutting my stuff.
To celebrate my beauty, Studly Doright took me to see a matinee showing of The Revenant. I settled into my reclining seat with a 24 oz. Sam Adams Cold Snap and a smuggled-in box of Jelly Belly jelly beans. Life was good.
About fifteen minutes into the movie, after the deadly surprise attack on Leonardo DiCaprio’s camp, but before a protective mama bear basically makes him her afternoon snack, I reached up to adjust my stylish scarf. Something was poking me.
This is what my fingers came away with:
Little pieces of brown paper excelsior.
I admit I was puzzled. I couldn’t recall having played in a pile of excelsior that morning. My pre-movie meal hadn’t had any paper in it. Faced with a mystery I put the evidence in my purse and pondered on it throughout the entire grisly movie.
DiCaprio sliced open and climbed inside of a horse to keep from freezing to death; I thought about excelsior. He chopped off a guy’s fingers, I thought about excelsior. It really made the movie palatable, that brown, scratchy paper I’d pulled from within the voluminous folds of my scarf.
As soon as the film was over I showed the pieces of paper to Studly.
“What do you make of this?” I demanded.
“Hell, I just thought you were moulting,” he said.
No wonder I was turning heads. With any luck I started a new fashion trend.
Kick it: What’s the 11th Item on your bucket list?
There’s a hole in my bucket,
Or so I believe,
The older I get
The bigger the peeve.
I cross one item off,
And up crops another,
You’d think by my age
I’d not even bother.
Yet if I were counting
From top to the bottom,
Item eleven would be
Seeing Paris in Autumn.
I was blaming the holidays and a weekend visit with friends from Indiana for my sudden and startling gain of ten pounds. Long gone, it seems, are the days when I could inhale an entire pepperoni pizza and not gain a tenth of a pound. Nowadays if I even look too longingly at a Cinnabon sign I find myself in need of a new pant size.
Then I saw this meme on Facebook:
And I knew what a much better story it would make.
(Ring, ring!)
Quentin Tarentino: Talk to me.
Me: Mr. Tarantino?
QT: Yes?
Me: Hey! This is Leslie. Leslie Noyes? You know the kind of hefty, middle aged female lead for your next film, TheOverweight Eight?
QT: I’m sorry. There must be some misunderstanding. We just released a film with a similar title, but….
Me: I was really counting on this role, and I’ve already gained the weight. Are you sure…? I can be at the studio tomorrow. Samuel L. Jackson is going to love me!
QT: Look lady. I’m sure you’re a real groovy chick, but I don’t know you. Never call me again, or I’ll have you arrested. (Click!)
I guess I wasted all that money on my SAG card, too.
Believe it or not, I’m never bored. Maybe it’s a result of having been chastised as a teenager for ever uttering the “B” word.
Instead I decided to make a case on how to avoid boredom. I give you–
Exhibit A: Writing blog posts.
Yes, any time I feel a tinge of ennui sneaking up on me I plop myself down in my favorite writing spot and just begin typing. Usually these posts end up perpetually stuck in my draft folder, but occasionally they see it to publication.
Exhibit B: Utilize the full potential of my pets.
Surely they were placed on earth to serve and amuse us.
No actual felines were harmed in the writing of this post.
Exhibit C: Make snarky comments on Facebook.
It really is too bad that snarkiness doesn’t pay better. Or anything.
Exhibit D: Explore Pinterest.
Honestly, if one can’t find something to pique his/her interest on Pinterest then he/she might not have a pulse, and should be administered CPR ASAP.
Exhibit E: Drive!
Drive to a new shopping center or explore a local tourist spot that you’ve never been to because you’re, well, a local. I still kick myself because the entire time I lived within 100 miles of Springfield, Illinois, I never visited the capitol building.
I believe I’ve made my point. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap.
Praying for Eyebrowz 