Tag: humor

Dread

  

i wait
those four typed words hanging between us:

we need to talk

with trembling hands i key in your
number,

voice mail, my reward.

what cruelty has led us to this awful
place?

how much more can my sanity take?

i jump as a ringtone signals your call.

hello? i answer so softly that even i struggle to hear.

hey, you say, i wonder…

please, just end this agony! get it over with already!

well, i just wanted to know if i could have your recipe for lasagna.

oh, well sure. no problem. glad to help. 

let’s talk again soon.

  
  

Messing With Cats

Doright Manor is built in such a way that four doors open onto our porch. There is set of French doors in the formal living, another from the den, and another from the master bedroom. Then there is a single door opening from the master bath directly across from the French doors in the den.

Since completing our covered/screened in porch project we’ve almost exclusively used the den doors to access our new seating area on the porch. This morning while sipping my coffee and watching squirrels cavort around the lake I decided to open the door to the master bath so the cats could easily access their litter box without having to go all the way around the house.

Our older girl, Scout, is totally chill about the new doorway. She’s sitting in one of the patio chairs like, “Yeah, I knew that door would open eventually….No biggie.”

 

Scout chilling out.
 
But our younger baby, Patches, has had her mind blown. It’s like she’s discovered Narnia. Patches has run back and forth nonstop across the porch all morning to verify the door’s existence, stopping at intervals to meow a clear question, “What’s going on here?” There might be an expletive in there, but I’m not that fluent in Cat.

 

Patches in motion.
 
At some point she’ll run out of steam and questions. That’s when I’ll open the door onto the master bedroom. That will really blow her mind.

Peace, people!

The Day Before Thanksgiving

Studly Doright, the love of my life, is a bit of a horse trader. He doesn’t trade actual horses (dear Studly harbors an unnatural fear of farm animals, large and small); instead, he trades cars, trucks, motorcycles, basically anything that is motorized transportation.

On Tuesday he informed me that he’d bought a pickup truck. I nodded and smiled. “And, by the way,” he said casually, “We have to pick it up on Wednesday.”

Again, I nodded, like the dullard I must be.

Studly cleared his throat and I looked at him expectantly. “Um, it’s in Orlando….”

Normally a proposed trip to Orlando would have me jumping up and down like a small child. Universal Studios, DisneyWorld, tacky souvenirs, oh joy! But on the day before we are to host a Thanksgiving meal in our home? Nooooooooooo! For one thing  I knew there’d be no dawdling. We’d drive four hours south, in holiday traffic mind you, then turn around and drive four hours back to Doright Manor. But I had no choice. Studly can be an awful bully, I mean, awfully persuasive. 

The trip down was enjoyable. In addition to his gifts in persuasion Studly is always entertaining. Once again we drove right by the Cafe Risqué, Florida’s all nude cafe, even though we have a series of running jokes about what’s on the menu. Trust me, you don’t want to know the jokes. 

Traffic was interesting. One seriously aggressive driver came lane surfing around us, easily going 20 m.p.h. above our rather sedate 75. (Speed limit was 70.) As we neared Orlando we passed her after she’d hit another car. I’d have cheered, but she ruined someone else’s weekend. 

Once we arrived at the car dealership Studly took a test drive while I stretched my legs and looked at cars. The dealership had a gorgeous red BMW convertible that could’ve come home with me if I had just a few more (thousand) dollars in my bank account. After he returned, smiling like an idiot, Studly told me I could start for home while he finished making the deal.

I’ve officially been home now for an hour, and put together another pecan pie that should be done in 10-15 minutes. Studly got caught in a holiday traffic jam on the turnpike. I’m enjoying a Shiner Bock and the Thanksgiving classic Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Studly is probably cursing at rude drivers. Who knows, he might actually get to check out the menu at Cafe Risqué.

  
Peace, people!

Down and Dirty

The hours I spend at Tallahassee Animal Services as a volunteer are the among the best of my week. Only surprise calls from my grandchildren can top being with the cats and kittens at the shelter.

Each week has its pleasures: cuddling a sweet kitty and feeling it purr against my chest, enticing a morose cat from her perch at the back of a kennel to come closer for a behind-the-ear scratching, watching a hopeful feline leave with his new family. 

But each week has its little messes, too. This past Wednesday I spent some time doing laundry and putting it away. The shelter goes through countless loads of dirty towels, blankets, and cloth toys. Soiled items are placed in an oversized trash bin. 

I grabbed an armful of laundry this week and was rewarded with the icky wet smell and feel that only dog pee can produce. And now I had that smell, too. All over my tee shirt. 

Having successfully loaded the washer I stooped to pick up a substantial piece of fuzz from the floor and realized just in time that it wasn’t fuzz, it was poo. Stinky, relatively new, poo. All in an afternoon’s work. 

Here are just a few of the animals available for loving adoption at Tallahassee Animal Services. Remember, “Don’t Shop, Adopt!”

 

Ben
 
 
Manny
 

 

Sebastian
 
Peace, people!

Slow Boat to Anywhere

  

i’d like to have you,
on a slow boat tonight
down a lazy river or
any port feels right.

whisper through wee hours
give into rhythm’s waves,
rock each other gently
and stay afloat for days.

far from shore we’d sail
then shelter in the cove,
skyclad ‘neath the stars
clothed in naught, save love.

  
Now, lest anyone think I was feeling amorous when I wrote this nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve got some sort of stomach bug, and I am doing my best to keep from being sick. Poor Studly Doright. 

Peace, people.

Walmart Proposal or Finally Hitting the Big Time

Studly Doright and I have been married for more than 39 years now. I know what you’re thinking, “Man, that Studly is one lucky son of a gun.” And you’d be right. Apparently, I’m a heckuva catch. 

Just this afternoon at Walmart a young man on the pet food aisle chatted me up about my cats and made additional small talk before asking, “So, are you married?” 

I blinked rapidly several times and then in a too loud voice responded, “Yep! Yep! Old and married.”

“Too bad,” he responded and sauntered away. 

He wasn’t my type. The saggy, baggy jeans were a deal breaker. Well, that and the “I look like I just got out of jail” vibe he was putting out. Still, if Studly ever forgets just how lucky he is, I have at least one prospect.

Note: My Walmart beau looked a lot better than any of these guys:

 

Is this the legendary Camo Fairy?
  
Barney called. He wants his suit back.
  
Don’t you wish your boyfriend was hot like me?
  
Gary had a little lamb.
 Peace, people!

Conundrum

I roused myself from bed fairly early Monday morning, showered, drank a couple of cups of coffee, and did my best to look presentable before leaving Doright Manor on a minor shopping expedition. On most days my efforts at self beautification are wasted, and I leave the house looking, at best, like a third generation homeless woman on a epically bad day. 

On this Monday, though, the stars were aligned, the makeup gods full of good will, and I looked really good for a 59-year-old grandmother. Dare I say I was glowing? I blew myself a goodbye kiss in the mirror and took off in search of items Studly Doright wanted for his new diet. (More on that in a future post–if I don’t kill him first.)

 

No, this isn’t me, but if you squint and pretend then it’s almost me.
 
While pushing a cart around Whole Foods I stooped to pick up a can of cranberry sauce from a bottom shelf and felt my back suddenly go “squitch!” I winced in pain and attempted to stand up in the throes of a full blown muscle spasm. Abandoning the cranberry sauce I crab walked to the checkout and paid for the things in my basket. 
 
Again, not me.
 
My face must have reflected the squitching going on in my lumbar region because the lovely young cashier found someone to carry my groceries to the car for me. Truly sometimes age and its accompanying pains have their perks. 

Once in the car I thought in my practical self voice, “Go have a massage.”

My vain self answered, “But, but, your makeup looks so good today! You know that only happens once ever decade or so.”

For a heartbeat I listened to my vain self. Thank goodness I decided to go with practical me, but for a heartbeat I was faced with the ultimate conundrum: Is it better to feel good or to look good? In a perfect world I could do both.

 

This is what I think I look like when getting a massage.

 
This comes closer to the truth.
  
Peace, people!

Friends I Don’t Know

Thanks to social media and WordPress I’ve become friends with a large number of people who* I’ve never actually met face to face.  (*Should that be whom? I’m sure one of my friends will let me know.)

I enjoy these friendships formed over creative writing, political leanings, and witty comments. In many ways they are as important to me as friendships formed in old-fashioned ways, such as over a shared love of hopscotch in elementary school or while playing hooky together in junior high (not that I ever did that, of course). 

Social media friends tend to be extremely forthright and plain-spoken. If one thinks you’re full of cow manure or a post is weak they’re likely to tell you, knowing they’ll never have to look you in the eye. If a fellow blogger doesn’t “like” or comment on a post their silence might indicate that they didn’t care for the piece or that they didn’t have time to actually read it. The Pollyanna in me always believes it to be the latter.

A friend I don’t know with whom I play Words With Friends (Roy S.) went missing from the game for more than a week, and I began to worry about him. Because the game is our only link, I had no way to inquire after him. Finally this week he played a word and in chat said he’d been unwell for the past few days. Whew! Of course I’d imagined poor Roy S. dangling from a cliff by one hand while trying frantically to type “a-p-r-a-x-i-a” with the other.

Similarly, if I don’t hear or read something from a blogger I follow I start feeling anxious. My imagination goes on overdrive and trust me, in my mind some of you have met spectacular ends. I’m so very relieved when I see a post from your site, and your make-believe death gets saved in my future fiction file.

This leads to the following question: Shouldn’t there be a way of making sure the friends we don’t know are ok? Maybe I’ll invent an app that generates one final note on social media upon one’s death. Something like:

Hey there. Leslie’s dead. She wanted you to know that your support meant so much. Here’s one last poem composed in advance of her demise to be shared on this occasion.

Gone

By Leslie aka Nana 

Life was so wonderful

But my time has come,

No one thought I was sick

Guess they feel pretty dumb.

But I lived a full life

Full of all that is good,

Now sit and weep for me

Like any real friend would.

Leslie knew this wasn’t much of a poem, but, hey she was really sick.

Peace, and good health, people!

  

In My Wildest Dreams

i am the undisputed
champion of laundry
and other areas of
womanly domesticity,
in my wildest dreams.

melodies are composed
in honor of my skills
of bold athetic prowess
on the sporting field,
in my wildest dreams.

belle of the ball am i,
wallflower’s opposite
graceful and desirable,
of incomparable beauty,
in my wildest dreams.

flocks of fans gather
pursuing my attention
accolades precede my
effervescent presence,
in my wildest dreams.

  

in truth i am average,
in every imaginable way
no fans, no praises,
no notable skills,
but i still have dreams.

Inspiration comes from everywhere. This particular piece was inspired by an advertisement for detergent. If only my laundry could be that fresh, that perfect….ah, if only.