Wherever you are. Whatever activity you’re engaged it at this moment, stop and sing happy birthday to me (Leslie). Offer good only through midnight on October 5, 2021.
Just sing quietly to yourself if you’re in a meeting. Or in church. Or hiding from a burglar. Or if your mouth is full, because that’s just bad manners.
Thanks! I believe I heard a few of you.
Peace, people!
Studly Doright and I are watching Blacklist. We’re midway through season six, and frankly I’m a little weary of Raymond Reddington and Agent Keene’s soap opera-ish entanglements. If it weren’t for Agent Arim Mojtabai, played by Amir Arison, I’d probably bail on the series.
Don’t tell Studly, but I’ve been cheating on Blacklist with the Netflix series Midnight Mass. I’m only on episode two, but the moodiness and the sense of impending doom is captivating. I am already hooked.
Where is the old Monsignor? Is the new guy even a real priest? What happened to the cats? Is Riley going to make it and why does he look so familiar? Who else is watching this and what are your thoughts?
Peace, people!
I recently read an article, okay, I read a headline, that said something to the effect of Why the Rest of the World Believes Americans are Obsessed with Autumn.
“Huh,” I thought. I like Autumn, but I don’t like like it. I mean, I could live without it, totally, if I had to. I might get the shakes for a couple of months, but surely by Christmas I’d be fine.
What would be obsessive is someone like me who lives in Florida, where autumn temps barely drop into the 60’s, lowering her thermostat so she can wear sweaters around the house while sipping hot chocolate with a cozy blanket wrapped around her feet. That would be obsessive.
Here, hold my hot chocolate while I decide if I want to wear the orange sweater or the brown one.
Peace, people.
In less than one week I will celebrate my most significant birthday since I turned 21. But with a lot less fanfare, fewer drinks, and no hangover. Yes, I am approaching 65, the golden age of social security and Medicare in the United States.
I’d prefer to have ignored how old I’m about to be, but around six months ago I began receiving at least one piece of mail a day from a Medicare supplement provider. If I’d kept them all I could have wallpapered our guest bathroom with the literature detailing the fine points of each plan. Maybe I should have as a public service—most of my friends are nearing 65, as well.
A couple of weeks ago I opened a letter to find my official Medicare card inside. My biggest hope is that I don’t have to use it for at least ten years, but it’s tucked into my wallet just in case someone needs to card me at a bar or something.
Yesterday I received a phone book-sized handbook. Not a big-city sized phone book, and not a recent one, more like an old one from my youth back when we still received new phone books once a year. Nowadays we only receive the Yellow Pages, but I digress. I digress because that’s what old people do, and even though I’m not yet 65 I need the practice. “Get off my lawn you young whippersnapper!”
Don’t you just love how healthy and happy all the old folks look? Maybe I’ll look the same once I’m 65. Fingers crossed.
I know age is more than just a number. It’s how one feels and acts, right? At the moment I feel annoyed about all the Medicare literature I keep getting. I’ll bet some young whippersnapper is having a good old time sending this stuff out.
Peace, people.
I don’t often become excited by postage stamps, but as soon as the Star Wars Droids stamps were released I made a trip to the local post office and bought a sheet. Yes, I’m an almost 65-year-old woman with a Star Wars obsession. So sue me. No, don’t. I have no money and it’d be a big waste of time for both of us.
Peace, people, and may the Force be with you.
Quick burst of flavor
Ripe red cherry tomatoes
No two quite alike
This one like sugar
Unlike the fat squishy one
That falls a bit flat
One thing for certain
They taste nothing like cherries
I fell for that once
I haven’t tooted my own horn here in a while, but when I checked Amazon today I realized I had more than 150 reviews—most of them of the five and four star variety. http://Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P76RBRD/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_glt_fabc_CBSVP0EG2BHS8SPG4S28
Now if I only had a horn!
https://images.app.goo.gl/zNDujbCuJPusiyB78
Peace, people!
Routine is everything to our cat, Gracie.
She wakes Studly Doright up at five every morning and makes him carry her to the kitchen for a treat.
After he leaves for work, she snuggles with me and insists I get up at six. While I shower, Gracie watches me from her ringside seat on the side of bathtub. She presides over my morning routine, ensuring that I take my vitamins, and calcium, and allergy meds, and well, you get the idea.
The day proceeds with Gracie allotting time for feeding, naps, and play when she’s not actively supervising my work. In the evening she lets us know it’s time to stretch out on one of the chairs on the screened-in porch by pawing at the patio door.
Bedtime routine with Gracie is reminiscent of my days of tucking in a toddler. She gets a bowl of her favorite wet food, a bit of playtime, then we snuggle into our bed. But Gracie isn’t ready to sleep.
She’ll jump off the bed in dramatic fashion and rush down the hallway to the kitchen. Soon she’ll come back toting a bag of treats in her mouth. If she can’t get to the cat treats, she’ll bring a bag of people food—nuts, trail mix—whatever comes closest to resembling her treats, so the gist of her message is clear—one last snack, please.
Once she gets what she wants Gracie disappears into one of the guest bedrooms for the night only reappearing in our room when it’s time to wake Studly up for work. And the routine begins again,
I wish Gracie had been around during the years I taught. I could’ve used a good scheduler.
Peace, people.
Come boggle my mind
Let’s erupt in giggle fits
And bounce off the walls
Tell me a new joke
Or one I’d long forgotten
One that makes me snort
Blow my socks right off
We’ll laugh through raucous hiccups
Sigh, then start again
Peace and laughter, people!
College football is in full swing right now, and Studly Doright and I watched games most of the afternoon and into the late evening. After one successful short pass from the quarterback to a wide receiver the commentator said, “That little shuffle pass has been effective against this defense this year.”
Studly turned to me and asked, “Is it shuttle pass or shuffle pass?”
As the self-proclaimed word expert in our home I declared that it had to be shuttle. I reasoned that the QB was shuttling the pass along. Studly disagreed. He believed the word was shuffle because it was as if the passer was shuffling a card to the receiver.
We argued back and forth until I googled the topic. I’m happy to say that Studly was wrong. But sad to say that I, too, was incorrect. The term is shovel pass because the hand motion involved mimics the movement of a shovel being wielded.
Well, fine. I don’t agree with the decision, but I can’t be right all the time. That would be annoying.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 