a blog is a garden.
while well-tended, blossoms appear:
fragrant jasmine, thorned roses,
upright jacks-in-the-pulpit.
when neglected, weeds sprout:
persistent dandelions, stubborn
pigweed, and annoying quackgrass.
mine requires a little TLC,
sunshine, moisture, and copious
amounts of fertilizer. manure.
fortunately i seem to possess
more than enough of the latter
commodity. i’m full of it.
…get out of bed,
take a shower,
brush my teeth?
Must I
…wear a bra,
pull on clothes,
leave the house?
Must I
…drive cautiously,
signal turns,
stop at lights?
Must I
…dodge papparazi,
walk red carpets,
smile for the camera?
Must I get out of bed?
Peace, People!
This bottle of wine was not meant for me. I bought it for the new neighbors across the street. On three different occasions I attempted delivery, and no one ever came to the door.
You know what they say: If on the third try no one wants the wine, it’s mine.
Peace, people!
True story:
At midnight Studly Doright and I were sitting in our oversized whirlpool tub. I was on my cell phone listening earnestly to a man speaking French while Studly looked to me for his next move. Then things really began to heat up. I know what you’re thinking: Ew!
Trust me, it wasn’t kinky, but it was and continues to be, a mystery. Read on.
Studly Doright and I are early to bed, early to rise people. Seldom do we stay up much past 9 p.m., but last night we had dinner with friends at Angelo’s in Panacea and didn’t get home until 10:30. It was a great evening on Ochlocknee Bay, but by the time we’d dropped off our friends we could barely keep our eyes open.
Once in bed we exchanged goodnight kisses, and Studly was snoring gently before I could even say “amen.” I had just drifted into that stage of twilight sleep, a dream on the tip of my brain, when a roar erupted from the bathroom. Not like a lion’s roar, more like the sound of an approaching demonic tornado from the movie Twister, or the sound an airplane’s engines make just before takeoff.
Studly jumped (crawled) from the bed and ran (limped) into the bathroom. I cowered. I cower well. Within a few seconds the roaring ceased and he returned to bed.
“What was that?”
“Just the drying cycle on the tub.”
“How’d you get it to stop?”
“Pushed a button.”
“You’re my hero.”
Again Studly was snoring before I even shut my eyes. Several minutes passed, before Roooooooaaaaaaaarrrr!
I got up with him this time, so I could see which button Studly pushed to keep him from pushing it again.
“Which button did you push?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t read the screen so I just pushed a button.”
At least I could read the instrument panel without my glasses, so I did the right thing and pushed a button that read, EXIT. Immediately, the drying cycle stopped. Problem solved. Back to bed.
Roooooooooaaaaaaaaarrrr!
“Dammit!”
Back to the tub. I suggested that Studly go find the breaker switch for the tub and turn it off. He took his phone to the garage while I sat in the tub with my phone and we talked as he scanned the circuit breakers.
“Did that turn it off?”
“Nope.”
“How about that one?”
“Nope.”
This fascinating conversation went on for a good five minutes, but we never hit pay dirt. When he came back in he stepped into the tub with me armed with the tub’s owner’s manual. I noticed a contact number on the instrument panel and thought, “What the heck? I’m calling.”
So at midnight I called the customer service line at BainUltra. Immediately, someone answered. In French. I don’t speak French. Fortunately I recognized the cadence of a voice mail message directing me to press two for English and to just stay on the line for French. Quickly I pressed two and was directed to a menu, in heavily accented English, only to be told that all customer service reps were busy and that we were to leave a detailed message as to our problem and they would return our call as soon as possible.
We’re still waiting, unless they’ve called Studly on the golf course this morning. That’ll tick him off.
The dryer went through two more loud cycles before it was completely done for the night. We did figure out how to reduce the amount of power it was using and lowered the temperature of the dryer after I realized my bum was getting hot as I perched on the side of the tub.
This morning I’ve read the entire trouble shooting section of the manual. Nowhere does it cover demonic possession or ghostly hauntings, but I have a feeling that’s what our French-Canadian friends are going to tell us when they finally call.
Peace, people!
National Donut Day is a thing.
Diets are a thing.
The two things are not compatible.
Today I crossed the street
just outside the crosswalk’s lines.
Tonight I plan to have white
wine with a juicy red t-bone steak.
Tomorrow I might just pair
plaid pants with a bright floral top.
Need a rebel?
I’m your gal.
Peace, people!
Somewhere in the great
Kingdom of Almost Never,
next to nothing,
yet close to everything,
lives a mighty ruler:
the much lauded,
but seldom celebrated
Queen of Procrastination.
Her intentions are worthy,
her heart quite pure yet
between her needs and
her deeds, her urges and
surges, her beginnings and
endings lie many
debilitating can’t be dones,
buts, and what ifs.
The Queen of Procrastination
goes out of her way
to explore every option
in the name of delay.
The kingdom keeps running
just barely, at best
the knights aren’t lazy
but they aren’t full of zest.
Awkward is my middle name and composure a foreign concept.
I sometimes imagine carrying on sparkling conversations at dinner parties, but in reality I end up chatting with the hostess’s puppy, to the puppy’s great annoyance.
It isn’t that I have nothing to contribute to a conversation, but that the topics I enjoy (zombies, the Star Wars universe, the undeniable cuteness of my grandchildren and their considerable accomplishments) don’t seem to be of great interest to the folks in our social circle. So next time we are invited to a social event I’m trying a new gambit: Listening.
It won’t be easy. I’m a naturally chatty person. I just hope the hostess’s dog has some snappy chatter.
Peace, people.
Armed only with grit and determination
(and a brush, rubber gloves and a tonic for mold eradication)
Fair maiden set forth one morning in May
to for once end this harbinger of death and decay.
Pandora (the music, not the lady of myth)
Heralded maiden’s approach as she addressed the green filth.
“Begone!” she cried and the mold did not budge.
“I gave you good warning, now perish you sludge!”
Fair maid sprayed and scrubbed, her back bent at odd angles
She swept sweat from her eyes and made her old arms jangle.
After hours of labor she rose from tired knees
Expecting to see a sight which surely would please.
Instead a difference she could not discern
“Dammit,” she muttered. “Let Studly have a turn.”
One small section of our wall taken before and after. I guess I made a bit of a difference.
Is it too early for a glass of wine?
Peace, people!
If I were asked to star in a reality tv show I’d instantly do two things:
I might consider being part of something like American Pickers or Amazing Race otherwise, just don’t ask me.
Really! And no autographs, please.
Producers wanted me to be on Little Women as the world’s tallest little person. I declined.
I turned down an offer from Mob Wives because Studly Doright is so not a mobster.
I still haven’t figured out what’s real about the women on these shows.
Studly and I sometimes discuss what a reality show featuring us would look like. He works hard, plays golf, rides a motorcycle. I write my little blog posts, read, cook poorly, and drink wine. We could star in “Extremely Boring People of Gadsden County.” Again, no autographs.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 