A healthy pour
Red, a Merlot,
Full-bodied.
I knew the first taste
Before lifting the glass
To waiting lips,
And then
One awkward,
Thoughtless move
Sent the crystal
Lurching,
Slow-motion, yet
Too fast for old
Fingers to find
Purchase,
And wine went
EVERYWHERE:
The floor
Countertop
Inside cupboards
And drawers.
All over my khakis,
The ones with elastic
At the ankles
Harem girl style,
My favorites.
And saddest of all?
There was no wine
Left in the
Bottle.
Studly Doright was out of town most of this past week and I needed a good program to watch to make the evenings pass more quickly. A friend from my water aerobics class suggested a South Korean film on Netflix—“Extraordinary Attorney Woo.”
Now I’m hooked. The series, about a rookie attorney named Woo Young Woo, is refreshing and clever. There’s no nudity. No blood and guts. Just a young autistic woman with a penchant for whales, struggling to fight for truth, justice, and the South Korean way one case at a time.
So, if you need something completely different to watch, give Woo a chance.
Peace, people!
It’s 6:54 a.m. and 52° here in Tallahassee, FL.
I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot of Trousdale aquatics center waiting for my water aerobics class to begin and giving myself a pep talk that goes something like “You’re going to freeze to death. Enjoy!”
Oh, and today’s my birthday.
A steady stream of young women, high school age by the look of them, leave the pool area, heading to their cars so they can make it to first period classes on time.
I count a shiny new Jeep and a Lexus among their rides. A far cry from the ‘57 army green Ford Galaxie I drove in high school.
That Galaxie was built like a tank. Ugly as sin, it could withstand just about anything man or beast could throw at it. And one morning, when I was a high schooler myself, racing from band practice at the junior high to the high school for my next class, my friend, Ray’s car didn’t stop quickly enough on the newly graveled street and, bam! He plowed into my Galaxie and a geyser of steam erupted from beneath his hood.
That Galaxie, though, didn’t even flinch.
I hope those high school girls make it safely to their destinations. There wasn’t a single ‘57 Ford Galaxie in the mix. Tsk. Tsk.
Peace, people!
Knowing that Studly Doright and I are motorcyclists, well-meaning friends have often recommended the series, Sons of Anarchy. Until recently we’ve always laughed and said, “We aren’t that kind of bikers.”
Nevertheless, we finally broke down and began watching the show. Now, two seasons in, we’ve got a few observations:
1) Trade the bikes for horses and you’ve basically got Yellowstone.
2) Katie Sagal is awesome as Gemma.
3) Charlie Hunnam is hot. Okay, that’s my observation. Studly wants you to know that he’s not on board with that.
4) It’s a violent show and we’re trying to decide if we’ll continue watching.
5) Charlie Hunnam is still hot, so we (I) probably will watch ‘til the end.
Peace, people.
Water aerobics early this morning meant walking into water that was slightly warmer than the ambient temperature of 66 degrees Fahrenheit. It wasn’t bad as long as I could keep my body submerged. But brrr!
When our beloved T., keeper of the music, turned on the tunes, all became right in the world. First song up? “Do You Love Me,” the song released by the Sonics in 1965 and covered by quite a few artists including David Hasselhoff. (heaven help us.). The movie Dirty Dancing reminded everyone that it was a worthy song. Yes it is.
Pretty soon I forgot about the cold and bopped my way across the pool. Do you love me? You bet I do.
Peace, people!
My birthday’s coming up soon. I’ll be 66. Or as I like to say, Sixty Freaking Six. I’m not complaining. Much.
At the risk of calling some awful punishment down on myself, I have to say I feel really great right now. I’m taking an early morning water aerobics class four times a week, and while I have occasional aches and pains, the time I spend in the water makes me feel like I’m thirty-something. Almost.
In the water I’m gracefully buoyant and beautiful. The second I begin ascending the steps out of the pool, I turn into an ungainly gnome. It’s magic. Dark magic. If only I could live in the pool. Unfortunately, I’m trying to finish book four in the Happy Valley series and the laptop doesn’t like to get wet.
Still, I think I’m making a fairly smooth transition into the second half of my 60’s. I’m just gonna keep on splishing and a’splashing.
Peace, people!
Studly Doright had an interesting escapade a few days ago. I’d left for water aerobics at 6:30 a.m., while Studly waited for a co-worker to stop by Doright Manor to pick him up for a business trip to somewhere in western Florida.
While he waited, he opened up his motorcycle workshop to fiddle with his Suzuki for a few minutes. He left the door up since he didn’t plan to be inside the shop for very long.
As he checked to see if his bike’s new tubeless tires were holding air, Studly noticed a small group of worms headed his way.
“How odd.” He thought. “Maybe they’re attracted to the light.”
Stepping outside, he realized these worms weren’t behaving in a very wormlike manner. They raised their little heads in a suspiciously snakey way.
Now, my husband only fears a few things: crazy chickens, stampeding dairy cows, and snakes of any variety. These erstwhile worms were snakes, albeit, extremely skinny ones.
He freaked out and stomped each one in turn, then looked up to find more snakes headed his way. After all was said and done, Studly Doright had wiped out fourteen snakes. Maybe an entire generation!
I was appalled. “Why didn’t you just turn out the light? They were clearly attracted to it?”
“If I’d turned out the light, I wouldn’t have been able to see the snakes.”
I shuddered. Good point.
Peace, and sweet dreams, people!
This post might come under the Too Much Information category, so I’ll forgive you if you want to tune out.
I went to water aerobics this morning. I’d gotten up early and donned my two-piece swimsuit, pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt as a cover up. The water aerobics class didn’t begin until ten, so I went to my favorite coffee shop and worked on my current manuscript, managing to wrack up 1200 plus words in two hours. Not bad for a Saturday.
My watch alerted me when it was time to head to the pool and I arrived at Trousdale aquatics center with a few minutes to spare. My plan was to burn a ton of calories during my class, pack them back on at Sweet Pea Cafe, and then arrive back at Doright Manor before Studly Doright made it home from golf so I’d have my choice of nap locations. Dibs on the sofa!
About midway though froggy jumps, I realized I’d forgotten to pack my bra and undies. Hm. So as soon as I got out of the pool I stretched out on one of the loungers, soaking up the sun. But the clock was ticking. If I wanted that sofa nap I was going to need to take drastic measures.
In the locker room I pulled my T-shirt over my sort of soggy swimsuit top, but the bottoms were still really wet. So, I did something I can’t remember ever having done in my life. I pulled my jeans up over my naked bum and went commando.
Even though there was no way anyone could possibly tell I had no knickers on, I felt like I was wearing a scarlet letter on my forehead: C for commando or B for breezy. I gobbled down my lunch and scurried back to my car, then raced home, pulling into the driveway just minutes ahead of the competition.
And yes. I got the sofa—but only after I added undies to my ensemble. Going commando isn’t going to be my new norm. I promise.
Peace, people!
Fall is my jam. It’s the best of the seasons. Hands down. Or should I say, leaves down.
The sad thing is, here in Tallahassee, autumn is slow to arrive. Leaves remain a stubborn green and they stick to the trees like glue.
Now, I’m glad I live here in the land of three seasons: Summer, Summer Light, and That Odd Cool Spell Of Indeterminate Length, but sometimes I grow envious of places where the trees put on a regular fashion show with their audaciously bold oranges and reds and yellows. Here we get green and an occasional brown. Yay.
Growing up in the panhandle of Texas I became accustomed to some slight color changes in September. I loved riding my bike through crunchy yellow leaves, while pretending they were the bones of my enemies. I was an odd child.
But in school our teachers would hang paper leaves all over the classroom in colors I assumed weren’t true to life. Red leaves? Purplish leaves? No way. But then I grew up and for a brief time, lived in Illinois where I saw these colors in the wild and I wanted to capture them and take them home with me along with snazzy pine cones.
I made decorations with them and placed them on my dining table then realized there were bugs in the pine cones and we had to call an exterminator. Still, they were pretty til the very end.
Oh Fall. I love you so.
Peace, people!
My recent trip to England is still very much on my mind. The food, the history, the wonderful people, and yes, the transportation to and from my destination.
I’d booked my flight through American Airlines, and because I tend to be frugal (since I don’t have tons of money, and therefore, little choice in the matter) I opted for the cheapest seats available on my flight to England.
So for about seven hours, (give or take a bazillion) I was crammed into a small seat—one of four jammed close together in the center section of the plane. And it wasn’t an aisle seat, so in order to reach my one allotted personal item (aka handbag) I had to use my feet to snag the straps and drag the bag up my shins until my fingers could finally grasp enough of it to pull it into my lap where there was just barely enough room to extract whatever I needed before returning it to under seat storage.
It was a laborious process, and since I’m a chronically disorganized individual (CDI), I repeated the steps at least two dozen times during the trip.
You might ask why I didn’t just keep the bag in my lap for the entire trip, and I’ll admit that I tried, but then was unable to use my tray table and by the time I’d gone through the rigors of retrieving my purse, I really needed a drink.
I won’t go on and on about the discomfort, but next time I’ll pony up the money for a better location. Perhaps beneath the plane. At least there I wouldn’t have to crawl over my fellow passengers to use the toilet, or to stretch my legs, or to take a full breath and exhale without encroaching on another human being’s personal space.
After my less than comfortable outgoing experience with American, I was really dreading the return flight. I’d not heard great things about British Airways, but what was I going to do? Hitchhike?
To my great surprise and immense relief the return trip was a dream. Same (cheap) price for seating, but the seats weren’t crowded so tightly together. I could wiggle. I could fetch my bag with ease. It helped that the flight wasn’t as full as the AA one had been, but even if it had been I’d still have had considerably more room than I’d had on the previous flight.
Plus, the seats had some support and reclined in a more ergonomic manner. Nice. The food was slightly better and I had room to actually chew.
One day maybe I’ll have sold enough books to fly first class. I’m not holding my breath, though. At least not on a completely full plane. There might not be room to exhale.
Note: Flight attendants were great on all my flights. These folks put up with so much and maintain their cool under trying circumstances. Cheers to the intrepid souls who care for us in the skies.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 