I’m cleaning out my closet today. Out with the old stuff—things I haven’t worn in more than a year—and in with absolutely nothing. And since I failed to do this task last year, or the year before, the number of shirts and jeans I own and never wear is embarrassing. Still, I’ve had to slap my hand a time or two to keep from reaching back into the donation pile to return an item to the closet.
Later today I’m attending a memoir writing class at a local library. Maybe my memoirs will include a chapter on why I feel the need to possess so many striped blouses from Talbots.
A reasonable representation of what I own.
This evening Studly Doright and I plan to watch NCAA basketball. This year’s men’s tournament has been great so far—especially since the Kansas Jayhawks are still in contention.
Okay, I’ve stalled long enough. Back to the closet for me. Thanks for the break.
A friend recently read a self help book that made her so sad she had to put it away, thus confirming my own belief that such tomes only make us dwell too much on what we need to improve and not what we already do well.
Never mind that the same friend is a big fan of self help books, who just didn’t find this one to be right for her, I tend to paint the genre in broad, negative strokes.
Why? Because my mom was always telling me I should read this one or that one when I knew that on the happiness scale I ranked a solid eight, while she hovered around a four. Who knows, though? Without the books she might’ve scored even lower.
There was one piece of wisdom, though, that she gleaned from her readings that made perfect sense to me, and that given the opportunity I always pass along to others who might benefit:
No one else is responsible for your happiness. You alone hold that key.
Sat down at an outside table at Sweet Pea Cafe in Tallahassee to enjoy my wonderful vegan meal and immediately felt an odd sensation on my rump, was that moisture seeping into the denim of my jeans?
Yep. Somehow I found the only wet spot on the entire bench, a leftover from two days of thunderstorms. Yay me.
A water-filled knothole just waiting for an unsuspecting klutz like me.
I spent several days in the city known for showgirls, casinos, and over the top productions. But, lest you think I was in Las Vegas, Nevada, purely for pleasure, think again. Oh, I had plenty of fun, but not the kind you might be imagining.
Sometime last year I applied to attend a writer’s workshop hosted by author Craig Martelle. Knowing that my acceptance was a long shot, I quickly stored the thought of it in a deep, dark recess of my mind and got on with my life. Then, miracle of miracles, I received an invitation to attend and my mind was blown.
Those of you who know me can probably imagine the anxiety I felt. I began making excuses to myself so I could back out of the event. Then, I visited with my brother, Kelly. When I told him about the workshop, he offered to come to Vegas and hang out with me for a few days prior to the retreat weekend. That was all the encouragement I needed.
After spending six days in Sin City, I’m exhausted, but I wanted to share a few photos of what turned out to be an epic experience.
From the Las Vegas Meow Wolf art installation:
Just one of the many products on display at the Omega Mart—a clever façade for a fantastic world of imaginative art.Personalized bleach. Have you tried the Implied Chicken?Or Emergency Clams.The labels are worth a read.Muscle Fresh Toothpaste. Yum.Sparkling waters in interesting flavors. Brother Kelly found something he really needed.
But behind the scenes, if one is fortunate enough to find it, lies the most incredible adventure.
That’s me talking to myself in a mirror. Yes, it took me a few seconds to recognize myself.Kelly and Susan pose in a multi-dimensional work of art.That’s a mop and bucket.
One evening we had dinner at Gordon Ramsay’s Hell’s Kitchen. I really should have taken photos of my beautiful food, but in the heat of the moment I forgot. Let me tell you, the meal was incredible. I had salmon and green beans cooked to perfection. And the sticky toffee pudding was the bomb.
I did take a wonderful photo of Kelly and Susan though.
Enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail. So good.
After dinner we strolled through a casino or two and Susan took this of my “little” brother and me.
One to cherish.
Part of one day I hung out at Kelly and Susan’s travel trailer and visited with their dog, Gus.
Handsome boy.
So glad I had the chance to enjoy this time with Kelly and Susan. The older I get the more I appreciate these moments. And Kelly is barely even annoying anymore.
I’ll write a bit about the workshop in a day or so. It deserves it’s own post, but for now, I’m going to bed.
Tell me why it took me so long to start watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Amazon Prime. It is almost perfect, and yet I’ve deprived myself of its delights until very recently.
Without going into any details about the series, here are the things I like about it in no particular order:
1. The music. The music is wonderful and comes from more than just the late 50’s which is the time period in which the series takes place. Just in the episode Studly Doright and I watched last night we heard pieces from Dean Martin, Ella Fitzgerald, Glen Miller, and The Hues Corporation. I sing along and Studly ignores me.
2. The fashions. Oh my goodness. Midge Maisel’s wardrobe is incredible. Most of it would look ridiculous on me, but I don’t care. I want every single piece of it.
3. The relationships. Midge and Joel. Her parents. His parents. Susie and who knows? The weirdness. The dialogue is divine.
4. The humor. Well, it is a series primarily about a female comic at a time in history when women weren’t supposed to be funny, unless they had some kind of schtick (think Minnie Pearl). Midge Maisel doesn’t do schtick. And she’s outrageously funny. And irreverent.
The only thing that I don’t exactly love is the way the two Maisel children are treated. They’re almost an afterthought in the day to day lives of the Maisels. In the Catskills episode they don’t even get the baby out of the car until the the rental house is arranged to their liking, Baby? What baby? Maybe that’s part of the schtick. But then, they don’t do schtick.
So I was late to the party. I’m enjoying it now, though. It provides a great distraction when the news becomes too much.
We’re having a new roof put on here at Doright Manor, and apparently there is no way to simply bibbidi bobbidi boo the process and skip all of the headache-inducing hammering.
For Christmas my beautiful and thoughtful and exceedingly brilliant daughter presented me with the coolest gift.
It’s a teeny tiny replica of my first novel made into a key chain.It’s exactly like the book’s cover, both front…… and back.
Ashley purchased the miniature replica of Mayhem from a seller on Etsy, and I think it’s about the coolest thing ever. People are so darned clever and my daughter seems to know where to find the cleverest.
Last night I stayed up late (okay, past nine p.m.), having played trivia at a local wings place with Meetup group friends. Six of us showed up and we appeared to have a good mix of seasoned women my age and a couple of younger women.
Right off the bat, though, we had a problem. No other teams showed up to play. What to do? Simple—we split into three teams. So, it wasn’t ideal for chatting, but we made it work.
I was one of the lucky ones because I had a younger teammate. She knew the 90’s music and artists while I knew stuff like, “At which US president’s inauguration did Maya Angelou read a poem?” and “In the Napoleon Dynamite movie which character married LaFawnduh?” You know, weighty stuff.
Kip and Lawfawnduh
We won first place and performed a victory dance. Well, I did a victory dance while my teammate ducked her head in embarrassment, but still…I wonder if that’s why she left ahead of the rest of us?
With just three teams, we finished the game early and then had time to chat for a bit. I had the farthest to drive so I brought my winnings (a $10 coupon for food at the grill) back to Doright Manor and celebrated by taking two Tylenol and going to bed. Ah! Living the good life.
I’m in need of a friend. And not just any old friend—I need the kind who will let me know when there’s a hair sprouting from my neck before it reaches epic proportions. Yeah, I went about town thinking I looked kind of cute today, only to come home to discover a two-inch (at least) hair front and center about three inches below my chin where it had grown to maturity in the shadow of my lower jaw.
I pride myself on having a decent grasp of the ins and outs of American English. Words are my friends. Family mythology has me reciting the Declaration of Independence before I could walk. (In actuality, it was the Pledge of Allegiance, still an accomplishment for a ten-month-old, but my maternal grandmother insisted it was the Declaration of Independence. She thought I was much more precocious than I was).
So why, at the advanced age of 65 did I not know that the phrase “shoe-in” is, instead, “shoo-in?”
The grammar program on my computer flagged the term “shoe-in” and I ignored the warning. But the red mark on the screen bugged me until I finally googled the phrase.
I’ll be darned.
Be honest, now—haven’t you always thought it was “shoe-in?” Surely I’m not the only one.
Praying for Eyebrowz 