I Hate it When That Happens

On Sunday evening, Doright Manor took a direct lightning strike, frying both of our television sets, along with our washing machine, and Studly Doright’s elliptical exercise machine. The blinding flash of lightning and the simultaneous explosion of a deafening clap of thunder didn’t do much for my blood pressure, either. 

We’d been in bed for only a few minutes when the strike came. Of course Studly was already snoring in that annoying way he has of dropping off to sleep the second his head hits the pillow, and true to form, I was reading. Our eldest cat, Scout, who is generally unperturbed by storms began meowing frantically just before the KABOOM! I should’ve known something big was about to happen.

Oddly enough we never lost electricity, but we are without television and Internet until service providers can make the trip out here. And if I want to do laundry before next Wednesday I’ll have to head to a laundromat. Strike that. I’ll GET to go to a laundromat. I’m awfully fond of them, you know. Best people watching in the world happens at laundromats.

Oh, about Studly’s elliptical machine…I’m lobbying to just chuck it. I kept thinking I’d write a post about the way its hulking presence in our den/kitchen area has marred the feng shui of my otherwise peaceful existence. Now it appears there was karmic redemption. Bwahaha!


Peace, people.

A Tale of Two Boobs

Fridays are mine to do with as I please, and today it pleased me to travel a bit east of Tallahassee to check out the French Country Flea Market at Sweet South Cottage and Farms. This is the fifth year for the Flea Market, but my first visit, so I was eager to see what it was all about.

First though I had to find Sweet South Cottage. Thank goodness for GPS! After stopping at a local truck stop to buy a Diet Dr. Pepper I input the address and was soon merging into traffic on Interstate 10.

Interstate traffic throughout Florida is an interesting exercise in avoiding tourists and elderly citizens who don’t realize that the posted 70 mph is merely a suggested speed at the lower end of the spectrum. Generally I set my cruise for 75 mph and am routinely passed by those who drive 80 to 90. My goal is always to create a little bubble around myself, so as not to impede the speedsters and not to rear end the putterers.

Today as I drove in my bubble towards my destination I wasn’t surprised to see a flurry of brake lights up ahead of me as faster drivers made all manner of evasive maneuvers to avoid hitting a slow moving motorist driving in the passing lane. Since I had ample notice I chose my line carefully and soon was passing the offending driver who wasn’t going over 55 mph. 

He happened to be an older white man with a huge Trump sign in the rear window of his white pickup truck, and he appeared oblivious to the lives he was putting in danger by driving so slowly on I-10.

“What a boob!” I growled, as I glared at him and sped away. Soon after the GPS instructed me to exit and within a few miles I had reached my destination. 

The parking lot was fairly empty when I arrived, and I was directed to a primo parking spot directly across from the ticket booth. I hoped to find a garden bench for sale at the event and surely the great parking spot was a good omen. 

Cute finds were everywhere.

I even found my bench, but forgot to snap a photo and it’s currently jammed into the back of my car. I’m sure it will be featured in a future post. 

So if you paid attention to the title of my piece you might be wondering about the second boob. Boob one was the too slow, Trump supporting driver on I-10. Boob two is just that–a boob, a breast, my right one to be exact. 

After buying my bench I went out to adjust the back seat of my little SUV to accommodate my purchase when literally out of the clear blue Florida sky a bee appeared, whereupon it dive bombed into my bra cup, and proceeded to sting my aforementioned right breast.

I’d love to say I handled the incident calmly, but I’d be lying. I said something awful as I reached inside my shirt to pull the underwire of my bra away from my chest hoping the little bugger would depart in a timely manner. He refused and I ended up squishing him. Yes, I know bees are becoming endangered, and yes, I know I am an awful human.

I was in pain, though, and still had to find some way to remove the stinger. Unfortunately I was out in the middle of a parking lot, so I located a port-a-potty where I successfully used a credit card edge to scrape out the offending appendage in what I now call “Operation Stinger Removal” or just OSR for short.

So, I ask you, was the bee bite on the boob a karmic response to my calling the old Trump supporter that name earlier in the day? If so, I’m certainly glad I didn’t call him an ass.