Home and Miserable

My trip has come to an end. Thank goodness! I loved seeing my son in Dallas and his family, and my niece and her children in Austin. I enjoyed seeing Michelle Obama and Rachael Ray at “The Drum” on Thursday night. It was a great trip.

But, (you knew there was going to be a but, right?) I was so sick the whole time. Don’t worry, I wasn’t infectious. I’m having stomach issues similar to what I experienced almost a year ago, and even though I started on antibiotics two days before departing I was plenty miserable most of the time.

The drive was awful. Usually I enjoy odd sights along the way, but this trip I was too focused on finding the next clean rest stop to pay attention to oddities. Oh, and I was as annoying as a guest can be. The words “I can’t eat that,” came out of my mouth more times in a week than they have in my entire life. I’ve never been a picky eater, but literally everything causes me gastric distress right now.

I have an appointment with my doctor tomorrow. This has to come to an end. One has to be firm with one’s stomach, right?

Peace, people.

All That and Rachael Ray, Too

It’s well past my bedtime on Thursday night, so I’m not going to write much. Those of you who follow my blog know that I’m in Austin, Texas, visiting my niece and attending an Evening With Michelle Obama.

If seeing Michelle Obama wasn’t exciting enough, the moderator for the evening was Rachael Ray. Neither my niece nor I had an inkling that Rachael would be introducing and interviewing the former First Lady, and our faces lit up like kids on Christmas morning when Rachael walked onstage.

Michelle was candid and honest, charming and feisty. Rachael was her usual adorable self, and she pulled off a great interview with the former First Lady. It was a great evening, but I’m really tired right now and going to bed.

Peace, people!

It’s Pronounced “Byuda”

I made it to Buda, Texas, yesterday afternoon after wandering on back roads because my car’s gps and I had an argument. It wanted to take me on toll roads and I wanted to avoid them, so we compromised. As a result I was an hour later arriving in Buda than I’d planned. Oh, and Siri on my iPhone doesn’t do well with the name “Buda” and kept telling me there was no town called Butor in Texas. I might have yelled at her a time or two. Yes, the war between woman and machines has begun.

I hadn’t slept much on Tuesday night, so I tried to take a nap when I got into my hotel room. No luck. I think in spite of being super tired I was too excited about seeing my niece and her kids. We went to dinner last night, and I enjoyed talking with them so much. It’s hard to fathom that they’re both high schoolers. When I get tired, I get a little weird, so I’m sure I talked way too much. Today I vow to do better. It helps that I slept last night.

Today my niece and I are just going to hang out, then we’ll drive into Austin for our evening with Michelle Obama. Of course my fantasies involve her pointing us out in the crowd and having us come to the stage for a quick hug. I’ll settle for a wave, though.

I’d better hit publish so I can get this day started. Can’t keep Michelle waiting.

Peace, people.

Road Trip!

Tomorrow I’ll set out on a road trip in my “old” car, a 2015 Mazda CX-5 with an outrageous 85,000 plus miles on the odometer. The car was in a minor accident back in November, but one can barely tell even upon close inspection.

My first destination is Buda, Texas, outside of Austin. There, I’ll rendezvous with my niece, CB, who bought two tickets to see Michelle Obama and invited me to join her. I can hardly wait for Thursday night!

On Friday I’ll drive north to Dallas where I’ll deliver the car to my son. He’s buying the Mazda for our oldest granddaughter, but it’s a surprise, so shhhh! I’ll spend a couple of days in Dallas with my son and his family before heading back to Doright Manor near Tallahassee, Florida.

The original plan was for me to fly home, but Studly Doright decided I needed a car to run around Tallahassee in. I’ve already put nearly 6,000 miles on my 2019 Lincoln. Apparently that’s excessive, so I’ll be picking up a used car at a dealership in Dallas and driving it home. This will be my every day driver, and chances are it will someday end up being another grandkid’s car. Of course, at the rate I rack up miles, it might have a million on it by then, but who’s counting?

Peace, people.

Becoming So Excited

Several weeks ago my niece, CB, in Austin, Texas, texted me:

I totally freaked out. Studly Doright thought it was a great idea, so I started making plans.

I’ve already read her book, so in case Michelle requests my presence on stage at the Frank Erwin Events Center in Austin I’ll be able to discuss it with her intelligently. Unless, of course, I’m rendered speechless just by being in her presence. Who? Me? Remember this photo from last April?

That’s me getting my big break on national tv. I wasn’t even aware the camera was on, unlike my beautifully goofy daughter behind me.

Maybe that was my trial run. Maybe I’d do better on stage with Michelle. Maybe I’m just too excited to be coherent right now. Can you blame me?

Peace, people.

Could it be Prosopagnosia?

Remember back when you were a small child and someone, maybe a parent, perhaps a teacher, assured you that at some point you would discover your God-given talent? I do. And I’m still waiting. It’s not that I’m without any talents, it’s just that none of them seem worth developing.

For example, I still remember a license plate number my California cousins and I memorized when we were pre-teens. We were sitting outside a bank in Porterville, CA, waiting for my uncle to return from making a deposit when a man carrying an honest-to-goodness money bag hurried out of the building. We decided he was robbing the bank and memorized the number on his pickup truck. U19 671. I’m still prepared to testify as an eye witness some 50 years after the fact.

I also know the differences between four stroke and two stroke engines and can describe their respective firing sequences. In addition I can explain baseball’s infield fly rule and the reasoning behind it. And when given a multiple choice test on just about any subject I’m more likely to pass than to fail. Whoopee!

There are a great many more things, though, that I have no talent for. The one that’s driving me crazy right now is my inability to recognize faces, specifically faces of famous people; although, I often joke that I even make Studly Doright wear a name tag when he returns from a lengthy business trip.

I’ve been playing Ellen DeGeneres’s Hot Hands game on my iPhone lately. In this game one must try to call out the names of a succession of celebrities within a limited amount of time. I simply cannot do it. Tom Hanks becomes “Bob, Jim, Um, Rob!” Likewise Madonna becomes “Bob, Jim, Um, Rob?!” So do Oprah Winfrey, Sandra Bullock, and Denzel Washington.

As a result of playing this game I’ve come to believe I have a mild version of a condition know as prosopagnosia.

Prosopagnosia is a neurological disorder characterized by the inability to recognize faces. Prosopagnosia is also known as face blindness or facial agnosia. The term prosopagnosia comes from the Greek words for “face” and “lack of knowledge.”

Some folks with the condition can’t even recognize their own faces in the mirror! I’m not that bad, but I swear I’m struck dumb when trying to identify any celebrities. Do you think they’d mind wearing name tags just until I get the hang of the game?

All the Kardashians, or as I like to call them, “Bob, Jim, Um, Rob?”

Peace, people!

Parade of Celebrities 

My dreams have been chock full of celebrities lately. I suppose their nocturnal performances are subtle attempts by my psyche to heal itself during this soul-scarring election.

Last week Chris Hemsworth, in the guise of Thor, snuggled with me in dreamland: https://nananoyz5forme.com/2016/10/30/a-thor-in-my-side/


Since then, I’ve danced with James Franco at an Italian wedding. He approached me as I stood off to one side, gallantly bowing and asking me if I’d care to dance, and then twirled me about the marble dance floor as I giggled helplessly. 


The next night Michelle Obama appeared during a dream visit to the Lincoln Memorial and gave me a hug that filled me with happiness and peace. She wiped away my tears and told me we’d all be fine as Abraham Lincoln looked on.


Last night, Brad Pitt flirted with me at Central Perk while Jennifer Aniston served us coffee. We sat on a couch holding hands, discussing everything except Angelina and Donald Trump. I think we are going to build homes together in New Orleans one day soon.


I’m pretty proud of my subconscious during these days of angst. I should send it to a spa as a thank you. I might even tag along.

Peace, and sweet dreams, people.