A Sacrificial Offering

Studly Doright was out of town last night, and I didn’t sleep more than an hour or so. This morning I enjoyed a shower then puttered around the house before going out on the back porch to read. Soon, I found myself dozing off, so I retired to the sofa where I planned to close my eyes for just a couple of minutes.

Two hours later (!) I was awakened by my watch buzzing indicating a call. I was completely disoriented at first, even flummoxed, having no idea of the time of day or even my surroundings. I managed to carry on a fairly rational conversation, I think, with the caller, though, and after saying goodbye I took stock of my situation.

There I was with my Kindle on my chest, my hair dried and sticking out all over, and a spindle of drool clinging to the corner of my mouth. Thank goodness it hadn’t been a FaceTime call!

I think the cats thought I’d died. One left a sacrificial mouse in my shoe:

Maybe their feline deity accepted the sacrifice and brought me back for another day. I’ll try to be worthy.

Peace, people.

Intellectual Arithmetic

At least once a month I spend my Saturday in search of estate sales. Very seldom do I buy anything, but this week I found a couple of new-to-me treasures.

First is this lovely wildlife print by Nancy Z. Guinn (or Gwinn).

The photograph doesn’t do it justice. I keep expecting one of the birds to fly out to light on my finger.

This, though, was my favorite find:

I know, this copy of Ray’s Intellectual Arithmetic is in awful condition, but I’m sure I won’t look all that great when I’m 142 years old either.

After perusing the pages of this pocket sized publication, I realized that by “Intellectual Arithmetic” the author was referring to what we call mental math.

Perhaps this find doesn’t excite you, but I’m a retired teacher who often was assigned to teach math (or maths, for my British friends) and science to elementary students.

I can well imagine the reactions from modern day children were they to be handed a plain Jane copy of Ray’s Intellectual Arithmetic when they’ve become accustomed to this:

Studly Doright was impressed with my little book, but for a different reason. He thinks it might be worth more than the few dollars I paid for it. Given the book’s condition I doubt it’d be valuable. Except, that is, to me.

Peace, people!

Where The Toys Are

My cats, Patches and Scout, have two baskets full of toys. Studly Doright and I get a kick out of watching them sift through the baskets’ contents until they find the toy that most exactly fits their needs at the moment.

Sometimes it’s a weird blue thing with feathers on either end.

Often it’s the plastic ring off of a plastic milk carton.

Most often, though, it’s a stuffed mouse.

We have at least a dozen varieties of mice.

The current favorite toys, though, are catnip filled pillows.

Notice that the edges have been gnawed and drooled on.

All of the toys pictured above, as well as several more, had been in hiding for awhile. I had wondered about the pillow, but the cats have so many toys I hadn’t really worried about a few that had gone missing.

Then this morning I was doing some stretches on the den floor and this is what I saw beneath the sofa:

Now I can’t get this song out of my head:

https://youtu.be/Rk4ZKVKP7Vc

Peace, people!

Interesting People

A couple of nights ago Studly Doright and I enjoyed dinner in a slightly upscale (for Tallahassee) restaurant. We’d ordered our meal, and Studly excused himself to go to the men’s room. In his absence I looked around the room and listened to the buzz of conversation going on around us.

I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, I promise; nevertheless, my ears couldn’t help but pick up the tale being told at the table just on the other side of an artfully arranged barrier between our table and one a few feet away.

At that unseen, but nearby table, one man was holding court, detailing an encounter he’d had with someone of note. I never quite heard who he’d met, but the oohs and ahhs from his fellow diners indicated he/she was pretty impressive.

The longer I eavesdropped, I mean, listened, though, the more I realized that regardless of who this man had met he’d have made them seem amazing. Maybe it was his daughter’s pre-K teacher. Perhaps he was talking about the cashier at his local grocery store. It appeared to my ears that it was the storyteller who was the fascinating person.

I don’t mean that in a negative way. He wasn’t a boor. He just had a way of holding everyone’s attention and making a story about something mundane come alive. My husband has that ability. When he gets into storytelling mode, people listen.

I only wish I could pull that off. When I launch into a tale chances are 99% of those at the table tune out by the fourth sentence. And that poor sucker who represents the 1% is either too kind or maybe too inebriated to lose interest.

When Studly returned to the table I shifted my attention to him.

“So,” I asked. “How was your day?”

As he began to regale me with his tales of a fascinatingly ordinary day, I pictured someone at another table listening to him with a smile. Knowing an interesting person is infinitely better than being one.

Peace, people.

Too Tired to Type

Apparently my week of vacation caught up to me today. Studly Doright and I arrived home around eight last evening and crawled into our bed after showers and a snack. He was snoring before I turned the lights out.

Today I ran a couple of errands in Tallahassee, while Studly unloaded the pickup. Now I have a brightly colored hill of dirty clothes awaiting my attention. Laundry will have to wait until tomorrow, though. All I had energy for after sorting the clothes was a nap. It was a beautiful nap, transcending time and space and stinky socks.

I’ll leave you with a couple of photos I took of motorcyclists leaving the lunch gathering at our rally in Bristol, Tennessee. I might’ve ridden a couple in my dreams this afternoon.

Peace, people!

On the Map

This morning at approximately 11:30 Central Daylight Saving Time, Studly Doright and I were just outside of Ft. Oglethorpe heading to points south. Doright Manor is our ultimate destination, and we should be there by 5 p.m. Only the length of Georgia is between us and home.

We had a grand week of motorcycling with friends in and around Bristol, Tennessee. It was hard to leave all of them behind, but we’re looking forward to sleeping in our own bed and petting the cats.

Peace, people!

The Need for Speed

Are you an adrenaline junkie? Do you feel the need, the need for speed?

Not me. I’m the opposite of an adrenaline junkie, but not quite a couch potato. I don’t feel the constant need for speed, but I do enjoy having a bit of horsepower at my beck and call when the situation requires a burst of power.

I like cars that can get up to interstate highway speeds well before the entrance lane ends, but that don’t always feel like they need to be running at the Indy 500. I felt the same way about my motorcycles when I was riding.

After my car was rear ended by a distracted motorist back in November of last year I suffered from a bout of mild PTSD. Certain traffic situations made me flinch, and I couldn’t sleep without having vivid nightmares of being smushed between two vehicles. I sold my motorcycle as a result, knowing that had I been riding it the day of the accident I’d likely have been killed.

So, what’s the point of all this you ask? Well, Studly Doright and I are at a motorcycle rendezvous with some of our favorite people in the whole world. None of us are youngsters anymore. Most of the husbands in our group are still active riders, while some of the women, like me, have either stopped riding altogether, or have become passengers on their husbands’ bikes.

I’m okay being a non-rider most of the time, but when I hear the sounds of sport bikes my heart skips a beat and I start wondering if I gave up on being a rider too soon.

Yesterday I helped at one of the events at the rendezvous, pointing out the direction bikers needed to go for lunch. And I have to say I was eyeing bikes with a bit of desire. There was one BMW that stole my heart, made my pulse beat a little faster. All I’d have to do is mention to Studly that I was ready to ride again and I’d have a new bike within a week. So, I won’t, and I trust my readers won’t breathe a word of this to him. Shhhh.

Peace, people!

Snapshot #241

For some reason today’s post magically disappeared from my WordPress site. Thank goodness two of my blogging friends had already liked it, so I could copy from my notifications.

Be sure to click on the link for the story–I kind of had nightmares last night.

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2019/06/14/snapshot-241/

I Don’t Mean to be Difficult, and Yet

I tend to be an annoying person. One would think that since I’m aware of this tendency that I’d be able to temper my behavior and know when to cease and desist. One would be wrong.

Even in the midst of my most annoying times, and even as my brain is yelling at me to shut the hell up, I continue along the path of greatest annoyance. It’s a talent of sorts, I suppose.

Take my new dairy-free, mostly vegan diet for example. Any time I have an opportunity to dine with someone other than Studly Doright, I lecture myself about how to handle my food requirements.

“Listen, Leslie,” that’s what I call myself. “Just peruse the menu, and don’t make a big deal of your dietary restrictions. No one else at the table needs to hear what you can and can’t eat. Just order and be done with it.”

Easy enough, right?

Instead, once I’m in the actual ordering situation I’m all, “Hey, do the shrimp lettuce wraps contain any dairy? I can’t eat any dairy, and you do not want to be around me if I accidentally ingest anything with dairy. The gas emissions alone are enough to choke a grown man, and I’m not talking about an average grown man here. I’m talking about The Rock or even Chuck Norris in his prime. And then, the bouts of diarrhea and/or constipation are absolutely devastating. I’ve lost 22 pounds over the course of two bouts of digestive distress brought on, perhaps, by my intake of dairy products. And you know, I’m not technically a vegan; however, I know that vegan fare is totally dairy free, so it’s safe for my digestive system and won’t result in a bout of the squirts and the subsequent resulting hemorrhoids, so that’s why I’m asking about the shrimp lettuce wraps, in case you wondered, which you probably didn’t, but still….”

About half a sentence into the above ramble, my brain is calling me all sorts of awful names and warning me that I’m going to die alone, friendless, and unloved if I don’t stop speaking immediately. Do I listen? Naw. Stupid brain.

So, I’m having lunch with a friend on Thursday. My self lecture has begun, but this time I’m thinking about applying duct tape to my mouth and merely pointing at my food choices. That’ll work, right?