Grace and Frankie

Netflix might be addictive. After Studly Doright and I semi-binged both seasons of MindHunter, we looked at each other, and simultaneously asked, “What next?”

So many recommendations have been offered that we are almost overwhelmed. Having watched a couple of episodes of Stranger Things at a friend’s house, I knew I wanted to watch that series, and was fairly sure Studly would like it, too. We are several episodes in, and enjoying it, even though it’s a bit too scary for my husband’s taste.

Studly had to be out of town most of this week, and I couldn’t very well watch Stranger Things without him, so I chose a series I didn’t think he’d be crazy about, namely Grace and Frankie.

In two days I’ve watched two seasons. It’s so good that I can’t find a stopping point. Studly will be home this afternoon, so I know I’ll have to put it on a back burner for a few days. But, until he arrives, no phone calls.

Peace, people!

Scout: The Inside Scoop

Our 15-year-old cat, Scout, has been under the weather the last couple of weeks.

To look at her you wouldn’t think there’s a thing wrong. She is as playful and loving as ever. Her bowel movements are normal, thanks for asking. However, she pukes. A lot. A portion of everything she eats makes a reappearance within 30-40 minutes of ingestion. Poor baby!

I took her to see the vet a week ago, and all of her vitals were normal. The doc suggested that we stop giving Scout her favorite treats to see if they were too much for her elderly system. Scout did not appreciate giving up her treats. She begged and wheedled and several times convinced Studly Doright to break the rules. I’m made of stronger stuff. I only gave in once.

This afternoon I took my Scout for a follow up visit. She’d lost a half a pound, and for a 10 pound cat that’s significant. I told the vet that Scout’s still puking a bit after every meal even without treats. She took some x-rays, and the great news is there’s no tumor.

However, one of her kidneys is smaller than the other, and her liver has shrunk. Neither of these would result in her puking, though.

The vet said Scout might benefit from a change in diet, so we’re going to try something new. She also said that maybe we could consider an ultrasound.

This is where it gets tough. My girl is 15. That’s 76 in human years. Where do we take this from here? Do I stress my kitty out with multiple vet visits, poking, and prodding? Or do we enjoy her elder years with me cleaning up vomit several times a day? Right now I think we’ll see if the food makes a difference.

Like Scout, I’m elderly. I have undiagnosed digestive issues. I’ve drastically changed my diet, and still I’m dealing with some discomfort. That doesn’t keep me from enjoying my favorite treat from time to time.

Scout’s treats look like this:

Maybe I’ll sneak her one every now and then.

Peace, people.

Pardon Me, Ma’am

Monday was a day for misadventures. I chronicled the first of a trio of missteps in yesterday’s post: https://nananoyz5forme.com/2019/09/10/shoe-saga/

To save you from needing to read the link, here’s the short version: I left a shoe store wearing two different color shoes, and did not notice until the store called to inform me. I returned to the store, decided on an actual pair of shoes, and voila! See, I’m not always overly verbose.

After I left the shoe store I had a couple of hours to kill before meeting a friend to see the IT sequel. I ambled around Whole Foods for a bit and enjoyed an iced coffee on their patio. I still had more than enough time to drive to the mall where the theater is located and to shop at the Belk department store there before my friend arrived.

Since my shoe incident earlier in the day I steered clear of Belk’s shoe department, instead looking at fall dresses and blouses. I tried a couple of items on, but ultimately decided I’d spent enough money for one day. I walked out into the mall and was standing outside the theater reading movie posters when I heard a rather strident female voice calling, “Ma’am! Pardon me, Ma’am!”

Not thinking I was the ma’am being addressed I still looked over my shoulder to see who was being hollered at and who was doing the hollering. The hollerer was a clerk from Belk. And yes, as she ran up towards where I lingered in front of the poster for Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, I realized I was indeed the ma’am in question.

When she reached me she came to a sudden stop and got this funny look on her face. “Oh,” said the woman. “It’s a bow. We thought, well, we thought you’d worn a shirt out of the store and that your bow was a tag.”

“You thought I’d shoplifted?” I asked.

“Well, it did look like tags dangling down your back as you left the store.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or be outraged. I could just imagine the clerks watching surreptitiously as I took blouses into the dressing room and then as I wandered through the store. The clerk muttered an apology and we parted ways.

My friend and I watched IT Chapter 2 in IMAX. I screamed loudly at least once, but it was a cathartic scream, resulting in giggles. Afterwards we had dinner and great conversation at a seafood place. She and I parted ways fairly early and headed to our respective homes.

I’d planned to stop by CVS on my way home, but instead decided to just hop on the interstate and save any more shopping for the next day. The entrance to I-10 west is literally less than two hundred yards from the seafood place, but I’d called Studly Doright as I left the restaurant and was so engrossed in hearing about his day that I got on the interstate going east.

So I had to drive three miles on I-10 east, exit onto Thomasville Road and immediately get on I-10 west. Fortunately traffic was nearly non-existent, and I’d only added ten minutes or so to my drive. Still, I felt like a complete idiot.

In one day I’d managed to walk out of a store wearing a mismatched pair of brand new shoes, been suspected of incompetent shoplifting, screamed like a little kid in a movie theater, and driven the opposite direction in my attempt to get home.

I had a glass of wine when I finally reached Doright Manor. And I slept in late on Tuesday morning. Surely, if I restrict the number of hours I’m awake I’ll have fewer opportunities to screw up.

Peace, people.

Shoe Saga

Under the category of WEIRD THINGS I’VE DONE comes a little story about shoe shopping.

A couple of weeks ago Studly Doright returned from golfing on a Saturday afternoon and announced that he needed new sandals. He’d bought a pair last summer, but they were never his favorites, and he was off to buy a different pair. He invited me to tag along. Of course no woman I know turns down a trip to a shoe store, so off we went.

I suggested a small locally owned shoe store that I’d perused in the past and after he grilled me about the brands and styles the shop stocked he decided to give it a go. Within two minutes of entering the store, Studly had found a pair he liked. Then he made the mistake of asking if there was a shoe I was interested in.

As a matter of fact, I NEEDED a new pair of sandals. I have several pairs of flip flops, but no sandals that I love or that support my pesky middle metatarsal.

I tried on a few pair, but the ones that seemed to best fit my needs were red Birkenstocks. It’s not that the color affected the fit, but it sure made them more appealing. Unfortunately, the red shoes in the style I liked were out of stock. The owner of the store said he’d put in an order and the shoes should be in within a few days. We paid for my order along with Studly’s shoes and left.

A week came and went and I didn’t hear anything. The weekend passed, and still nothing. So on Monday I drove to the little store and inquired after my shoes. A young woman waited on me and showed me a stack of orders that were several weeks old. She said their supplier was way behind.

I asked if perhaps I could switch colors and walk out of the store with a new pair of shoes. She said, “of course,” and I began looking at other colors. Honestly, I’d been second guessing the red ever since I’d placed the order.

First I tried on black, and was on the verge of getting those, but something told me I’d soon tire of them. They were a bit too stark against my skin. I tried on a brown pair and a light stone. I really liked the stone, as well. After many near hits and misses with colors and forays into narrow versus regular sizes I finally decided on a plain brown leather. It’s a color that Birkenstock has sold for generations and honestly, it was never IN style, so it’ll never go OUT of style. I slipped my left foot into another shoe so I wouldn’t be wearing only a right shoe, collected the shoe box from the clerk and left the store.

Since by then it was lunch time I drove across the road to Zöes Kitchen and ordered a pita with falafel and a side of fruit. Two bites in, my phone rang. It was the young lady from the shoe store.

“Ms. Noyes, you accidentally walked out with two different shoes.”

“I did?” I slipped my feet out into the aisle to examine the shoes. Sure enough, I had on one brown shoe and one stone colored one.

“Huh!” I said, recalling that I did have difficulty deciding between the two colors. “Let me finish my lunch, and I’ll bring them right back.”

She assured me that would be fine, so I did just that. When I returned to the store she asked which shoe I wanted to keep.

“I honestly don’t care,” I said. “Let’s just go with the color indicated on the box you gave me.” So a brown shoe it was. I swear I saw her sigh with relief as this nutty old woman left her store for the second time that day.

Maybe I should just stick close to home from now on. I’m not sure I should be allowed to wander loose.

Peace, people.

Peace, people.

Late to the Party

Let’s talk for a minute about Netflix. Or rather, my lack of Netflix. Studly Doright and I had firmly fought the lure of the popular streaming service even though it seemed that everyone in the known universe subscribed to it.

“Are you watching Stranger Things?” they’d ask, or “Can you believe what happened on the latest episode of Orange is the New Black?”

And my answer was always an almost smug, “We don’t do Netflix.” As if it were a badge of honor to have resisted, when the truth was, we really weren’t sure how it all worked. Besides, we paid for DirectTV. Surely that was enough!

Then Studly came in from work one evening and immediately told me about a Netflix series a co-worker had recommended to him.

“I think it’s time we bit the bullet and figured out how this works,” Studly said.

I’d love to tell you that I took the high road and questioned the need for a streaming service when we already have satellite tv with more channels than we’ll ever be able to monitor in this lifetime, but I grinned the grin of a little kid at Christmas. I might’ve clapped my hands and performed a happy dance, but it’s all a blur to me now.

So last week, we delved into Netflix with the series MindHunter–the show recommended by Studly’s colleague. Holy cow, is it good.

The series follows a task force of FBI agents as they mold the bureau’s fledgling Behavioral Science Unit. This is the unit whose members coined the term serial killer, and developed the practice of profiling through prison interviews with the likes of David Berkowitz (Son of Sam) and Charles Manson. The interviews, based on actual events, are fascinating.

We’re already well into the second season, and I’m now the one asking people if they’re watching Netflix. I might be late to the party, but I’m gonna dance like it doesn’t matter.

Peace, people.

Run-in With a Bunch of Bullies

Normally, I kind of like bugs. Spiders do us a real service. Ladybugs are marvelously cute. Bees are necessary to life on this planet. But wasps? Wasps are assholes. I hate wasps.

Yesterday afternoon I had nothing to write about. I’d had a manicure and ruined it within an hour, so I bought some polish remover and applied a clear polish. Even I can’t mess that up. It was taking forever to dry, so I thought I’d walk out on the front porch while dinner was cooking.

No sooner had I closed the door behind me than a swarm of angry wasps swooped down on my head. At first, I didn’t know what was attacking me, and I swatted at the little bastards, earning me a sting on my left forearm. I made it back inside the house with just the one sting, but I was mad.

Studly Doright was sitting in his chair in the den, and I went crying to him that the insects had to die. I wanted them executed with extreme prejudice.

“Assassinate the little f*ckers!” I demanded, directing him to the light fixture on the front porch.

With a few well aimed sprays of a deadly insecticide, Studly destroyed the nest. My hero!

See the little fuzzy bunch of wasps on the light fixture? It’s gone now, and all of its nasty little denizens are sleeping with the fishes, figuratively speaking. In actuality they’re in the trash bin. I’ll take that.

Peace, people. Except for wasps. Although, they did give me something to write about.

Thoughts on Hurricane Preparation

At the time I wrote this, Doright Manor here in the Florida panhandle didn’t seem to be in the path of Hurricane Dorian; however, I have been recalling past hurricanes and thinking about the ways I’ve prepared for them. So, in no particular order, here are my sometimes unconventional ideas about what really helped us survive several storms and the days after.

  • Keep a pair of real shoes, as opposed to flip flops, next to your bed. Trust me.
  • Never use the term, “hunker down.” It affects me like fingernails on a chalkboard and should be stricken from the language.
  • Stock up on unscented baby wipes and Little Debbie oatmeal cookie sandwiches in addition to bottled water. Studly Doright recommends Vienna sausages, as well.
  • Wash all of the dirty clothes in your hamper. This way if you’re out of power for a few days, you won’t worry about running out of clothes to wear.
  • Go naked as much as possible. (Just kidding, but it could make hunkering down more interesting. Just don’t say “hunkering down.”)
  • Take “before” photos not only of your property for insurance purposes, but also of yourself to remind you of happier days. “Here I am, smiling and innocent.”

  • If you have cats, buy extra cat litter and treats. Scout says that a new catnip toy would be nice, too.

  • Fill your car(s) with gas. You might not need to drive, but you’re going to want to charge your phone at some point, and you can do that in your vehicle. Just do so in a well-ventilated area.
  • Make sure you have propane or charcoal for your grill. Restaurants are liable to be closed for a long time, and at some point you’re going to run out of Little Debbies and Vienna sausages.
  • Get plenty of cash before the storm. Following our first hurricane experience I inserted my debit card into an ATM and it didn’t come back out. No money and no card for an entire week made life interesting.
  • Fill your bathtub with water. You can wash with it, and use it to flush your toilet. Plus, the cats find it fascinating.

On a more serious note, Dorian isn’t likely to impact us, but it’s done terrible things in the Bahamas. Praying for all those who’ve been affected and for those in Dorian’s path.

Peace, people.

Better Left Unseen

Have you ever witnessed something so shocking that your mind refused to accept what your eyes were seeing? Studly Doright likes to tell the story of a time when he was on his motorcycle, stuck in traffic beside a car of young women. When he glanced at the car he realized they all were flashing their breasts at him.

“It was so shocking,” he said, “That I had to do a double take. Then a triple take.”

Yes, I’m sure shock was what caused him to go back for more glances. I asked him what his reaction was.

“Heck, I think I gave a thumbs up and then got away from there as fast as possible,” he replied.

The thumbs up part, I believed.

At any rate, yesterday morning I witnessed something of a salacious nature that rendered me speechless. And yes, I did a double take because I honestly couldn’t believe my eyes.

I was slowing down for a stop sign at a busy corner in Tallahassee. To my right I noticed a well dressed couple waiting at a bus stop. They were face to face and I thought they were about to kiss.

“Ah! How sweet!” I thought.

Then I noticed where her hand was on the man’s body and what she was doing with said hand. To say I was shocked is putting it mildly. What in the world were they thinking? And, ewww! What if a kid saw what I did, and it’s entirely possible that one or more did. It made me incredibly sad. Needless to say, I didn’t give them a thumbs up. I simply drove away. Sigh.

How I wish it had just been a streaker.

Peace, and decency, people.

Underneath it All

We’re having some air conditioning issues here at Doright Manor. I might write about them if any sanity remains after the technicians get through fixing the problem. Right now I’m too hot, sweaty, and annoyed to type more than a few sentences.

Yesterday when the repairman was here he took the thermostat off the wall, and I realized that at one time, Doright Manor had some really busy wallpaper.

I’m not a fan of wallpaper anyway, and this pattern made me shudder. Thank goodness they stripped the walls and painted them a nice boring white before we first looked at the house. Sure saved me a lot of unpleasant work.

Okay, that’s enough for now. Perspiration is blurring my sight.

Peace, people!

You Know You’ve Matured When…

Sixty-two is a comfortable age. Most days I feel every year of it, but occasionally I believe I could still dance ’til all hours with no morning after consequences. Still other days I might as well be crocheting blankets in an assisted living facility. Such is life at 62.

Now maturity is a different matter altogether. Even though I’m nearing the 63 mark, I don’t often act or feel mature. I still enjoy roller coasters and haunted houses. I tell juvenile jokes and delight in Studly Doright’s goofy charm.

Yesterday, though, I realized that I might have turned a corner in the maturity game.

We had an issue with our satellite feed and had to call a service guy out to fix it. In retrospect, this man was extremely good looking: Tall with broad shoulders, high cheekbones, long dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, chiseled features. Kind of the whole physical package.

(Similar to the guy below, but fully clothed.)

But what did I notice during his visit? That he tracked in dirt with his size 12 boots. I was too busy cleaning up behind him to notice how hot he was until after he’d left. What the heck happened to me?

After the guy was gone I told Studly Doright how miffed I was that the service man had left dirt on my carpets. He gave me a hug and said, “That’s my girl.” I’m not sure how to take that.

Peace, people.