Peace, People

When I’m on the ball, I sign off on my posts with the phrase, “Peace, people.” Occasionally I’ll add to the phrase something pertinent to the post, but usually I stick to the simple sentiment that came to me out of the blue when I first started writing this blog.

During most of the sixties I was a child, too young to be a part of the hippie generation, but old enough to throw the peace sign around like a true member of the love generation. The idea of peace seemed radical then, and even more so now.

I’ve come to cynically believe that we will never have peace because it just isn’t profitable. Politicians love to feed the hungry mouth that is the military industrial complex, so young women and men will continue to march off to war. We will be told that it is the patriotic thing to do, so we will cheer them as they depart and mourn those who do not return except in flag draped coffins.

Peace continues to be worth striving for, though. I still pray for peace every single night, and I vote for those I hope will prevail against the hungry, hungry war hippo.

I found this T-shirt design at a Target store in Tallahassee a couple of years ago and bought it immediately. It became my favorite due to its message and its extreme softness. Then, I lost it. I have a feeling I left it in a hotel room on one of my cross country jaunts. Miraculously, I found it again at a different Target in Davenport, Iowa. Yay!

Yesterday I wore my peace T-shirt as I ran errands around Tallahassee, and for the first time since buying it I was rewarded with at least half a dozen responses, all of them positive and encouraging. One young man asked me where I’d gotten it because he wanted to get one for his girlfriend. Several people of varying ages flashed the peace sign at me and smiled. I felt light-hearted for the first time in ages.

I’m tired of young people dying in old men’s wars. Maybe others are, too. And just maybe it’s time for the peace sign to make a comeback in a big way. I’ll do my part.

Peace, people.

A Hundred Dollars

This afternoon I shopped at Target and spent a hundred dollars without even thinking about it. Some of the items I purchased were necessities (e.g. toilet paper), while a couple were “wants” (e.g. hot chocolate flavored marshmallows). I didn’t even blink an eye when the clerk hit the total button.

There have been many, many times in my life, though, when a hundred dollars felt like a fortune. Past Christmases for our whole family were often funded with less than what I spent in one silly Target run.

I still remember the first time I saw, or at least paid attention to, a hundred dollar bill. I was only six or so, and I was hanging out with my beloved grandaddy at the coffee shop. Before he paid the check, he leaned over and showed me the contents of his wallet. There were a bunch of hundred dollar bills in there and I remember being in awe. I figured Grandaddy must be rich to have that much money, and I asked if he was. He just laughed, and told me no, saying, “A hundred dollars doesn’t buy what it used to.”

I have to wonder what Grandaddy would think about the value of a hundred dollars in 2018. He was a pretty savvy businessman, so I doubt he’d be surprised. One thing’s for sure, it certainly doesn’t buy what it used to.

Peace, people.

Precocious

On Saturday I drove into Tallahassee in order to stay out of Studly Doright’s hair. Since he can’t play golf right now due to a recent back surgery, he’s embarked on a series of projects that I’m not adept at taking part in, such as cleaning the carburetor and spray painting the frame of a PW 80 Yamaha he’s fixing up for our grandkids.

I tend to be something of a bull in a china closet when working in the shop. Parts break, stuff gets lost, paint goes everywhere except where it should. Studly is patient, but after so many goof ups he shoos me into a corner.

My escape from Doright Manor took me to Target where I wandered the aisles picking up items on a shopping list. I made goofy faces at little kids and chatted with their moms, sniffed scented candles and hefted different styles of bookends.

I created backstories for people I encountered–the woman dressed in all black was in the federal witness protection program, the elderly gentleman wearing old-style khakis and a button down shirt had made millions in the stock market only to lose it all in the last recession. His gold digging trophy wife had left him for a still wealthy man, only to return because the sex was so damned good.

My imaginings were disrupted by a crash followed immediately by a harried father of three sternly reprimanding the oldest of his children.

“Isabelle, what did you do?”

Isabelle, who appeared to be six, or thereabouts, said, “The boogie boards just fell over.”

“Did you have anything to do with the boogie boards falling over?”

“Maybe, Daddy, but they were stacked so deceptively.”

The dad and I made eye contact. Neither of us laughed; although, it was a near thing. He’s going to have his hands full with Isabelle.

I wandered a bit more before returning to Doright Manor. Thanks to Isabelle I have a new excuse for my klutziness.

Peace, people.

Picking My Poison

I was completely out of coffee, so I picked up a canister of Folger’s breakfast blend at Target Wednesday afternoon. Upon opening the canister this morning I realized that the freshness seal had been breached. With only a bit of hesitation I measured out the life giving substance and dumped it into the coffee maker, added water, and voilĂ ! 

Of course after taking my first drink I’ve become convinced that some evil doer introduced a toxic substance into my Folger’s and that soon I’ll be clutching at my throat and writhing on the cold tile floor in agony. But at least I’ll have had my coffee! And that’s the important thing here.

Should I perhaps add some Bailey’s Irish cream? Might mitigate the effects of any poison. Or hasten them. Seriously, if I die, you all now know the rest of the story.

Peace, and good coffee people.

Something New

Studly was out of town yesterday, so I had the afternoon off from my new cooking gig. Truthfully I’m a little lost. Since switching to a very part time job, and ditching Candy Crush, et. al., I’m not sure what to do with my bad self.

I spent a little time looking at recipes and checking my ingredients list, then I considered taking a nap, but with Studly gone I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to sleep. As it turns out I didn’t sleep anyway, but that’s another story. Obviously, there was but one thing left to do: Shop!

It wasn’t going to be gratuitous shopping. Nosirree. I needed underwear. Panties, knickers, bloomers. You know, all those unmentionables that I just mentioned. I’d like to say that I’m a high end shopper when it comes to such items, but instead of Victoria’s Secret, I’m more of a Wal-Mart’s Whisper or Target Tart kind of girl. Basically, I needed something that would cover my butt without riding up between my cheeks.

Years ago I switched from bikinis and hipsters to the full-coverage almost-granny panties. Ok, they probably are granny panties but I’m in denial. It should have been easy to find these lackluster undies in a super Wal-Mart, where the selection was displayed by size and style in somewhat neat rows. Well, it was just hell.

I’d find the style I liked (oddly enough there isn’t a style labelled “granny panty”–they’re called briefs, like boring law documents), but not the size. Or I’d find the size, but not the style. After a good thirty minutes of looking I finally settled on some serviceable briefs.

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Notice they say “NEW!” I tried to avoid the aisle with the used undies.

In keeping with my Love Month theme, Studly loved my NEW purchase.

Peace, People!