Here in Arabella, our choir practices once a week, and once every month or so we assault the ears of residents with a themed program. Though it is difficult to hear what we sound like while standing and singing with members of the choir, our audience enjoys us and listeners comment that we do, in fact, sound like a real choir, all thanks should be given to Carrie, our inspiring leader.
It has been agreed that The Choir of Joyful Noise will be going on hiatus for the summer months. I am sad—and happy at the same time. I do enjoy singing but will be glad of the break. Why? Because after every choir practice I leave with a weeks-worth of—yeuch—ear-worms.
Does everyone suffer with ear-worms I wonder? Are they contagious? Do they multiply? They seem to. In any case, they are hard to get rid of.
After the recent noon recital (a patriotic program for Memorial Day,) I ended up with all the military theme songs wriggling around in my brain and wondered what I c...
Here's a tip--never go out to feed chickens while you're wearing flip-flops
We've lived in our now "home-place" for four months, and it just gets better! We have made friends (and like-minded friends too--that means a lot.) Many of the residents here are from other towns, even other states; they have traveled the world and tell of wonderful experiences--both interesting and funny.
An example, a friend whom we have nicknamed Chicken Little, told a tale of bravery and courage. When younger, she took feed to a herd--no, I mean flock--of chickens which were foraging somewhere on 150 acres of land, miles from nowhere. It was summer, she was wearing flip-flops, and I gather it had been raining. Anyway, she slipped and slid--and fell, in the process, breaking her arm. She lay there, spreadeagled, in the chicken mud, surrounded by hungry birds that were auditioning for a remake of Alfred Hitchcock's famous movie.
Noises don’t bother me—if I know what’s causing them and where they’re coming from. If I can’t tell what they are, I will spend every waking hour—including the hour after the, um, bathroom visit at 3 a.m.—using my detective skills to figure out what, where, and why.
Since we first moved into this Independent Living complex almost two months ago, I’ve been hearing what sounded like a dog howling. It upset me to think a dog was in such distress, and I asked who lived above us, and if they had a dog—yes, a little one, one not big enough to howl as loud as the one I hear.
Underneath us? Well we don’t ever hear anything from that apartment—and they don’t have a dog. We only have one next door neighbor—and she doesn’t have a dog. So, the mystery continued....
Every morning, for the first time in my life, I get up at 6:30. When dressed and fully awake—or at least half awake, I harness up DaisyMay-the-Dachshund and take her for a morning walk around the small lake. There we meet other dogs and their walkers—some are owners, others professional dog-walkers. The problem is, DaisyMay has not yet tumbled to the fact that she is a dog. The other dogs are friendly. They want to get to know DaisyMay, and in typical doggie welcome they first sniff noses and DM is okay with that, but then they move around to her rear—and that’s when DM flattens her ears, turns to face the offending canine, and gives a look as if to say, “How rude!” She then glares at me and pulls me across the drive to her regular “bathroom” area, and away from prying noses.
There is at least one Chihuahua, a Yorkie, and several Maltese and Maltese-mixes. And one teddy bear. Her name is Joy—she’s t...
And the answer is...don't be controversial. I think my last post, with the subject of the expected respect and treatment of the Stars and Stripes (which is My Own Opinion entirely), has caused a loss of friendship. I do apologize if I have offended any of my readers--I respect their feelings and opinions, yes even if they differ from mine, and hate to think that differences affect friendships.
I will not say more on that, or any other political or religious subject.
I thought that when The Husband (as I've explained before, he refers to me as "The Wife") came home after the three months of after-stroke therapy, I would have all the time in the world to write, paint, and otherwise be creative. Wrong! Every day there is something going on that demands my attention. I...
Between walking the dog and line dancing my poor feet and legs are letting me know they're no longer young! I get up--too early for me--and set the trash outside our front door; it is picked up daily at 9 a.m. Then I put on DaisyMay's harness and take her out for her first bathroom break. This involves a walk around our fishing lake (a walk of only one quarter mile.) Just one time around, but I'm trying to work up to at least four trips.,
The I wake up The Husband and try to think of something for breakfast--something that doesn't take too long to fix (sorry, my cousin-readers in various other countries--I should say "make"), because I'm in a hurry to get back into the routine of writing--again.
My apologies to cousins are offered because, during a three-way Skype call I mentioned I had to "fix dinner"--the response from Australia was "Why? What's wrong with it?" He explained that they only "fixed" something if it was broken.
First of all, I unpacked the last box yesterday--yeay. I'm not saying everything is unpacked and put away; well it is unpacked, but whether things will stay in the places into which I have put them....woe, wait, that doesn't sound right--even though I know it is correct--things may not stay in the places I've put them in just for the time being. I'll have to live with things as they are for a while, until I figure out if a different place might be more convenient. See our new front door, all decorated for Fall.
Is the following coincidence? Or something else, some mysterious force? What do you think?
Over at the other place the Reverend Ken Wardlaw pastored (is that a word?) a small group every Sunday morning. Now I've never considered myself religious--but defini...
Here I am in BFW (Better Future World)—and it is indeed, better. The atmosphere here is more youthful, the citizens appear healthy and happy. Our apartment is large, twelve hundred square feet—one hundred square feet bigger than the four-bedroom house we owned in California. High ceilings, crown molding, spacious—and a large laundry room that now houses my very own washing machine and dryer with still enough space to keep a vacuum cleaner and all my brooms and Swiffer things, plus the ironing board (and set it up for ironing!)
But the move was not smooth—our chariot, along with three gladiators, arrived right on the dot of 9 a.m. at CV in PEW. I had been packing boxes for well over a week but still had odds and ends—the Captain of the Gladiators said not to worry, they would see that all the small items would arrive safely in BFW. Toward what I thought was the end of thi...
Of the bag, I mean. Not that I was trying to keep it secret, I just didn’t broadcast the news. I wanted to see how long it would be before somebody asked me about it.
The News: The Husband and I are going to be transported to yet another world. This time I think the journey will be a happier one. I tendered our termination of lease notification in on the last day of July. It was received with one question, “Why?” I told the Illustrious Leader of PEW the reasons and didn’t mince my words. I will not repeat them here because many of PEWs citizens are perfectly satisfied with this world, and I wouldn’t want to disillusion them, they are happy and comfortable with their surroundings.
The second question, of course, was “Where are you going?” I told the Leader we were going to a bigger apartment with its own laundry room with washer and dryer connections. Because I was tired of walking down a long corridor and turning a co...
Once again, I’m sitting in the dreaded Machine Room (AKA the laundry room) trying to wash my sheets. Seems as if most of the newsy scenes take place in either the dining room or here.
First let me say, I admire eccentricity. If I were to be the Real Me, I would definitely be considered an eccentric old lady. But I won’t let myself be the real me because it is my belief that eccentricity without the backing of money is simply insanity. I mean, if I were to be eccentric, my actions would cause people to think I was a mental case; if I had lots of money, however, then I would merely be “lovingly eccentric”. Friends, and possibly relatives, would say “Aw, poor old soul, bless her little pea-picking heart, she’s completely bonkers you know. But at least she’s happy and not doing anybody any harm…”
If I were “eccentric” now, they’d be calling out the men in the white coats...