The Gray Rush

         One of the things that most amazes me about Florida is the huge expanse of undeveloped land interspersed with cattle ranches.

Where were you?

          I remember the announcement at Stratford Junior High in Arlington, Virginia that November day in 1963 and walking home through the leaves with my friends Sheila and Anne.

Amateur-in-Chief

Last night we watched the first episode of Designated Survivor, the new series starring Kiefer Sutherland. During the State of the Union address the Capitol is bombed, killing everyone attending the speech except for the one member of the Cabinet who is parked in a safe location for just this event.

          Sutherland plays the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, a position with little glory and in this representation, even less respect. After everyone in the government is wiped out, he’s hustled off to the White House and plunged into a war room with trigger happy generals and officials who are making little attempt to mask their dismay at this new head of the government.

          It’s a compelling premise and I think Designated Survivor has found a place in our DVR line-up.

          However, a warning bell went off as I thought about it. Sutherland’s character begins as someone with few skills for the bump-um cars of political life. It’s easy to see where this will likely go. He’ll fumble and fall occasionally, but will ultimately rise above the backbiting, and with his Everyman integrity, he’ll be a success.

          Granted Sutherland’s unassuming academic bears little resemblance to one of our candidates, but is there a possibility this a certain segment of the American voting public might thump the arm of their Lazyboy, gesture at the TV with the remote and say, “Well there ya go! He’s no politician and look how swell he’s doing!”

Thanks, Donny

Again I find myself grateful to Donald Trump, although sadly, the first time my gratitude was premature. (Bless you, Donald Trump)

The Big Day

     I’ve been checking the weather so obsessively it’s a shame that the Weather Channel app doesn’t provide rewards points. 

Next Chapter

      The squirrels who have spent the year creating tiny craters all over the front yard have nothing on me.

Leavin' on a Jet Plane

     A black crow sat in the bare tree outside the bedroom window this morning and cawed its dark opinion of the world. Rain is spitting against the glass and the temperature is a grungy fifty-two degrees. And my perfectly balanced washer decided it would be hilarious to cha-cha this morning’s load of wash around the basement. 

 

 Not the most auspicious beginning for a Big Trip. 

At this rate, it makes me wonder if a tasseographist might find in my tea leaves the shape of a mountain (a signal of a journey marred by hindrance), or if a Babylonian haruspex (thank you, Google) would be likely to discover something hinky in the liver of that day’s unlucky sheep.

Still, I’m all packed, the timers are on the lamps, the neighbor’s picking up the mail, and the newspaper’s been stopped so I guess there’s no backing down now.

We’re off to Yurp, refugees and terrorists be darned. We’ll be floating down the Danube some of the time and hiking around over cobblestones the rest. If nothing else, judging by the stern requests for contact numbers, this trip has proven that my kids are officially adults and I need to stop thinking of them as perennially 12 years old with scrapes on their knees. 

 I’m not sure whether or not I should instruct you to watch this space. My blogging ability and/or motivation is hard to predict at this point. A lot will ride on a delicate balance between the availability of wine and Wi-Fi.

Waiting Around the Corner

Last summer I pulled into a parking place at my local Home Depot, gathered my purse and prepared to get out of my car. At that precise moment someone whipped into the parking place next to me, nicking my opening car door.

My Anti-Bucket List

Things I NEVER want to do

Own a sauna – after suffering through summer after summer of an un-airconditioned childhood in the south, it seems counter-intuitive to willingly shut yourself into room of 160 degrees.

Eat bugs – Fine, tell me that ants are spicy and praying mantises are a great form of protein, but I prefer my bugs either far away or flat, Anthony Bourdain be damned. Again, blame it on a childhood in the south, where it was a good idea to shake out your shoes before putting them on.

Line dance – Okay, I will admit to perhaps one wedding where I succumbed, but there is not enough Proseco in the world to induce me to again raise my elbows in the Chicken Dance or swivel my hips to the Macarena.

Zip line – Across the Grand Canyon, through a Brazilian rain forest, wherever. Not happening. Chalk this up to a healthy fear of heights with an overactive imagination (combined with a total distrust of whoever installed that line).

Travel to exotic, out of the way places – No interest here in visiting any country where public facilities require me to plant my feet in the designated spots and hope for good aim. There’s a lot to be said for the beaten track.

Stay overnight in one of those ice hotels – You know, where everything is made of blocks of ice and you’re issued animal furs instead of sheets. Midnight potty runs at such a place must be unimaginable. I’d be happy to hit their bar for maybe a vodka tonic, but that’s it.

Walk across country to support a cause – Couldn’t I just shell out some greenbacks? Finding comfortable walking shoes for a day in Boston (meet my friend, Mr. Bunion) can consume my thoughts for days. There are no shoes on the planet that would get me from San Francisco to D.C.

I may not have a secret desire to walk barefoot across a bed of coals, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a few things I’d still like to accomplish.

The thing about our society is that the expectations of us diminish with each passing year.

While some may see this as limiting, I prefer to think that attitude just makes it that much more fun to defy those preconceptions. 

Portent?

     The rain of last night is gone and we have a cool sunny morning. I throw on shorts and sneakers, drink some orange juice and head out for a walk. The cool morning was disguising rampant humidity, so I return sweaty and tired. 

     I open windows, hoping to catch the remains of the cool night air from the woods. 

     I feed the 900-year-old cat and put the cat food back in the fridge. 

     I saute some mushrooms, beat up some eggs, and add them to the mushrooms. 

     I call my husband to come pick up his eggs and he opens the refrigerator for juice. 

     "Why are your glasses in the fridge?"

    Is this a sign of how the rest of my day will go or something larger?

Is Cursive Cursed?

As a teacher, I used to dread having to write notes home to parents, not because of any issues that note might generate, but because I always wondered if they’d believe a teacher had written it.

Armageddon and Nutella

         As I made my toast for breakfast this morning, I decided that perhaps Armageddon might not be such a bad thing after all.