I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon.
Happy 10th WDC Anniversary, SandraLynn Team Florent!! I'm sorry I can't battle alongside with you, dear Florent. Go forth and go well! You are doing excellent!
WWAD-what would Andre do! Maybe he could get a 3D-printer, make bracelets with WWAD on them and sell them on the side.
We get our dogs braided rope toys to chew on and use dental sticks to help clean their teeth. Perhaps Andre would enjoy a nice braided chew rope, and if someone would make a banana flavored dental stick, he could use it for a swizzle stick in his drink and chew on after he downs it.
My grandgiggles now ask if I'm wearing bubble wrap when I venture forth for a meander/walk/stroll. I thought a clumsy monkey could be conceivable and that he'd be told the same thing I am. Be careful. What is that? Accidents happen, to me any way.
QueenNormaJeanGreeneggs&vegham You win! I've never been shot at, well, not directly. I once experienced the back window of my car being shot out as I drove along a highway. I believe it was a hunter's errant bullet. I wrote about us accident prone people. I refer to it as O.U.C.H. I believe I intended that to mean Our Unique Clumsiness Hurts. We create our own writing material.
Oh come on - I've had so many weird accidents - last one I swear I tripped on a feather. Broke 2 bones in my hand, cast for 4 weeks and now I'm going to see the doctor tomorrow. Cannot move the blasted hand at all.
Car accidents, been shot at, blew my knee getting into a truck. falling down drunk and waking up looking like a prize fighter when I had to go to a family funeral. I've had a few good ones.
I'm the accident-prone one around these parts - although most people would guess my most-used word falls into the "swear" category, it's actually "ouch."
Years back I dated a lady who was extremely accident prone. On one occasion she caught her dress pocket on a door handle as we exited the theater. She ripped her dress open, buttons popping off all over. Another time I stopped to pick her up for a dinner date. As we were exiting her apartment, she remembered her purse and rushed back in to grab it. She slipped on the floor and slid into the table, chipping her front tooth. On yet another outing while viewing some antique mining equipment, she climbed up on a big dump truck for a picture. She decided to jump down, but had caught her shirt on something and ripped it off!
Well, let's get this official month started with a different sort of prompt... What room in your home do you use the most? The least? Sigh, all the rooms of my home are currently gathering and supporting dust bunnies. There may be a few musty tumbleweeds roaming at will as well. Quite possibly cob webs festoon neglected corners. Yes, the scatterbrained maid has been vacationing all summer putting her feet up and lifting nothing heavier than a paperback novel. I doubt visions of a feather duster dance in her head. I, er, um, the maid has retreated to a seasonal trailer tucked into a serene forest bordering a freshwater lake. Her favourite room has no walls whatsoever. Day after day, this weary dust warrior settles into a comfy chair and props her legs up on a cushioned ottoman. Oh, her special piece of heaven isn't entirely silent. Out on the wooden deck, the steady whisper of turning pages is accompanied by a cacophony of constant sound. In a nearby towering pine tree, an agitated red squirrel slashes his tail and chitters in a rat-a-tat fashion. From the ground, a vibrating chipmunk with disheveled fur 'harrumps' in reply. Both parties attempt to out shout the other. Flashes of blue streak across my the languishing maid's peripheral vision and foliage rustles, branches snap. Blue jays chase each other in an aerial game of tag. Echoes of chick-a-dee-dee-dee reverberate. A skittering, scrabbling startles the engrossed reader and she looks up from her novel to witness a cheeky chipmunk, its scruffy tail at attention, saunter across the deck's floor to her feet. The encounter is brief. The red squirrel scampers up the ramp with a high-pitched 'chirr' and his target skedaddles. It may well have been my her imagination, but the floorboards rumbled. Something whines and buzzes about my her head. Careful to keep at least one finger tucked into her book, the disturbed reader swooshes it through the air swatting at the determined intruder. A caressing breeze carries muted hoots and laughter from the direction of the lake. Motors grumble to full roar. Snatches of music swirl. With a sigh, I, oops, she rises to her feet, stretches, and shuffles into the humid trailer. In her least favourite room, the stuffy kitchen, she rifles through a cupboard in search of a snack. From the fridge, she retrieves a cold drink. Returning to the deck, she once again settles into her favoured reading spot. It's the waning days of August and too soon she will be forced to return home to await the return of winter. Maybe she will tackle the dust then.
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