Say Hello to Peeves

This is Peeves, my fall-guy butler. Whenever something annoys me, Peeves steps in and helps hie the intruder off into the night.

I don't often call upon him, but we all have those occasional visitors, those things that annoy us and set our teeth on edge.

For me, advertising is dangerous ground and Peeves spends time hovering at my shoulder. Some ads are clever or downright funny.

Some are sweet and make me well up every single time I see them:

The vast majority are just bothersome or annoying (no worries, I won't offer any of those). There are some, though, that are so nerve-setting-on-edge that they, in my opinion, violate the Geneva Conference's stipulations against cruel and unusual treatment.

One, in particular, makes me want to take the creator of the ad, tie him to a chair inside a soundproof room, and run this nightmare of an ad on an endless loop until he goes insane. Then, I want to take him on that chair and drop him into a tank of starving pirhanas (they’re smaller so it would take longer than sharks). Seriously, this ad makes me crazy! It creates an earworm that is impossible to get rid of for hours.

This nightmare of an ad came on last night. Hubby and I were sitting in the dining room having dinner. It took hubby about seven seconds to get from the table to the remote in the other room (where the TV was on for MIL). It was two seconds before I, literally, plugged my ears and starting la-la-la-ing to block the noise of it. Still, this morning, I had the refrain of it in my head.

What’s the ad, you ask? I warn you, it is HORRIBLE – every single kind of HORRIBLE but, if you insist…

What do I find objectionable? That HORRIBLE jingle for one. I can look away from the saccharine kids who annoy me, but even in another room that jingle follows me and then stays with me for hours. I don't know what it is, why it is, but it does and it is and I want to torture the creator of this thing with it.

For my money, even if I had money to donate to charity, this ad and others like it (this group specializes in the worst ads known to man) would guarantee that this charity wouldn't get a cent from me. St. Jude's, yes. Boys and Girls Clubs, yes. Big Brothers/Big Sisters, yes. Not this, never, ever, ever in a million-billion years this because it annoys me so much.

Before you do anything else, I suggest you wash that terrible brain-eating ear worm out by playing some really loud AC/DC or Aerosmith or Iron Butterfly. In-a-god-a-da-vida might work. Me? I play classical music – ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’ usually does it, or the last movement of Beethoven's Ninth.

Take your pick - here's Iron Butterfly:

And here's the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth (the 'Ode to Joy' and what I consider to be THE best, most brilliant piece of music ever written - just about guaranteed to give you chills if you sit back, close your eyes and just listen to all of it). Oh, and fair warning about this: Beethoven was a genius but he was deaf when he wrote this. There are some quiet spots that are a bit hard to hear, but there are also some REALLY blow-out-your speaker sections so put the volume in the mid-range and don't be tempted to turn it up to catch those quiet bits or you will blow your speakers, your eardrums and the neighbor's windows:

And, now that I've created an earworm and helped eradicate it (or not), I'm going to take Peeves and head out for work. Have a lovely day!

Best~

Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Did Anyone Get the Number of that Truck?

That's how I feel the day after, and I didn't even get drunk. Geez Louise! Stiff neck, stiff back, achy and that peculiar not-quite-all-there feeling.

Yesterday started with waking up at 0300 and not being able to get back to sleep. Not a good start to a day I fully expected would last until about 0100 Saturday morning. But I tried and failed and finally threw in the towel and got up, resigned to a long day.

Overall, last night was about what I expected it would be. Not entirely what I expected, but close.

Regarding the antlers that I was going to wear as my icebreaker, I was highly disappointed. After running through three stores and talking to two sales associates I wasn't able to procure my antlers. That was disappointing. Even the store that said online they had them didn't by the time I got there. Being disappointed and unwilling to walk away empty handed, I settled for blue and silver garland.

Have you ever tried to wear garland? Don't. It's itchy as hell. So I didn't wear it but am now the proud owner of twelve feet of (without the tag):

That should have been a clue to how the rest of the evening would go, because it didn't start the way I wanted it to. In any case, the party got set up, the tables looked beautiful with a bluish-greenish tulle as runners and square hurricane vases filled with Christmas bulbs - the stupid crafty things I worked on last week. When it was all over and we were cleaning up, I don't think more than a couple of people took one home with them judging by how many were left, but I digress (and that comes later).

I went upstairs with two of the other ladies - party animals both - and changed from work clothes to my evening wear. The same dress I wore for Daughter's wedding (which would have looked fabulous with the garland if the garland didn't itch so much).

Not wanting to carry a purse and not having pockets, I decided to wear my jeans under my (floorlength) skirt. Pockets for my car key, driver's license and credit card made it convenient and worthwhile. Most people had no clue until I hiked my skirt up to get at my credit card to pay for my after dinner drink. As a joke, I did share my "secret" with a few people beforehand - a few that I trust and know well enough to hike my skirt up in front of (only to knee level, I swear!). They thought it was funny, but I digress.

Downstairs again after dressing, the company meeting was held and we all gathered to listen. Afterward, free to go enjoy the party, we streamed from the room, heading for the bar. I had no cash and had heard that the drinks were wildly expensive (yes, they were - but that comes later, too) so I hung out along the wall. Just as I had expected. Everyone was moving and mingling, chatting and I stood there like some stupid potted plant. The people I know were speaking to other people I don't know and I'm not comfortable sidling up, hanging around on the fringe and feeling like an eavesdropping interloper. All of that same stuff I wrote about a while back.

So I stood there until I was uncomfortable enough that I went into the ballroom to see if there was something useful to do. There was and I helped with the final touches for the party, organizing the door prize bags into which the tickets would go. With that done, though, I was back to standing by the wall like some stupid potted plant.

Ten minutes too many of that, and I was done. "I'm outta here. I didn't come here to do this. I'm not going to stand here for another forty-five minutes until dinner. Blah, blah blah-de-blah blah." All the internal dialogue you might imagine. Up the stairs, muttering as I went because I had left my jacket in the hotel room where we had changed (everything else had already made it to the car - just the goddamned jacket kept me from wandering down the hall and out the side door to climb behind the wheel and head home. Stupid jacket...).

Halfway along the hall I met with the ladies whose room I had used to change, in which resided my jacket. It was a short conversation followed by a Bacardi shot. I haven't done shots in nearly twenty-five years, and then I only did one. Like last night. But the ladies are a force to be reckoned with and I capitulated. I did take my jacket out to the car because I still wasn't convinced I was going to stay, but did promise to try.

Downstairs again I tagged along - the perfect fifth wheel, a useless appendage. The good news came when someone asked, "Aren't you drinking?" (The tone of surprise when a normal adult is confronted by a teetotaler at a party.) "I didn't bring any cash." "Oh! But the wine is free." Well, hell! I'm up for that. At least it gives my hands something to do.

A glass of wine and wandering, still feeling like an old shoe covered in dog leavings because everyone was still talking with everyone else and I was still feeling like a useless appendage.

I made it through the reception, although leaving was still a front and present thought (I hate events like this, I really really truly do). Dinner was called and I do thank goodness for hand-holding buds! I was wandering again when one of the directors called me to her table, and our receptionist came along and invited me to the same table and I felt somewhat welcome again. Our EVP of Marketing and another director were there, people I work fairly closely with and who I know, so it was good.

Dinner was delicious and followed by service award announcements, a door prize giveaway (I brought home a new crock pot!), all the stuff that makes up events like these.

For dessert I decided to treat myself and went out to the bar where I bought a whiskey and soda (it was bourbon, not whiskey, but it was the best I could do given the selection). That was expensive - $10.50 for a shot of whiskey thinned with a lot of soda. I lucked out, though. The bartender was a little heavy-handed with the bottle and poured more than she intended. I know this because she said, "Oops! I got a little carried away." A flashed smile and, "But I'm sure you don't mind." No. I can't say that I did.

Back inside, the dancing was getting started and I let my hair down a little.

I haven't been on a dance floor since the 1980's. I've never had the opportunity or been in a place with a dance floor, and it was just like that four-year old dance recital I wrote about the other day. Our HR director organized a line dance and a bunch of us tried to follow along. Most people got it after the third iteration. I didn't. Most people went left when they were supposed to. I didn't. Ditto with right and back and front and... You get the picture. My drummer was working overtime sending me in my own way. But it was fun.

The crowd started thinning by about eight-thirty and was sparse by ten-thirty (THANK GOD!). We started clearing up and the party that was supposed to end at midnight was over by eleven o'clock - THANK GOD!!

The hurricane vases went back in their boxes. We gathered up all of the stupid crafty bulbs and, as mentioned, I think about 80% of them will show up at work on Monday morning. But that's okay. Scrape the glitter glue off, or rework the number from 2015 to 2016 and they can be used one more time. Loaded everything into our HR Assistant's car and I was free!

I was home at eleven thirty - not even slightly tipsy - and in bed before midnight. Then, this morning, the alarm woke me at six. That was too early after a long twenty-one hour day and night. But I had committed to myself and to Daughter to deliver the carload of furniture I've been trying to get to her for three weeks, so I hauled myself out of bed, out the door at seven and spent five hours on my mission.

Back at home and I collapsed into bed, just waking up at three o'clock to start this.

So the party is in the bag and, looking back, it was just okay. The company was good, but the noise level was much too high for conversation. Remarks and exchanges had to be shouted and were almost inevitably followed by "WHAT??" and a closer lean. Not my idea of an ideal.

Will I go again next year? Probably not. The wallflower / potted plant experience is what sticks out the most. I would have enjoyed myself more if the focus hadn't been so heavy on the noise and thunder. A few decibels (about twenty) lower to allow for easier conversation would have been nice because not everyone wanted to dance but couldn't converse. I would have been happier to have a mix of both, so it's an experience with a chalk mark (I'll chalk it up to...).

As of this afternoon, body and brain feel better connected than this morning. I'm grateful for not having a hangover - despite that Bacardi shot, two glasses of wine (before and during dinner) and my dessert whiskey. Today I got a two hour nap, so I don't feel so icky. I have a new crock pot that I can play with. I'm thinking stews and soups and maybe some other things if I can find good recipes.

All-in-all, it was okay. Not terrible, as I'd expected, but not fantastic either, but that's me.

Looking at the overall event, I think most other people had a great time, woke up with hangovers but memories of a good evening. And that's really what matters in the end. That was the point of it - to say 'thank you' to everyone for their hard work all year, to give people a chance to let down their hair and unwind in a venue other than work. So it was a success and we'll leave it at that.

I hope your holiday season is more enjoyable than my experience last evening - let your hair down and dance, baby, dance.

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories  

Things Are Better & How Dare They?

C'mon - with a title like: "A March Past of Kitchen Utensils" how can anyone say that classical music is boring or stuffy? That's the title of this piece:

It's by "Rafe" (NEVER-EVER CALL ME RALPH) Vaughn Williams.

And accompanying that little ditty, let me say my life is back on track after yesterday's annoyance. That's all it was, really.

As those things do, that series of small events seemed massively important at the time. Today, with things back on track and calm, it's in perspective. It was a series of little bothers and nothing more, and that's good. I can breathe and keep moving.

That brings me around to how funny people can be. Yesterday, for instance. Nothing was Earth shattering. No single issue was really all that big in the overall scheme of my life. But it was front and center and it was what I chose to focus my attentions on, and that, in the final analysis, was silly.

Then I looked up from my own bothers this morning, and I looked around and noted the bothers everyone else is dealing with. Some are much, much bigger and far more important than mine. I have to be grateful for my little bothers being little, and empathize with those dealing with worse. So yesterday I was silly and selfish and self-centered. Which is okay, too. We all get like that sometimes and as long as it is only sometimes, it's okay to be like that.

Then there are those who think it is all about them, all the time. Some people I've run into, and some people I see on television or elsewhere, seem to think that what they find endlessly fascinating fascinates everyone else, too. And it usually doesn't.

You've heard them, I'm sure. They're so prevalent any more that you may not even notice them, but if you pay attention, they're all over the place. They are those pundits who perpetually throw out all-encompassing "we" statements. Like when some pointy-head know-it-all is expounding upon their particular issue du jour and tosses the all inclusive, all encompassing "We" into the arena."We think..." or "We want..." or "We do..."

At that point I want to throw something hard and sharp at the talking head and demand, "Excuse me? How dare you presume to speak for me, and for others like me?"

For instance, I just Googled "white on black violence" to get an example of this kind of nonsense, and a bunch of stuff came up, including a blog post by one of these talking heads who presumes to talk to for me, too:

So let me state this plainly. White people, we are massively failing with our white fragility. When we are asked to do the very least in empathetic listening, we center entire conversations around our own feelings.

We argue with people of color about their lived experiences of racism. We say "not all white people!" and "all lives matter" and totally miss the point. We ask people of color to educate us, and to be "nice" about it. We talk about our good intentions. We bring up the times we were also treated badly.
Why? Because we can. As white people living in white supremacy we have the power to take that focus because society values our words more than those of people of color. It's hard to even recognize we're doing it. But it has to change. We have to be able to comprehend a point about racism without demanding that a person patiently hold our hand and explain it to us very delicately as to avoid hurting our feelings.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/amelia-shroyer/white-fragility-is-racial_b_8151054.html

This woman is an idiot. We don't think she's an idiot. I'm sure she's got a following who soak up that stuff, and slaver all over their computer screens and have to wipe it down when they're done. After all, she blogs for the Huffington Post. But I don't presume to speak for other people. I speak only for myself and I think she's an idiot because she is presuming to speak for me, too, to know what's in my mind, how I behave and the content of my character.

Now, before I go off on a rant, I'm going to turn this to something amusing to me. I hope it's amusing to you, too.

A personal example supporting the Concept of What Fascinates Someone Else Must, Ipso Facto, Also Fascinate Me, occurred when I was standing in the local grocery store the other day. I was buying a bunch of stuff for a working lunch for a group of colleagues. While I'm standing there, waiting for my turn to pay, this complete stranger walks up next to me, pulls a magazine off the rack (it was People or something), held it up in front of me and said, "Isn't this terrible?"

Glancing at the cover I saw some unknown person's photo, a splattering of "headlines" and nothing of any interest whatsoever. I looked at this woman, who was looking at me expectantly, as if there was no choice but for me to agree, and said, "Frankly, I don't care. I have my own life and that's enough for me."

After a brief flash of surprise, she lowered the magazine, put it back in the rack and said, "You know, you're right" as if that was some revelation from on high. Then she walked away. Whatever.

It's all just weird and silly and... human. Although, thinking of it, I wonder if herds of cows or sheep or horses or... whatever do stuff like this? Without the holding up part since they don't have opposable thumbs, of course. I'm sure they communicate in a way known to themselves. Do certain members of the species presume to communicate for everyone else? Hmmm. I feel a study coming on... Not by me, of course. I'm too busy thinking and talking and writing for myself. Someone else can take it up.

Now - I'm off to live my life and have happy times. I hope yours are, too!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

A Trip Down Memory Lane...

As usual, I was thinking all sorts of different things during my drive to work yesterday.

There was the normal observation of the weather – cloudy and cool, with thick low hanging clouds. It was kind of like being the microbe between the sheet and blanket.

Then the station I listen to, KDFC.com, a public radio station that plays all classical played a very relaxing piece and I chilled to it as I drove up the freeway.

I don’t even know where the thought came from, but I started thinking about some of the pieces they play, and before you go ‘ewww, classical sucks!’ I would like to point out that the Star Wars theme is considered classical. Same with the themes from ET and Jurassic Park and most of the movies we’ve watched.

Did you ever watch Bugs Bunny cartoons or the movie ‘Fantasia’ either as a kid or with your kids?

‘Dance of the Hours’ - the scene is the garden where ostriches, alligators and hippos dance around a fountain.

We all know and recognize ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’

Aside from movies, most of the Bugs Bunny cartoons from the 1950’s and 1960’s used classical music. Did you ever see this one?

That's the Rabbit of Seville. All of the music in this is from Rossini’s ‘Barber of Seville’. Even now, almost fifty years on, I cannot hear the piece without thinking of Bugs and Elmer.

Anyway. Then I started thinking about how so many of the great pieces of opera music are sliced and diced to make them more ‘palatable’ to people who don’t necessarily like opera.

I don't particularly like opera. When I was in elementary school, sixth grade or so, our grade, three classrooms worth, was taken into San Francisco, plopped into seats at the War Memorial Opera House and subjected to Madama Butterfly.

With all due respect to Puccini, it SUCKED. I hated it.

Most of the problem was that there was no set-up beforehand. How does an elementary school teacher back in the late 1960's explain to a bunch of wide-eyed no-nothing kidlets about adultery, sex, and betrayal? After all, those themes are the fundamental story of the opera.

So we're dumped in our seats and told to watch. Okay.

It's being sung in Italian. I don't understand Italian now, and I didn't then, so it's all going straight over my head and I, along with the other sixty or so kids, am fidgeting, wishing I were anywhere but there.

Almost all the way through it, there is one aria that sounds - no matter who sings it - like a cat being scalded. It's shrieky and shrill and the very best part about it is when the Japanese heroine commits suicide. Thank God that's over!

Another opera composer I absolutely abhor is Wagner. His music SUCKS in my most humble opinion.

Das Reingold? When it comes on, I turn it off. Same with the 'Flight of the Valkyries' and the 'Entrance of the Gods into Valhalla'. Ick!

With all the brass and the blaring noise and crescendos, it's too in your face for me or, as I think of it, too Teutonic. I like subtlety and the intertwining melodies and harmonies that make a piece 'whole'.

So, as you can see, I am not crazy about much in opera, but there are some things that just should not be messed with.

The Anvil Chorus from La Traviata is one that’s been sliced and diced. There are versions without the chorus. To me, that’s like making a hot pastrami sandwich and leaving out the filling – the meat, the cheese, the lettuce and all the rest of it. It’s bread only and it’s boring as can be. With all the levels of the voices and orchestra, it's full and rich and absolutely marvelous.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yjMHCzoneuM

Now, imagine the richness of that without the vocals - the score all by itself. It would be half-baked, missing a crucial part that fills it out and gives it the full flavor. It would be the bread only version.

Delibes Flower Duet is another one. Without the voices, it’s like a latte without the milk. It’s half-done. With the voices, it is one that makes me stop – wherever I am, whatever I am doing, to just listen.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlcWq3D75Uw

To me, that one is heavenly. Just the intertwining of the voices, like vines climbing up a trellis, supporting and complementing, offsetting the other as they reach out and combine to make the piece complete.

One of the most incredible arias I’ve ever heard is Mozart’s aria ‘The Queen of the Night’ from The Magic Flute.

The triplets at the top of the scale are amazing. The first time I heard it I was genuinely stunned that a human voice, any human voice, could do that. The range, the pitch, the control, all of it has got to be absolutely spot on perfect or the entire thing will collapse.

If you start this, don’t watch it – just close your eyes and listen. Listen to the absolute perfection and control this woman has over her voice and the music.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqBwe9BCj4A

The trumpeter Alison Balsam has a recording of this aria that’s good, but it does not come close to comparison with the real deal. It just does not have the same texture or feel of the voice hitting those high notes in quick succession.

One last piece - and if this doesn't get your toes tapping and your hips jiggling you're probably dead (you might want to check your pulse, just in case).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tVca1TV5oHc

I hope that you read this far, and that you listened to a couple of these. At the very worst, some of it might be a trip down memory lane. At best, maybe you'll dabble a bit more. KDFC.com is available over the internet, too.

Hope you have a lovely, tune-filled day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

On Writing and a Little Flash Fiction

It's Friday, the end of the work week. Another stretch of devoted time out of the way with a weekend ahead. Normal duties around here - housework, etc. Nothing exciting. I'll have time to write, to work on what I already have in the works.

To celebrate Friday, here's a little something that will likely get your feet tapping:

Bouncy and fun to end the week with: Candide Overture

Aside from the normal must-dos, I'm looking forward to working on at least one of my stories. It's funny when you create books and stories. They're never done. At least in my experience and in conversation I've had with others who write. There's always another niggle, big or small.

For me it's 'Laurentina's Lessons'. Last weekend I added a brief passage to show the reader how shallow Willis is. He asked a friend to ask Lacy out to a cocktail party at another friend's house. Kyle, the one who does the asking, is more interested in Jill from accounting than he is in Lacy, so as soon as he delivers her to the party he starts in with Jill. Along the way, Willis talks to Lacy and then to his other friends:

“Are you going to ask her?”

Willis laughed, “Hey, I just got through asking if I could take her to dinner and drive her home. I’ll see how that goes and, if I think she’ll play, I will. If not, or if I don’t think it’ll be good for you guys, I won’t.”

“Lucky son of a bitch and you’re already planning on taking her to bed, aren’t you?”

“I gotta road test her, don’t I? Take her for a spin first, make sure everything’s working properly. After all, I’d hate for you guys to be disappointed.”

Pete and Ben both laughed and then Pete looked across the room. “Watch this.”

Following Pete’s gaze, Willis looked over his shoulder just in time to see Lacy find Kyle. He saw her shoulders stiffen in irritation before she turned back, headed for the bedroom.

Smiling, he looked back at the others, “That was interesting. I’d better get her out of here before Kyle surfaces. Will you thank him for asking her tonight?”

“Sure, no problem,” Pete winked, “I will as soon as he’s done with Jill.”

That wasn't in the story, before, but I think it adds depth to Willis's character - or lack thereof. This is just a little add, and it's part of my goal to increase the overall length from 62,000 words to 75,000 or 80,000, which is the 'standard' for stories of this type based on what I've found in my exploration through the internet.

I still want to add a bit more to Lacy, too. I'm not sure how or with whom, whether it's with her friend Gail who warns her away from Willis at the start of the book, or with her roommates, Maria and Lizzie. Then there's Sonya. She's a fun character to write - not too crude but crude enough. Willis's coarse match while Lacy brings out his best. I also have a niggling idea for another Lesson, so I'll see where that takes me.

 I also just posted a short piece on Authonomy that I've called 'Breakfast with Tiffany'. This is in response to the prompt 'Breakfast':

Breakfast with Tiffany

Even before I sat down the wall was up. Lines of print marching across the page, some big and bold, most not, and squares of adverts. It had been like that every morning for years. For longer than I could remember anymore.

“How’s your breakfast?”

No response. Not even a shiver through the layers of paper. They used to lie flat on the table, those pages, unless he was irritated. Then they would be held halfway-up. Early on in our marriage I had developed a kind of warning system to gauge his mood. Flat was a good mood, clear skies, sunny seas. Half-staff was a warning, all was not well in ‘Nicolas-world’ and I had to navigate carefully. Upright and rigid, as this morning, meant typhoon was in the air and my ship would likely take a beating.

This morning, though, no matter what the weather I didn’t care. A sea change was coming and I was ready for anything. Picking up my knife I smiled to myself and launched my ship.

“Having lunch with Molly?”

There was a crackle when the page turned, then nothing. The paper settled back into place.

“She called yesterday and said that she and Bradley are heading down to Mexico for the weekend. I hope they don’t run into any trouble. We’ve all heard stories about how the locals don’t like Americans.” I buttered my toast, “They’ll be fine, I’m sure, but I told her to take care and stay with her group. She really shouldn’t go off alone.” The crust crackled between my teeth. “I expect she’ll come back with a load of junk, the way she always does.” Lifting my fork, I deliberately banged it against the edge of the plate, satisfied with the sharp noise. “They’ll probably spend most of the time at the beach, crisping.” My irritation at being ignored was beginning to turn from smolder to flame. “She said they’ll be back on…”

The wall collapsed with a crisp sound that rang through the room. Behind it, Nicolas’s face was scarlet, his brown eyes hard, cheeks puffed out and mustache bristling, his bushy brows faced off across the narrow bridge of his nose. “Tiffany!” It was a shout that became a clenched teeth hiss, “Kindly … shut … UP!”

“Here, and then I will.” I passed the envelope across the table, my new ring glinting in the morning sun. Noting the look of confusion when his eyes caught on the hefty diamond solitaire he had never before seen, I smiled. The front doorbell range and I stood up, “Excuse me, that’ll be David and the movers.” Waiting was worth it, his face went slack and blank. My smile widened in glee, “You’re moving out, Nick. Daddy put the title to the house in my name only when we got married, remember? David is here to make sure that you leave.”

The chair slid backward over the carpet with such force, the noise followed me. “Tiffany!”

Handing the lists of what was to be packed in each room to David, I dropped a kiss on his cheek and laid my hand on his wrist for a moment. “I’ll be home at six. Nothing but what’s on that list, everything else is to be negotiated by our attorneys.” For the last time as a ‘devoted’ wife I looked at the man who had made my life hell for nearly thirty years, “Good-bye, Nick.”

* * * *

I hope your breakfast is uneventful - have a lovely day!

Best~

Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Pure Whimsy

Every day, on my way to work, I pass by a fence.

"Yeah, so what?" you ask.

"It's not your normal fence." I answer.

"What's special about it?"

This:

Now, I don't know how to read music. I was, almost literally, kicked out of my 7th grade band class because I never practiced and, most honestly, I sucked. Since I played the clarinet I was supposed to blow, but I tried blowing and ended up sucking. It wasn't pretty.

Okay, okay. *Hands in the air in surrender.* You got me. I was asked to leave, politely, but it did feel like a kick at the time and there wasn't going to be a second chance. I had already burned that bridge. It had gone down in flames weeks before, I suspect in hindsight. The only thing that kept me there as long as I stayed was the teacher begging permission to get rid of me and waiting for approval and reassignment. I don't even know where I ended up during that period.

So, anyway, I drive past this fence every day and I always wonder. Does it have meaning? It does look like notes on a musical staff. But then, when I stopped to take the pictures, I found this:

What does that mean?

Most of the 'notes' are old vinyl records. For the Golden Oldies (anyone over about forty-five), they are 45 RPM, 33 LP and 78s. In the mix are disks - as in CDs - that are a solid 12-inches in diameter. You can't see them here, enough to make them out, but they are there. They sparkle in the morning sun, glinting green, glowing silver as I pass.

For someone to have taken the time, made the effort and laid these out, suspending them on the fence for all to see, it's wonderful, whimsical and simply fun. It gives me something to think about on my commute.

If I could read music and play an instrument, what would these 'notes' have to say? Is it jazzy or laid back, or is it classical or some hip-hop beat?

I don't know who the people who live in the house behind the fence are, whether they're famous or infamous, whether they play or compose, but just having these 'platters' splattered along the fence opens the door to wonder and curiosity.

A little farther along is a collection of birdhouses. Different shapes, different colors all standing in a group under a spreading pine tree. Mixed among them hangs an American flag.

It's a wonderful little still-life that I tried to capture a few weeks ago. Sadly, the angle of the sun and my photographic skills clashed. Even though I took several different pictures from several different angles, the colors were washed out to white. I really ought to stop and try again, but I'm always in a rush. Hurrying to where I have to be, when I have to be there. Which is sad.

At least I did stop this morning, to capture the whimsy of someone's creativity to share with you. That's pretty cool.

Stop, savor a moment or two and have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

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