Ruminations: WINNER! WINNER! CHICKEN DINNER!

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

WINNER! WINNER! CHICKEN DINNER!

I'm very happy to announce the winner of the drawing I posted on 3/21......and the winner is.....(drumroll):

Sandi Foster!!!

Congratulations Sandi!

'Foliage'

I'll be contacting you via Facebook Messenger to get an address to mail your prize!

Thank you so much to all for reading my blog and who entered!

It means so much to me.

(If I don't hear back from the original winner in 5 days, I'll draw another name.)

Till next time,

"Winning is only half of it. Having fun is the other half." ~ Bum Phillips

1 comment:

sandiApril 22, 2016 at 10:40 AM
Lesley, my lovely necklace has arrived. Thank you so much. I have received a lot of compliments about it..I will email you a pic...
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The Dream Hour

In the Misty Magick of Slumber's power,

beyond Midnight's stroke lies the Dream Hour.

Where Illusion reigns and the mind is deceived;

where wishes or fears are fully perceived.

At night's cusp, for sixty seconds sublime,

Nyx commands Hypnos to spellbind time.

Reality shifts while we live in these dreams,

and nothing, but nothing is as it seems.

Amidst dark, swirling fogs lit with St. Elmo's' Fire,

Morpheus presents our darkest desires.

Phantasm, chimera, mirage, shade, or ghost;

our companions are whom we love or dread most.

In the Misty Magick of Slumber's power,

beyond Midnight's stroke...lies the Dream Hour.

by Leslie

Downtown Men

Downtown Men in charcoal BBros. suits, designer ties and tasseled loafers lunch-lounge in pretentious cafes that drip with faux foreign ambience.

Downtown Men slump in their chairs for the “I’m so cool” effect of elegant nonchalance and slowly twirl their expresso cups on tiny tabletops the size of 33 rpm records.

Downtown Men importantly stride down the block with the latest crackberries welded to the sides of their heads; heads that swivel like Linda Blair’s, trying to spot admirers.

Downtown Men pound away at laptops, suit jackets draped over chairbacks, ties flung over shoulders, tiny beads of sweat over furrowed brows. They look at no one---THEY don't have time!

Downtown Men with barely disguised sneers: the faintly curled lip or moue' of vague distaste. They look at small-town us as though we were just regurgitated by the cat and plopped at their disdainful feet.

They size us up and clearly WE don’t belong, their expressions say, and have no right to our trendy latte, and have no business being in the pretentious café:

We are trespassers in the Hallowed Domain of Downtown Men.

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Wednesday, April 6, 2016

WINNER! WINNER! CHICKEN DINNER!

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