Category: Commentary

Sing It, Sister

I recently made fun of Studly Doright’s misunderstanding of a song’s lyrics in this post: https://nananoyz5forme.com/2017/04/18/shes-a-what/

I have to confess, though, to also being a mangler of lyrics. Most recently, Studly and I were driving to Orlando on a Sunday morning for a rendezvous with his middle sister and her family at DisneyWorld. 

We were flipping back and forth between the 60’s and 70’s stations on Sirius/XM satellite radio (perhaps the greatest invention of my lifetime) when one of my all-time favorite songs popped up: Lady Marmalade by Patti LaBelle. 

https://youtu.be/t4LWIP7SAjY

Even though the song’s been covered a couple of times, Patti’s version is the best in my humble opinion.
I was singing along, “Coochie coochie ya ya,” and dancing in my seat when Studly asked if I had any idea what I was singing.

“Well, kind of. A lot of it’s in French. Or Cajun. Or something,” I said.

So I decided to Google the lyrics. Guess what, the words “coochie coochie” don’t appear even once. I’m shocked. 

Interesting fact: The line, “voulez vouz coucher avec moi ce soir” which translates to “do you want to sleep with me tonight,” was deemed too scandalous for American ears and had to be changed to “do you want to dance with me tonight,” when performed on television in the U.S. 

Lady Marmalade Lyrics

Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister
Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister

He met Marmalade down in old New Orleans
Struttin’ her stuff on the street
She said “hello,
Hey Joe, you wanna give it a go?” mmm, mmm

Itchi gitchi ya ya da da
Itchi gitchi ya ya here
Mocha-choca-lata ya ya
Creole lady Marmalade

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

He sat in her boudoir while she freshened up
The boy drank all her magnolia-wine
On the black satin sheets
oh I swear he started to freak

Itchi gitchi ya ya da da
Itchi gitchi ya ya here
Mocha-choca-lata ya ya
Creole lady Marmalade

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
Hey, hey, hey

Touching her skin feelin’ silky smooth
The colour of cafe au lait
Made the savage beast inside
Roar until it cried, more, more, more

Now he’s back home doing nine to five
Living his grey flannel life
But when he turns off to sleep
Old memories creep, more, more, more

Itchi gitchi ya ya da da da
Itchi gitchi ya ya here
Mocha-choco-lata ya ya
Creole lady Marmalade

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?
Creole lady Marmalade

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

Itchi gitchi ya ya da da
Itchi gitchi ya ya here

Mocha-choco-lata ya ya
Itchi gitchi ya ya here

(Writer/s: KENNY NOLAN, ROBERT CREWE 
Publisher: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind)

Blow

Blow
By Leslie Noyes (with Studly’s assistance)

It was a riotous Friday night here at Doright Manor. I was sitting in my chair trying to come up with ideas for this blog, and Studly Doright was sitting next to me in his chair watching Storage Wars on the telly and occasionally reaching over to fondle my, um, upper arm. 

No decent writing ideas were coming to me, so in desperation I turned to Studly and said, “Give me a word.”

Now, I cannot type what he said because sometimes his mother reads this blog.

 “I can’t use that word,” I said. “It’s not that kind of blog.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you needed the word for your blog. That changes everything.” 

So he gave me another, equally vulgar word.

“Last chance, smarty pants,” I said. “Just give me a decent word.”

See the title of this post? Yep, that was half of what he said. I don’t know why I bother.

A Little Memory

I love that Facebook posts a daily memory on my feed. Sometimes it’s a photo I shared last year, sometimes a silly meme from way back. 

Today, it was a post from three years ago on this date. I wasn’t blogging back then and the name Studly Doright hadn’t yet occurred to me–he was still David. Likewise our home hadn’t yet been dubbed Doright Manor. How boring, right? Yet somehow we still existed. Here’s what was going on four years ago:

We had torrential rains all night Thursday and woke up to a steady drizzle yesterday. I had to work for a couple of hours on Friday morning, but coaxed David to take a drive to St. George Island in the afternoon.  

Of course he grumbled about the rain, but I promised to take him to an outstanding burger place if he’d just take me to the beach. I might’ve made other promises, but I’m not telling those.  

We took the scenic route and soon enough were rewarded by the sight of waves crashing against the shore and the “stork” houses as I call them, raised on pillars to allow the water to flow around and through with minimal consequence. Even the ugliest, plainest of these homes on stilts fascinates me. I think I need one.

We found Bayside Burgers at Eastpoint just in time for a late lunch, then took the bridge over to the island. I could visit every day. Tide was high when we got there, but it wasn’t raining; although, we could see areas of precipitation all along the beach.  

The clouds were so low that the differences between heaven, earth, and the gulf were difficult to discern. Who could imagine the beauty in the different shades of grey?
Note: Bayside Burgers is no longer in business! I was so disappointed on my last visit to discover it had been torn down and a Mexican food restaurant put up in its place. 

The picture below is not one I took, but I found it on Pinterest when I searched “Eastpoint.” Likewise, the featured image of the bridge is from Pinterest. Eastpoint and St. George Island are must see places on Florida’s Forgotten Coast.

All Points Bulletin

I stumbled into the middle of a manhunt in Tallahassee today. I’d gone to eat lunch at Firehouse Subs on Capital Circle having become slightly addicted to their New York Streamer sandwich. The small size is only 360 calories and it tastes so darned good. But back to the manhunt.

As I walked out of the restaurant I heard the distinct sounds of a helicopter directly above me. I waved, for what it’s worth, and went on to my car. 

When I turned into a side street I saw a police cruiser, lights flashing, partially blocking the road. An officer standing by her patrol car waved me through. I still hadn’t connected her presence with the hovering helicopter, but when I turned the next corner and saw three cruisers and a police van, I realized I was probably in the middle of something big. 

I was just trying to get back to Capital Circle so I could go home, so I kept driving and turned right again. There, coming down the sidewalk toward my car was a police canine and his cop. That dog had the scent and was pulling hard on his leash. 

Hurriedly I found a way out of the area and drove to Home Depot a few blocks away. As soon as I was parked I googled breaking news in Tallahassee. Two possibilities popped up.

Now, I’m not sure which of these headlines is pertinent to the manhunt. One would certainly be more interesting than the other.

Was it this person they were using dogs to search for?


Or this one?


You know which one I’m rooting for, right?

Peace, people. And for goodness sake, put on some clothes!

She’s a What?

Studly Doright and I were cruising around Tallahassee on Saturday afternoon in his now almost un-smelly car. Out of the blue  Studly had a hankering for Kentucky Fried Chicken, so we drove through the drive up and then sat in their parking lot while he nibbled on a breast and a wing. I’m dieting, so I just watched. Willpower is my middle name. Ok, maybe it’s “Biscuit with Honey” since I had a bite of his. 

We were listening to the 60’s channel on Sirius/XM when the song Must to Avoid by Herman’s Hermits started playing. Studly put down his chicken and sang, “She’s a muscular boy.” 

I snorted. “That’s not how it goes! It’s “she’s a must to avoid,” and pointed to the radio’s dashboard display where the correct title was clearly spelled out.

“Oh,” he shrugged. “I always thought it was a strange song.”

And now? Now I can’t help but sing it his way.

https://youtu.be/icEUzyyL88A

Peace, people.

Chain of Parks 2017

Saturday morning I drove into Tallahassee to savor the eclectic vibe of the annual LeMoyne Chain of Parks Art Festival. This isn’t an arts and crafts (or as Studly Doright calls them “arts and crap”) show, but a gathering of some of the finest artists and artisans from all across the country. 

Name your poison–jewelry, pottery, textiles, sculpture, carvings, paintings, stained glass, and/or mixed-media. It was all there. I couldn’t afford 99.99% of the art displayed, but I so enjoyed looking. 

Here are just a few of the sights:



My favorite, and the most affordable, part of the day was dog watching.

One end of the park is set aside for children to create their own art. I didn’t venture very far into this section, as my stomach had begun nagging me to find the food trucks, but I took this photo of the chalk art area. Note the little girl on the right. As I passed by she remarked, “Look! I’m walking on the wall!”

And I don’t know who Terrika is, but she made me smile.

At one point I was mobbed by a group of posh ladies who insisted on sharing their kooky style with me. I always needed a boa to make me feel complete; I just didn’t know it. 


Unfortunately the Divas, as they called themselves, got away before I could snap a picture. It was a wrap and run incident. No one was harmed in the process. 

What a wonderful morning! I did buy a small item for my little courtyard area at Doright Manor. I’ll share that another day.

Peace, people!

All This and Cataracts, Too.

All This and Cataracts, Too

Sometimes I kid myself:

I’m young, sexy, skinny, and brilliant.

Yes, I kid myself.

In reality, I’m old, dumpy, chunky, and bland.

And now I’m told I have cataracts. Yes, they’re “baby cataracts,” and shouldn’t be an issue for a number of years, but dammit all to hell; I have cataracts.

I see trouble on the horizon. Wait! I can’t see the horizon!


Peace, people.

©2017 by Leslie Noyes

Smelly Car

Studly Doright likes to trade cars. When he’s had the same vehicle for the span of a year I can feel him getting antsy to find the next great deal, so it came as no surprise when he sheepishly showed me a photo of a little Cadillac sports sedan and told me he’d bought it on eBay.

“It’ll be my golf vehicle,” he said.

“I thought the Dodge pickup was your golf vehicle,” I countered.

“Well, it was, but I’ll sell it.”

“What about the little Nissan convertible? Wasn’t it also your golf vehicle?”

“You know it gets lousy gas mileage. I’ll sell it, too.”

As long as I have a decent car to drive I really don’t care what Studly drives, but I had to give him a hard time. When the car didn’t arrive on time I began needling him.

“Are you sure you’re dealing with reputable people?” I asked. “What if they never deliver your Cadillac?”

“It’ll be here. It’s in Detroit and they had a huge blizzard last week.”

Two days later, still no Cadillac. I again questioned the prudence of buying a car sight unseen. Finally, though, the transport driver called to say he’d be in Tallahassee on Sunday afternoon, so when he sent an address I drove Studly into town to meet the truck. 

The car was badass: Silver, with black leather seats, and every bell and every whistle one could ask for. It also came with one unexpected bonus–the nastiest smell I’ve ever encountered outside of a garbage dump.

The smell wasn’t organic. Nothing had died in the car. It was a chemical type smell, as if  someone had used it as a vat for tanning animal hides. Gag!

Studly was in denial.

“It’s not so bad,” he protested, when I refused to ride in the car.

“Three Mile Island was less toxic than this car,” I said.

“Maybe it just needs a coconut scented air freshener,” he didn’t actually say, but I knew he was thinking it.

“Let me deal with it,” I sighed.

So for the past week while Studly has been at work I’ve coaxed the nasty smell out of his Caddy. Long drives down country roads with every window rolled down and the moon roof fully open have made a huge improvement in the car’s smell. It’s not yet quite to the pleasant stage, but I have a reasonable expectation that it soon will smell almost like a new vehicle. And it’s such fun to drive.

Maybe Studly has learned a lesson about buying cars on eBay. Or not. Regardless, life with him is never boring.


Phoebe Buffay knew a little about smelly things:

https://youtu.be/XNXIZuIBJKs

Baby, You Know What I Want

Baby, you know what I want…

…I want to eat fried chicken and potato salad without worrying about gaining a pound. That’s it. I got a whiff of a stranger’s fried chicken meal yesterday and now that’s all I can think about. 

My goal is to lose ten more pounds before we leave for Ireland’s fair shores in June, though, so I’ll have to settle for the next best thing to fried chicken: Gary Larson’s Far Side chicken.



I’m still hungry for fried chicken. 

Peace, people.

I Lost My Marble

A few months ago I posted a whimsical piece about the thoughts I entertained while picking up a marble with my toes. (Link below, if you’re interested.) The exercise eventually helped reform my wayward middle metatarsal, and I dispensed with the activity.

Recently, though, my metatarsal began behaving badly again. When I went to find my marble it was gone. I truly had lost my marble. I looked high and low, mumbling to myself like some sort of mad woman. The cats, who I suspect of having had something to do with my marble’s disappearance watched me warily as I dove into drawers, cast shoes about the closet, and peered into dark corners and between chair cushions. Alas, no marble.

So when I spied a jar of marbles at a shop in Apalachicola with the sign, “Marbles: 30 for $1.00,” I grabbed a couple of greenies and took them to the checkout counter. 

“Only two?” The proprietor asked.

“Yes sir, you see I lost my marble and I’m looking for a replacement. The second one’s insurance.”

“In that case, no charge,” he said. “Never let it be said that I deprived a woman of her marbles.”

Call me crazy, but I think he just wanted me out of his store.

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2016/10/13/thoughts-while-picking-up-a-marble-with-my-toes/