Category: Life

New Addition to the Family

We’ve been blessed by the arrival of a new family member–a beautiful 2010 Honda Goldwing:

  

The red bike in the background is my Yamaha Majesty. For the past couple of years it has led a sad life, sitting for months on end without any meaningful trips outside of our garage. Oh, Studly starts it up periodically and takes it for spins around the neighborhood, but the poor dear was languishing for lack of attention.

It’s not that I don’t still adore the bike. She’s taken me on some epic journeys, including a solo trip from Illinois to Texas and back the year I turned 50. But ten years later I’ve noticed that my reflexes aren’t as sharp as they once were, and while I’ve never been a fearless rider, I now find myself a jumpy one. That’s not a good characteristic for a motorcyclist to have.

It seems we’ve come full circle, having had a Goldwing many years ago and selling it when I declared I wanted to be in the driver’s seat on my own ride. It really is all about me. 

Studly is going to sell one of his bikes, and I’m going to sell my Majesty. We’ll still have a small stable of dirt bikes and his beloved Ole ’93.

 

Ole ’93 is Studly’s project bike. He’d part with me before he’d part with it.
  
A couple of our dirt bikes.
  
Studly’s VStrom will also be going to a new home.
 
I’m typing this while drinking a beer and watching Studly check over and polish the Goldwing.  

 I can hardly wait for our first adventure.

Peace, people.

Cooking for Studly: Lighten Up

For any of my readers who’ve wondered, I’m still cooking meals for Studly Doright. There were many years during our marriage when my culinary efforts were sporadic at best and non-existent, at worst. The truth is, I’m not very good in the kitchen. 

But Studly and I made a deal wherein I could retire from working in exchange for becoming his scullery maid, er, cook. For the most part, I’m enjoying my end of the bargain, and occasionally I even make a great meal.

Now a new issue has arisen in my cooking experiment–Studly and I are trying to be more health conscious. My first suggestion was a diet of all salads. That got vetoed pretty quickly, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. So I’m to figure out how to make things he likes in a healthier manner.

One of his favorite entrees is a dish I’ve made successfully since discovering it in a Beta Sigma Phi cookbook published in 1981. 

  
You can tell the book has seen its share of use, and I’d like to say I’ve tried every single recipe in it, but that would be a lie. 

Golden Beef Quiche is the only recipe I’ve succesfully produced from the cookbook, and I’d sincerely like to thank Ms. Judith Essenpreis of Centralia, Illinois, for submitting it to the cookbook committee back in the day. 
Studly loves this dish, even though he’s a real man and supposedly real men don’t eat quiche. It is one of the few dishes that he will eat as leftovers. I love it because it’s foolproof, and in the kitchen I am something of a fool.

Now that he’s decided to eat healthier I’ve been using extra lean ground beef, but I would also like to replace the cheddar cheese soup with something less processed. I simply do not know how to do that. If anyone reading this could give me a suggestion that would be lovely.

UnMolding

A dreary diagnosis grayed the day, like the blending of black and white lumps of clay

So thoroughly that their masses could not be unentwined, no before or after, only

This big clump of the right now that she should have foreseen, but most certainly 

 Had not braced for. In cartoons and old films clenched fists are raised, railing 

Angrily against an uncaring sky, but she didn’t have the energy to expend. 

So she sat on a three-legged stool and began the numbingly futile task of

Separating dark from light, working the tacky slip between inflexible fingers, a

Salty tang of flour undiluted by her efforts, unchanged by the effort.

  

Just Another Nail in the Wall

I’ve been a busy little decorator these past few days. After two years of living in the home I’ve dubbed Doright Manor I’m finally hanging some artwork. 

Now, the term “art” is used loosely here. There are no Ansel Adams or Georgia O’Keefe pieces gracing our walls. Instead, I’m fond of framing pretty greeting cards and random pictures from glossy magazines, a holdover practice from our days of living below the poverty line, along with finds from estate and garage sales. 

I like to say my taste in art is eclectic. That sounds so much better than questionable or dubious. The few pieces I’ve purchased from art galleries don’t do anything for me once I try to find a spot for them. I really have fared much better with my more frugal purchases.

Regardless of cost or source all of my pieces have something in common: They hide multiple nail holes. Never mind the amount of time I spend measuring and calculating, marking and leveling, I never get it right the first time. Even if I’m hanging a single picture I end up with roughly 9,643 holes in the wall. Ok, that’s an exaggeration, but just barely.

My expertise comes in cleverly masking those holes. “Oh, look, you placed a butterfly on the corner of the frame! How cute!” people exclaim. Damned straight, Skippy–that butterfly is camouflaging at least three holes. 

I know at this point in the post I should provide a photo of a few of my displays, but no good could come of that. My readers will either pity me or laugh at me. And I’m not sure my fragile ego can handle that. 

Ok, just one. No laughing. Pity’s ok, though. Or vice versa. 

 

One of my garage sale finds. It makes me happy.
 
Peace, people!

Phobia

I have no phobias as far as I can tell. At one time in my life I was fearful of escalators, but only those heading down. After years of traveling through airports and department stores I overcame that fear. The time it took to circumvent the escalators cut drastically into my travel and shopping time, so I cured myself.

I do understand irrational and deep seated fear, though, and I’m sympathetic to those who suffer from phobias. Having said that, some of these are a bit hard to swallow:

Pharmacophobia is the name given to the fear of medicines.

Quackery

 

Do not go into nursing or motherhood if you suffer from this.
  
Really?
  
A weird one, granted, but those black symbols can be daunting.
  
I forgot to be afraid of this one….
  
Studly Doright has an odd fear of lakes.
  
Totally understandable. Only the shadow knows what’s in the shadows.
  
That explains why people scream and run away when I enter a room.
  
I can understand this! Ventriloquists’ dummies are pretty creepy.
  
Could I claim this one after 39 years?
 
And then there’s

 

I might develop this.

Peace, people! 

Unintentional Dating 

Unintentional Dating 

My lonely life revolves around shopping, blogging, and Facebook, but at least I have a life of sorts. On Facebook I’m particularly vulnerable to clicking on tests–“How Smart are You?” “What Does Your Color Preference Indicate about You?” “Are  You a Sociopath? Find out in 10 Easy Steps.”

 

For the record, there’s a unicorn inside me, which explains the gastric distress.
 
Like most facebookers, I take the results of these tests with a grain of salt, meaning if I like the results it was a righteous test; if I don’t, it was a lame questionnaire with no legitimacy. I still maintain that I am not a sociopath. Stupid test.

Most of the time these little activities are straightforward and harmless: Click on the site, answer a few multiple choice questions, receive your results. But one day this week I took a quiz and was automatically transferred to the online dating site, FirstMet.

I didn’t answer a single question and left the page immediately. However, the site was linked to my Facebook profile so now I’ve been receiving dozens of emails from potential suitors. They include

Gary, a 55 year old male in Tallahassee who’d like to rock my world. His hobbies include listening to Rush Limbaugh and going to tractor pulls.

Mark, 58, is retired and enjoys television and Chinese take out.

Walt, 62, likes the Hunger Games and country music. Walt has a comb over (I saw his photo). 

I thought I could ignore these emails and they’d go away, but they keep coming. Either I’m much more desirable than I ever thought, or these men are slightly desperate. Let’s go with option #2.

Studly Doright really doesn’t want me to date. And honestly, unless Harrison Ford, Huey Lewis, or Adam Levine show up in an email I’m not all that interested. 

Finally a Facebook friend showed me how to stop receiving the emails from FirstMet, so maybe my suitors will fade away. Of course now I won’t have any way to know when Harrison tries to contact me. That’s the downside.

Ok, I’m going to go retake that sociopath assessment. Must be more careful this time around. Bwahaha.
Peace, people!

It’s a Trap!

You can’t be too careful. 

 
I believe I’ll stick with the “Eat Bacon, Don’t Jog” diet.  

 It’s legit. 

Peace, people!

Isn’t It Amazing?

Oh Pan, how could you do the unthinkable and grow up? You promised we’d happily inhabit 

Neverland forever, crowing the dawn into existence, sharing feasts with fantastic

Friends and fiends. You taught me to fly, but without you the gift is but another

Form of transportation–lonely, neck straining, wind-battering air travel.

The Lost Boys still sing your praises, I can only cry. My tears turn into streams, then into 

rivers. Come back Peter! We can pretend you never left. Pretending is what we do best.

  

I purchased this bracelet a couple of days ago at Magnolia Mercantile, a funky, fun little shop in Tallahassee, Florida. The saying on the bracelet forced me to write the poem. Honest. 

Notice the cute little Tinkerbell dangling from the chain. Is this perfect or what?

Peace, people!