Your blog is about to be recorded into an audiobook. If you could choose anyone — from your grandma to Samuel L. Jackson — to narrate your posts, who would it be?
This old gal from Texas would quite enjoy hearing her thoughts narrated by the beautiful songbird, Adele. It’s always a bit of a shock to absorb her bright Cockney accent after having heard the richness of her singing voice.
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there’s nobody there
What does he care?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved.
All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people (Ah, look at all the lonely people)
Where do they all belong?
Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:
Tell us about the most exciting big night out you’ve had lately.
Life at Doright Manor is tame. Generally, a big night around here involves watching an extra episode of Ray Donovan while splurging calories on a second Shiner Bock.
Yet once a month we head to Studly Doright’s golf club for a rousing night of trivia competition. I know, a lot of readers will be jealous, as they should be. You see, in addition to the trivia, there is music, great food, and just enough wine to make me feel like a wittier, prettier person. And, I’m not bragging, sometimes we even stay up past midnight!
January’s event was especially fun because our friends from Indiana were in town and we dragged, er, invited them to go with us. I don’t know about them, but I had a blast. We didn’t win the competition, but we didn’t come in dead last either.
I’m certain today’s prompt was written specifically to demonstrate what a lackluster life I live. Gee, thanks WordPress.
Peace, people!
A little Cat Stevens for your entertainment (following the dadgum ad)
We’ve recently found ourselves saying final goodbyes to musicians who’ve left indelible marks on this world. Songwriters and vocalists who were the voices we turned to for solace and inspiration. David Bowie, Glenn Frey, and Natalie Cole have all been taken from us way before their time. It’s been a depressing way to begin 2016.
BowieFrey
Cole
But as I was shopping for lotion and makeup at Ulta this morning, I heard these groundbreaking lyrics, “Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow,” and thought, yes, we are doomed. It wasn’t a lullabye, and it wasn’t a commercial for cat food. There were additional lyrics, but the meow really was the best part of the song.
And to think I have talented friends and relatives waiting for their respective big breaks in the music business and some schlub gets air time repeatedly singing “meow.”
Daily Prompt: What’s the most time you’ve ever spent apart from your favorite person? Tell us about it.
Studly Doright and I have been married for 39 years, and he’s one of my favorite people. Thanks to eight job transfers, all for his career, we’ve spent quite a bit of time apart.
Physically the longest period of separation was during our last move. He headed to Tallahassee in July of 2012 while I stayed in Mahomet, Illinois, to sell our home. It was Thanksgiving before we were reunited. He did fly me down for a long weekend, though, to house hunt. As separations go, it wasn’t too awful.
The toughest time we had to deal with was our move from New Salem, North Dakota, to Great Bend, Kansas. Studly left us in November to begin his new job while the kids finished the school semester at New Salem (Home of the Fighting Holsteins), and I readied the house for sale. It sold quickly, and we made arrangements to move, but then both kids and I came down with the flu.
We finally recovered only to have one raging blizzard after another paralyze our part of the country preventing the moving truck from getting to our home. The crew got through to pack up our belongings, but couldn’t get the big truck up to the house.
Finally fed up with delays, I packed overnight bags, stuffed the kids and the cat in the car and headed due south, leaving detailed instructions for the movers. I could barely see the road for the snow, and every now and then I’d have to skirt around abandoned vehicles stuck in drifts. I prayed a lot.
As soon as we crossed into South Dakota the skies cleared and the temperatures warmed. I felt like we’d escaped from a Stephen King novel, The Shining 2.0.
With all my heart I hope we are through with moving and the separation it brings. I’ve told my family I’ll consider going to an assisted living community some day, as long as Studly comes along.
Peace, people!
A little Harry Nillson for your listening pleasure. Damn, I love this song.
Several days ago I wrote about my itchy skin issues. Sadly, I’ve always been cursed with dry skin, but my withdrawal from the antidepressant Effexor has exacerbated the itchiness to the point where I just want to immerse myself in a large tub of lotion until all of the unpleasant side effects have abated.
Unfortunately, that scenario is neither logical nor feasible, so I find myself using various door frames and large pieces of furniture as scratching posts. I did purchase the Roll a Lotion product which works well in the absence of my preferred lotion applicator, namely Studly Doright.
The Roll A Lotion, not Studly Doright
A WordPress friend suggested bathing in a solution of bicarbonate of soda, but I didn’t have any on hand. Her suggestion, though, reminded me that my mom used to use a product with oatmeal in it to help reduce my itchiness. Heck, I had oatmeal right in my cabinet!
I filled our ridiculously oversized whirlpool tub (honestly, we could almost practice synchronized swimming routines or play water polo matches in the darned thing) with water and oatmeal. Then I climbed in and just relaxed.
The bath felt delicious. I soaked for 20 minutes while singing along with Adele. Hello! She had me believing we really could have had it all whilst rolling in the deep.
Once the water became lukewarm I began the process of getting out of the tub. This is always an ordeal. You see, I’ve grown rather bottom heavy over the years while my arm strength hasn’t increased enough to compensate for the extra weight.
This night was no different. After pulling the plug, I scootched my legs up under me as much as possible for leverage and then heaved myself to a standing position. Only to realize I was covered in clumps of oatmeal.
“Well, crap!” I said aloud. In retrospect I should’ve said, “Well, oatmeal,” but that didn’t occur to me at the time.
I squatted as much as my old legs would allow in order to splash water onto the clumpy parts and then remembered that the tub had a shower head! A solution was at hand.
Of course the shower head is on the opposite end of the tub from the regular spout, and one must turn on the water from yet another side of the tub.
So I reached behind me and got a powerful stream of water flowing from the faucet. Then I reached in front of me to raise the diverter so water would flow from the shower head.
Unlike what is shown in my picture above, the damned shower head wasn’t aimed so water would enter the tub. Oh no. It was aimed directly at the back edge of the tub surround, and the water pressure sent water spraying in all directions. Of course I instinctively, and irrationally, ducked, losing my footing in the process and sitting down hard. I yelled at Adele to shut the hell up. She ignored me.
I cried briefly and then got down to the business of rinsing my body free of oatmeal. The shower head, properly corralled, did a fine job of rinsing the oatmeal out of every nook and cranny. Soon I was squeaky clean. The tub, though, was not. The remainder of my evening was spent cleaning it out.
When all was said and done the tub sparkled, I was exhausted, bruised, and yes, still itchy. And Adele? Well, she just kept on singing.
The beautiful and talented Katie Flynn, featured in the YouTube clip above, needs a couple of backup singers for an upcoming gig. Katie, who resides in Illinois, and I are friends on Facebook, so when she posted the following:
I need 2 female back up singers who know how to shake it a bit. PM me if interested ASAP! 🎶💃🏻🎤
My first thought was, “Hey! I’m interested!” My second and third thoughts, in rapid succession were, “Shoot! I live in Florida,” and “I’m afraid to shake it a bit, lest it become a lot.”
Then I thought (my fourth of the night, and something of a record!) maybe I should put the word out there and help Katie find her backups.
One more thought, “Hell, who am I kidding? I can’t sing.”
If you know someone in central Illinois who can sing and can shake it a bit, let me know. I’ll connect you with Katie. In the meantime, I’m going to practice my singing and shaking.
she saw him stopped at a red light
dull green army jacket over a
white t-shirt with AC/DC emblazoned
boldly across his thin chest.
she can only imagine the list of
tour dates on the back.
this isn’t her boy
she knows that,
but the glimpse is enough to bring
a smile to her eyes and
the taste of salt on her lips
memory’s gentle nudge.
better, she knows, to have
spent this life with another
carry on Angus
rock on Bon
Bon Scott
This poem was inspired by photographer/graphic designer, Julie Powell, whose blog I follow on WordPress. Check out her work and insights at https://juliepowell2014.wordpress.com/
I woke myself up singing, Ain’t No Sunshine at five this morning. I’d been dreaming about planning a farewell party for a co-worker who was moving on to bigger and better things. A few of my office mates had made signs and party favors. Others had baked cookies and cakes. I was in charge of entertainment. As the time for the festivities approached I still had no idea what form that entertainment was going to take.
But then, like a scene from an old Elvis Presley movie where folks would urge this good looking random stranger in the crowd to get up and sing, and he’d do his “aw shucks no” routine all the while rising with guitar in hand to take the stage and make girls swoon, I stood in my dream and belted out Ain’t No Sunshine.
I even changed up the lyrics a bit to fit the occasion. Instead of the repetition of, “I know, I know, I know…” I sang, “She glows, she glows, she glows….” And in lieu of the vaguely inappropriate line that follows: “I oughta leave the young thing alone, but ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone,” I sang, “She’s a star wherever she goes, but ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.”
All this in my sleep. Other stuff went on in this epic dream. Most notably I made out with a stranger, who I strongly suspect was Studly Doright in disguise because he kissed exactly like Studly. He’s my sunshine.
For your listening pleasure, the great Bill Withers (following a brief, yet annoying advertisement.)
Praying for Eyebrowz 