Memory Lame

Ah, the things I can’t remember:

What I had for dinner yesterday.

The name of the little doohickeys that cover the valves on my tires. I had to pantomime yesterday while having my car serviced.

At least once a day, where I last put my phone.

How to knit. I once knew how, but now I don’t. Apparently knitting is nothing like riding a bicycle.

How to dance the Macarena.

The last time I had real cheese. This one made me cry. If only I’d known it was the last time, I’d have savored every single bite.

Similarly, I can scarcely remember what a Dr. Pepper tastes like. All I’m certain of is that it’s nothing like cheese.

How to diagram a sentence. I once was skilled at this task.

Names. Faces. It’s awkward when I have to ask my husband, Studly Doright, to wear a name tag.

How to play a saxophone. I was never a great musician, but I miss the camaraderie of band. I wonder if I could join an air band…

But I do remember most of the dialogue from Star Wars, A New Hope, and all the words to The Heart of Rock and Roll. I know John Cowsill’s birthday and Studly Doright’s social security number, as well as my own.

I remember the day I realized I couldn’t marry Elvis Presley. Not because of the immense age difference (I was five; he was in his twenties), but because my name would then be Leslie Presley.

I remember how it felt to hold my babies for the very first time. That new baby smell is still fresh in my mind. And I remember all five of my grandkids’ birthdays. Sometimes I don’t remember how old they are, but at least I get the date right.

Going to high school football games in late November when it was so cold I couldn’t feel my cheeks, but loving being squashed in between the grownups in my life, pretending my hot chocolate was coffee just like they were drinking.

I remember saying “I do” and meaning it, even though I didn’t really understand the commitment I was making at the time. Does anyone?

I remember my mom’s smile and my dad’s laugh, and honestly, what else matters?

Peace, people.

What Studly and I are Watching

My esteemed husband, aka Studly Doright, and I only discovered Netflix a couple of years ago. Yes, we were living in our own special version of the Stone Age, but now we have seen the light. Not only do we enjoy Netflix, but we’ve also dipped our toes into the Disney streaming service and Amazon Prime. We feel enlightened.

Here are some of our favorites and the ratings we’ve arbitrarily assigned them in no particular order:

Godless ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Hell on Wheels ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Schitt’s Creek ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Ranch ⭐️⭐️

Arrested Development ⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Mandalorian ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Shameless ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Ozark ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Peaky Blinders ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Witcher ⭐️⭐️⭐️

We tried watching The Good Place, but it felt too contrived.

Currently we’re enjoying The Wire. It’s really good, but I’m hesitant to rate it just yet.

What’s in your watch list?

Peace, people!

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir

Studly Doright scared the crap out of me on Sunday morning. I was busy working on edits for The Cowboy and the Executive while my husband was supposed to be playing golf. There I was, my head buried in the task of revising and rewording the first five chapters of the book when he came around the corner of my office and uttered the scariest of words— “Boo!” It’s a miracle I didn’t have a blooming heart attack.

His golf game was rained out after only nine holes of play, so I guess he had nothing better to do than frighten the love of his life. Of course, if the situation were reversed, I’d have done the same to him. We have equally warped senses of humor.

Once my heart rate settled down, I finished my work while Studly got down to the business of enjoying a nap from the comfort of his recliner. His gentle (ha!) snores soon filled the halls of Doright Manor. He’d flipped the television to one of the old movie channels and to my delight the 1947 movie, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir was just beginning.

Now, Rex Harrison knew how to scare a lady properly. Not a single “boo” was uttered. And oh my goodness, was there ever a prettier leading lady than Gene Tierney?

I spent part of the morning and a chunk of the afternoon watching this wonderful old film. Do any of my readers remember the television series based on the movie? It was one of my favorites, but nothing compares to the film. I wonder why someone hasn’t done a modern remake? I’d watch that.

Oh, I’d forgotten that Rex Harrison’s character is a literal ghost writer in the film, and Gene Tierney’s character is his scribe. They bicker over word choice and what to include or omit in the book —just as my editor and I do. The whole scenario was comforting. As I watched, I wondered if Studly could be my muse. Then he snored, not so gently, and I decided that was a big NO.

Peace, people.

Faking It

I had an embarrassing dream last night. Apparently I’d told a group of people that I could play the trumpet, thinking that I’d never have to prove it, or that if someone did ask for proof I could somehow fake my way through it.

In the dream I bought a used trumpet and an instruction book, but never bothered to actually learn to play. Of course, in the dream an emergency situation called for a trumpet player and the group turned to me.

You know how in dreams the magical can happen? You need to be able to fly, so you fly. Or you’ve met Huey Lewis and he falls in love with you? Yeah, this dream wasn’t like that. I carried my trumpet on stage, put it to my lips, and went Pvvvttvvvpp!

The audience smiled politely, probably thinking I was just warming up, and then it happened again: Pvvvttvvpp! Pvvvttvvpp……!

There were loud boos, and somehow worse—looks of disappointment. Someone from backstage came forward and pried the trumpet from my hands. I recall wishing I could sink between the boards, but I just stood there taking my punishment until in the real world my cat patted my cheek and woke me up.

Analysis? I think maybe the trumpet represents my current frustration with editing and revising my romance. Someone’s going to come along and yank it out of my hands before it goes Pvvvttvvpp. I’d call it Imposter Syndrome, but that connotes some level of success that I have yet to achieve.

Or maybe I just ate too much too close to bedtime.

Peace, people

Saturday Morning Thoughts

At 7:00 a.m. it’s still dark here at Doright Manor. There’s no reason for me to be awake. It’s not as if we have cows to milk or chickens to feed, and the cat’s sleeping off her breakfast and snoring beside me. Studly Doright left an hour ago so he could have breakfast at his favorite dive before his early tee time. I could do anything or nothing today, and I’m trying to decide which way to go.

Should I work on editing my romance novel, The Cowboy and the Executive? Maybe instead I should write a bit in the sequel to Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort. What if I ignored the computer today and checked out an estate sale on the posher side of Tallahassee? I could do laundry…No. Or housework…Hell No! Maybe I could stay in bed all day…Nope. The only times I’ve ever done that is when I’ve been sick, and thankfully I’m healthy. Decisions, decisions.

Oh, who am I kidding? We all know the estate sale is going to win. I’ll be careful—masked up and socially distanced—and home in time for a little romance with Studly. For research purposes, don’t you know. After all, I need to do something productive today.

Peace, people.

Just Because

You could watch this all day, OR you could buy my book.

One has more nudity than the other.

Peace, people.

Adjustment Interruptus

I was supposed to have gotten an adjustment at my chiropractor’s office yesterday; however, a tornado warning shut everything down before we reached a satisfactory conclusion. We’ll try again this morning.

Peace, people.

Doctor, It Hurts When I Do This

Here I am sitting in my car in front of my chiropractor’s office on a Wednesday morning.

I’d smile wider, but I’m in a wee bit of pain. Here’s hoping Dr. Cal can make it better. Even if he doesn’t it’ll be nice to have a grownup other than Studly Doright to talk to for a change.

Peace, people!

An Angel Gets Its Wings

Every time someone purchases my book….

…I do a happy dance.

And every time someone writes a positive review…

I sing a happy song.

https://youtu.be/d-diB65scQU

It’s been a very good day. Thank you!

https://pin.it/3UXLXgW

Peace, people!

Things That Go “Hiss” in the Night

A hiss awakened me from a deep sleep a couple of nights ago, and my first thought was, SNAKE! Apparently our cat, Gracie, had the same thought. Together, we crept through the bedroom and adjacent bathroom, tentatively looking under furniture and around corners. After finding nothing even vaguely snake-like, we returned to bed.

Later that morning as I applied my makeup I heard the hiss again. Gracie, who never leaves my side, went into full attack mode. She was going to locate this hissing thing and kill it with her bare claws. But after a lengthy search, we again came up empty handed. This was one stealthy hisser.

Then about midday, while engaged in the fine art of sorting laundry I heard the hiss and this time, it emanated from near by—from the small area where our toilet is located. The water closet, if you will. And, it was accompanied by the smell of lavender.

It was then that I recalled having recently purchased an automatic room deodorizer. That, friends, was the cause of our mysterious hissing sounds. I’m so relieved, but Gracie isn’t convinced that we’re out of the woods just yet.

Always on the job.

I’m glad she’s hyper-vigilant. There might come a day when an actual snake finds its way into Doright Manor, and Gracie will be ready.

Peace, people!