I love Huey Lewis. Yes, Studly Doright is well aware of the fact that Huey is my dream man. That voice. Oh my. That look. Oh dear! And he seems like a genuinely good person. Bonus points!
So when something I posted on Huey’s Facebook page gets a ❤️ reaction, I’m ready to chuck 45 years of marriage down the drain, ‘cause if Huey’s ready to propose, I want to be available.
Okay, I realize that THE Huey Lewis likely never saw my post or reacted to it, but someone he probably knows did and, hey, can a proposal be far behind?
I’ve been in bed for more than an hour now. I read for a while. Yawned. Closed my eyes, but couldn’t doze off.
Tossed. Turned. Got up and had a talk with my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Took a drink of water. Now of course I’ll need to pee. But not right now—later when I’ve come close to slipping into some sweet dream.
There’s a headache working behind my left eyebrow, and an itch cropping up in various unreachable spots on my back. I’d wake Studly Doright to scratch for me, but he’s happily snoring and I hate to interrupt a man doing what he does best.
I’ve been under the weather for several days now. An upset stomach has me feeling BLAH. I’d take something to help me sleep, but that’s really not a great idea when one has a stomach virus.
So here I am, hoping to write myself into sleepiness. It could be working. I might have drifted off for a second or two. Yep. Now I need to use the facilities.
When you realize that you took two Tylenol P.M. instead of two regular Tylenol at 2:30 p.m.—that’s an oops. Thank goodness I didn’t have a pressing engagement outside of Doright Manor today, but so much for getting much editing done on Reunion at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort this afternoon.
Let’s see how far I get before my eyes start to close.
The very next day I happened to hear a portion of an interview with the late poet on NPR, in which she described her traumatic childhood. A victim of sexual abuse from a very early age, Ms. Oliver turned to nature and to words to save herself. And while many of her poems are rooted in her love of the natural world, some address the abuse she survived.
Her powerful poem, Rage, deals with the hard truths of her young life.
Another poem, A Visitor, focuses on the aftermath.
I had no idea these poems existed—that this woman who wrote such beautiful words about nature also wrote soul-wrenching poetry about the dark horrors she endured as a child. I wanted to save this little girl, but she saved herself instead. I guess, in the end, we all do the same. If we’re lucky.
I’m in the middle of proofreading and editing the first draft of Reunion at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort. Every time I go through this process with a book I’m amazed at the silly errors I’ve made.
Honestly, I should turn out a better first draft. I taught English, for pity’s sake. My spelling savvy has always been above average; although, time and spell check have played hell with that skill. And I have a prodigious vocabulary. (See what I did there?) Yet, I often leave out words, apostrophes, and the occasional comma. My excuse? My brain works faster than my fingers do. Or maybe my fingers work faster than my brain. I’m sure one of the two is true.
With the help of several eagle-eyed beta readers I’m combing through my missteps, and just this morning I ran the editing program that comes with Microsoft Word. My score for the document was good, but not yet perfect, so I did a quick search to find the culprit.
I really did mean beer.
Apparently Word’s editor thought we were trapped in a vintage Wendy’s commercial.
My small collection of poetry books includes one by the incredible Billy Collins. Titled, Sailing Alone Around the Room, this book is a treasure. There are so many terrific poems in this book, but I’ll share just one this evening.
The Man in the Moon by Billy Collins
How perfectly Mr. Collins expresses my fascination with the man in the moon.
My spring closet cleaning continues at an amazingly slow pace. Every time I’m in a groove something shifts my attention away from sorting and tossing to less productive activities such as reading or napping.
That’s not to say that I’m not making progress, though, and this morning I found ten dollars in change in an old wallet. Cha-ching!
If my cleaning efforts could be kept strictly to the closet the whole process would be over and done with already; unfortunately, when I rearrange one group of items another space either opens up or closes off. That’s what happened when I moved my brassiere collection from a dresser drawer into the closet.
You see, I realized I had bras that hadn’t been worn since the presidency of the first George Bush and they needed to go. So I made a nice pile of saggy old bras on top of the electronic organ I’m totally incapable of playing.
I wondered if perhaps my knickers (panties) drawer had similar pieces, and indeed it did. Elastic? Had that stringy stuff around the waistband and leg openings once been elastic? I made a second pile.
Then I googled Goodwill to see if they’d accept my castoffs (not the worst of them, but the ones that could still maintain their intended functions) and the answer was no. So, what to do with a sizable stack of undies on the electronic organ? (I can actually play both halves of Heart and Soul—just not at the same time.)
Again I googled and found a company called Knickey. For a $5.00 fee, Knickey will accept used panties, bras, and tights. You box them up. They’ll send you a mailing label via email and it’s easy breezy! They recycle the undies into materials that can be used in mattresses. Maybe other stuff, too. Plus, they send you a pair of their organic panties.
I sent my underwear, even the worst of the worst, off this morning and now I’m free to not play the organ once again.
A few days ago I typed “The End” on my fourth novel, Reunion at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, the third in the Happy Valley trilogy. If that sounds confusing, it’s because one of my books, The Cowboy and the Executive, is for now, a stand-alone romance.
“Reunion” is currently in the hands of beta readers and I know it’s being read with an eye for all of my missteps and goof ups. Unless one is perfect, and I have yet to meet anyone fitting that description, beta readers and a good editor are essential to creating a finished book with a polished feel.
I’m a better than average proofreader, but when it comes to one’s own writing one develops a certain selective blindness. I still cringe at some of the minor errors I now see in Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, and one day maybe we’ll pull the book from Amazon and fix them. Just not today.
While “Reunion” is being worked on, I’m cleaning out my closet. Ugh. A job I’d planned on taking one day is now into its fourth. Of course it might go more quickly if I weren’t also taking breaks to ruminate on book four in the Happy Valley series—working title, Christmas at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort. Yes, Paula, Cassie, and the gang are coming along for at least one additional adventure before I wrap the series up. Will Santa show up with just the right presents? Maybe.
Spring fever has attacked with a vengeance this year. I want to be outside, but outside makes my eyes water. The weather here in the Florida panhandle is absolutely gorgeous, but the pollen is everywhere. I could make a “pollen man” and stick a corn cob pipe in his mouth, but I’d probably collapse from sneezing mid-construction. At least I’m not cold, and that’s a plus.
Okay, that closet is still calling. I might see the light at the end of the tunnel. Then again, maybe that’s an oncoming train.
I’m cleaning out my closet today. Out with the old stuff—things I haven’t worn in more than a year—and in with absolutely nothing. And since I failed to do this task last year, or the year before, the number of shirts and jeans I own and never wear is embarrassing. Still, I’ve had to slap my hand a time or two to keep from reaching back into the donation pile to return an item to the closet.
Later today I’m attending a memoir writing class at a local library. Maybe my memoirs will include a chapter on why I feel the need to possess so many striped blouses from Talbots.
A reasonable representation of what I own.
This evening Studly Doright and I plan to watch NCAA basketball. This year’s men’s tournament has been great so far—especially since the Kansas Jayhawks are still in contention.
Okay, I’ve stalled long enough. Back to the closet for me. Thanks for the break.
Praying for Eyebrowz 