Gracie is upset that I won’t allow her to go outside on the screened-in porch this afternoon. It’s an 80° day and the sun is shining, but there’s a breeze blowing the pollen around, and my allergies just can handle it.
So Gracie is making do with the next best thing.
That tail starts flicking about now and again leading me to believe there might be a lizard teasing the cat from outside the window. This cat leads a really tough life.
Apparently February 19 is the official Love Your Pet Day. Who knew? Here at Doright Manor, every day is Love Your Pet Day. Our Gracie can attest to that.
She’s been such a balm to our hearts after the death of our beloved Scout kitty. I was so afraid we’d adopted her too soon after losing Scout, but Gracie had filled a hole in our lives, and we love her so much.
I’m at that stage in life where comfort overrides style every single time. Having said that, I do have a pair of shoes that make a statement, and I wear them almost daily.
The green tile beneath these classy shoes is slippery as ice when wet, and cool even during summer months. So I wanted something with a little grip and lots of warmth to wear around Doright Manor. Of course I bought them from Walmart. They only cost $4.99, and after a couple of wearings the right foot had a blowout. And I love it!
Is it a pimple popping out? A tongue? I’m not certain, but I’m positive you won’t find another pair exactly like them. And that’s how haute couture works.
This is my backyard here at Doright Manor. Today the temps were in the mid-70’s, and while rain is in the forecast through next Tuesday, we’re enjoying the gift of pleasant weather today. I know we’re very lucky right now.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re warm and dry. Maybe you’ll have a cup of hot chocolate, or a bowl of stew. At bedtime you might enjoy a hot toddy. Heck, now I’m almost in the mood for winter weather. Almost.
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.
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.
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.
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.
At Doright Manor we go to bed early. Studly Doright, my husband of 44.5 years, hasn’t retired yet and he rises early each day to get a jump on things before the rest of the work force shows up,
Last night, though, we stayed up to watch the Tampa Bay/New Orleans playoff game, and didn’t get to bed until ten eastern time. Basically that’s midnight in our world, and now I have a football hangover; although, perhaps it’s a true hangover given all the wine I drank while watching not only the late game, but also the earlier game between Kansas City and Cleveland.
Two great games featuring four of the best quarterbacks in the league were impossible for us to turn off. I have the luxury of sleeping in and staying home and working on a sequel to Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, while poor Studly had to get up early to reattach himself to the old grindstone.
It’s a good thing he’s married to me—I can nap for both of us this afternoon. He has no idea what I sacrifice for him. I’d better nap for twice as long just to be on the safe side.
The trash collection guys come on Monday mornings—usually quite early in the day. So here at Doright Manor we usually remember to move our trash receptacle to the curb on Sunday afternoon, but not always.
When I woke up yesterday morning at 7 a.m. my first thought was, “Oh crap! Is that the trash truck I hear?!”
I scooted the cat off of my chest where she’d snuggled down, blissfully unaware of such things as full trash receptacles. Her glare was equal parts disappointment and disdain. How dare you disturb me?!
Hurriedly I donned a pair of sweat pants and a non-matching sweatshirt, pulled on some socks and shoes and scurried outside into the 40° weather to try and outrun the trash collectors. I grabbed the dew-covered handle of the receptacle and winced. It was cold and wet. Ugh.
I was not to be deterred, though! I gritted my teeth and pushed the container to the curb, hoping I wasn’t too late. When I looked around at other homes I was surprised to see that no one else had their cans out for pickup. Puzzling. That was until I remembered that it was Wednesday morning, not Monday, and that I was either two days too late or six days too early.
So there I stood, on the curb, shivering in a pair of Studly’s hole-y sweatpants, which are considerably larger than any of mine, a Walking Dead sweatshirt, mismatched shoes and wet hands, wondering if I truly had finally lost my mind.