Swoon Worthy

Huey Lewis reacted to MY post. Mine.

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’d never leave Studly anyway. Right? Right.

Peace, People.

Huey Lewis on Blacklist

Studly Doright and I have been watching Blacklist on Netflix for several weeks now. Studly is way more into the series than I am. Most nights I sit and play Words With Friends while he watches the escapades of Raymond Reddington. Occasionally I’ll comment on something that’s happened on the screen, but for the most part I tune it all out.

But during last night’s viewing Huey Lewis turned up in an episode. I love Huey—his music, his voice, his adorable face, so I watched every second of the episode. It was sweet. I mean really sweet. The episode was a tribute to cast member, Clark Middleton, who passed away in 2020 from West Nile Virus. I had to wonder if Clark, like his character, Glen Carter, was a fan of Huey Lewis.

Rest In Peace, Clark.
Oh, Huey!

I think perhaps he was. A good man with good taste.

Peace, people.

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.

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

Hip to be Square

Aging sucks, but as I’m frequently reminded it beats the hell out of the alternative. This past October I celebrated my 60th birthday. Six decades on this earth have taken a toll on my body. I’m no longer the svelte, lithesome broad I once was. And everything hurts.

My ankles hurt, my thighs hurt, and my hips seem to be stuck in neutral. I’m okay as long as I move forward, just don’t ask me to pivot or cha cha. Damn, I miss cha cha-ing. 

A Facebook pop up advertisement (amazing how they pick up on my personal needs) prompted me to check on exercises designed to ease those frozen hips. Apparently, if I could stretch my hip flexors, I might achieve full range of motion. I could once again cha cha.

I turned to Google, and this stretch was the first thing to appear under “hip flexor stretches.”

Honestly. I can’t cha cha and they expect me to do this? I tried. Lord knows I tried. Studly Doright walked in during my attempt and laughed so hard I would have slapped him if I could’ve gotten up off the floor.

I’ll be in the whirlpool tub if anyone needs me.

Peace, people.

Question for the Aged 

A friend posted this meme on his Facebook page today and jokingly quipped, “My wife.”  
But being the deep thinker that I am, instead of quickly responding with something like “my vintage Huey Lewis concert tshirt which doubles as my favorite nightgown” I thought I’d turn the question into a blog post.


Huey Lewis. I sleep with him, you know.
I have a lot of old stuff. Probably the oldest is a bedroom suite that I inherited from my maternal grandmother, my beloved Nannie Grace. It was an antique when she bought it, but she went one step further and antiqued the antique. Sigh. Apparently it was a popular thing to do in the 60’s and 70’s.

 I’ve considered having her antiquing process undone and the furniture restored to its original mahogany, but one restorer explained to me that the paint Nannie Grace applied is probably the only thing holding it together at this point.

It’s still a beautiful set, and I’d estimate it at possibly 145 years of age.

There’s also this piece from Nannie Grace

And this poor old clock that was my Daddy’s:

But my favorite old thing is my side saddle.

My maternal grandfather, Grandaddy Carl P., bought this saddle when I was very young. He promised it would be mine someday and here it is. Like Grandaddy, though, I really don’t have anywhere to display it. He kept it in his workshop and Studly always gives me space in the garage for this sentimental piece. It deserves better, so if anyone has a suggestion for how I might incorporate it into my decor I’m more than willing to listen. 

What’s the oldest thing in your house? Why do you have it and what does it mean to you? Inquiring minds want to know.

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!

Musical Walk

thanks to you, Pandora
in the space of one brief walk
my life is infused
with sugar, and bad blood,
the beating heart of rock and roll,
happy! happy! happy!

adam levine lights me up
and my walk turns into a strut.
huey lewis holds my hand and
twirls me around.
imagine dragons and pharrel
got me singing along.

too happy not to dance
too old to care that
the neighbors all think
i’m crazy, crazy, crazy!
maybe i am, but life is
too short to waste on
pretending to be sane.

Peace, people!

Clone Wars

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Clone Wars.”

Best not to clone me,
Two me’s would be too many;
Three, ridiculous.

Clone instead two men:
Harrison Ford and Tom Cruise,
Then share their cloned selves.

I get Mister Ford
You get Tom Cruise for yourself.
Or we could switch out.

I really don’t care,
After all cloning ensures
There will be plenty.

And what shall I do
With my hunky cloned Harry?
That’s too personal.

By the way, Tom Cruise
Gained mention because his name
Has two syllables.

Instead of more, like
Huey Lewis, George Clooney
And Paul McCartney.






No Bucket

There will be no bucket kicking for me when the time comes. Instead, I’ll be flinging a champagne flute and relishing the sound of breaking glass as I bid adieu to this life. All the same, I do have a list of things I’d like to do before my final day on earth. Thus…

My Champagne Flute List

1. Walk the runway in a fashion show. I’m not picky, either. Walmart, Kmart, I’m ready to strut in style.


2. Score backstage passes for any of the following acts:
A) Huey Lewis and the News (yes, they’re old, but I still have a tremendous crush on Huey)
B) Katy Perry (she fascinates me)
C) The Rolling Stones (of course)
D) Sir Paul (duh)



3. Sing in a rock and roll band. Preferably my own, but I’m open to suggestions.

4. Learn to play drums. Studly refuses to cooperate on this one. I can’t imagine why.

5. Tour Europe with a group of friends. None of those 10 countries in 11 days tours, either. I want a leisurely, relaxed tour with lots of wine and beer.

6. Take each of my grandchildren on individual, no holds barred expeditions to a destination of their choosing.

7. Spend a week at a spa with my daughter–one of those exclusive, all-inclusive places where we can relax and recover and talk.

8. Enjoy a drive through wine country with my son while listening to podcasts.

9. Corral my brothers and their families, my cousins and their families, and my children and grandchildren for a much needed family reunion.

10. Attend a Super Bowl with Studly, preferably with the Cowboys representing the NFC. Okay, any team. It doesn’t look like Jerry Jones plans on selling the team or hiring a real GM any time soon, and I’m not getting any younger.

11. Publish a novel and go on a major book tour.

I really need to start working on these. Cough. Cough. Another glass of wine, please.

Peace, People!


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