Tag: humor

Candlelit Mindfulness

Don’t be fooled by the title. This post is neither romantic nor particularly mindful; although, if having an abrupt wake up call makes one more mindful, then maybe it’s partly an accurate title. The thing is, I kind of set my underpants on fire this morning.

I lit a candle to start the day off with a pleasant wake me up ambience, and placed said candle on the counter in the kitchen. Then I went about my morning chores. I was putting away Christmas decorations and doing loads of laundry while awaiting the arrival of a service man, keeping one eye on the clock so I didn’t forget to watch for the Orkin guy.

The dryer buzzed, and I took out a load of clothes that included a few pair of my undies. As I turned away from the dryer, the doorbell rang signaling the service man’s arrival, so rather than carry the clothes with me to answer the door, I plopped them on the kitchen counter.

As I opened the door it occurred to me what I’d just done. “Come in!” I cried at the startled Orkin man. “Shut the door behind you, I think I just started a fire in the kitchen.”

Thank goodness only one piece of clothing had fallen into the candle. There were no flames, just a bit of smoldering cotton. And fortunately my mistake only affected a pair of undies that should have been relegated to the rag bag a long time ago.

Nevertheless, I learned a lesson here. Be careful where you drop your drawers.

Peace, people.

Barely Bearing Up

I used to be a hardier person. At least that’s the story I tell myself. It’s become more difficult to believe, though, as I find myself whining about the less than balmy weather we’ve had in Tallahassee these past couple of weeks. Some days we barely climbed above 40°!

When Studly Doright, and I, along with our two kids, lived in North Dakota we went entire months without seeing temperatures above 30°F. I drove daily on icy roads, supervised playground duty in sub-zero weather with three feet of snow on the ground, and went about my business even with blustery winds gusting at fifty miles per hour. And those were the more temperate winter days! Somehow, we adapted.

Neither of us were accustomed to long term cold, having grown up in the panhandle of Texas. We knew brief periods of winter that often were replaced by spring-like weather, within a space of six hours. I can remember mornings that school was cancelled due to snow that found us playing outside sans coats by 3 pm.

I’m rambling, I know. It’s this darned cold weather to blame. I’m barely bearing up under these conditions. My feet have forgotten how to wear flip flops and will require remedial instruction once the temps begin to rise once more. That’ll most likely be next week. And, as God is my witness, we will rise again.

“Forget the Iguanas” Stew

Ladies and gentlemen it’s cold outside! Not so cold that I’m liable to get frostbite if I’m out for more than a few minutes, but cold enough that in some parts of the Sunshine State cold-stunned iguanas are falling from the trees. That I could possibly be walking along and have a lizard fall on my head almost makes me hope for hypothermia instead. Almost.

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/frozen-iguanas-falling-from-trees-during-cold-snap-in-florida/

Can you imagine? The thought creeps me out.

I couldn’t stop thinking about falling iguanas, so I occupied my mind by chopping vegetables for a stew. Now all I had to worry about was losing a finger. I’m not all that good with knives.

Once the veggies were all chopped and the stew was simmering on the stove, wafting savory odors throughout Doright Manor, I once again found myself contemplating falling lizards. What to do? How about I type up the stew recipe for my readers?

“Forget the Iguana Stew”

1 lb. very lean ground beef, (I use 93% lean) browned and drained

3 C. potatoes, cubed

1 1/2 C. celery, chopped

1 C. onion, chopped

2 C. carrots, chopped

1 1/2 C. frozen peas (Studly prefers corn, so that’s what I used)

1 3/4 C. chunky style Italian tomato sauce or Italian style stewed tomatoes (I can’t always find the chunky style, so the stewed tomatoes work fine.)

1 C. tomato sauce

1 1/4 C. beef broth

Salt and pepper to taste

(I usually add a tomato sauce can of water–the recipe as it’s written doesn’t seem to have enough liquid.)

Cook for a couple of hours, while the potatoes soften and all the flavors mingle, and stir frequently. I cook it on medium heat and then switch to low once the veggies feel soft.

If you cook this in the crockpot, cook on low for 6-8 hours.

No iguanas were harmed in the making of this stew.

Peace, people

Clone?

One of the upsides to the social media site, Facebook, is the way it reminds of us photos and events we might have otherwise forgotten. This morning the following photo popped up in my Facebook memories:

That’s Studly and me with two of our grandchildren, Garrett and McKayla, from nine years ago. At first glance I thought the woman pictured was my mom. Then it dawned on me, that my mother died before ever meeting any of her great grandchildren.

Here’s a photo of Mom with our daughter, Ashley, who is the mother of the children pictured above. I think maybe Ashley was four in this photo.

Again, here’s the photo of me:

Holy cow. People have told me how much I look like mom, but until now I don’t think I fully realized it. Cloning. It’s real and apparently has been since the 1950’s.

Peace, people. (Miss you Mommy)

Sign of the Apocalypse?

Our cats never, and I mean NEVER, come this close to snuggling. I guess the early morning snow in Tallahassee, or perhaps the “My button is bigger than your button” tweet from trump to Kim Jung Un, has them believing it’s the end of the world as we know it. On the plus side, in either case, I don’t have to make my bed.

And I think we all know trump’s button isn’t bigger than anyone’s.

Peace, people.

No Epcot for Me

Well, dang. I’d planned on accompanying Studly Doright to Orlando this week where I’d explore Epcot while he worked. Then Mother Nature decided to play havoc with the weather all along the east coast and I, being a very wise woman, decided to save Epcot for a warmer day.

I’m fully aware that folks in the northern states would love to have 49° weather this week, and I’m sure those temps listed above wouldn’t deter anyone who is snowbound in Minnesota from spending a day at Disney, but when your body is used to 70° weather at this time of year, 49° might as well be 19°.

I was pretty bummed out when I made the decision to wait until later in the year, but then I had the bright idea to schedule a spa treatment on Thursday. That should cheer me right up. And the best part, it’ll take place indoors.

Meteorologists are calling the upcoming storm a bomb cyclone!:

https://trib.al/knOBOUN

The Best First

I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately for those early days of my relationship with Studly Doright. I don’t know if it’s because we’re both in our sixties now, or because our oldest grandkids are near the ages we were when we first fell in love, but something has me in a mood to reflect on how this whole thing started.

We’d begun dating not long after I moved to Dumas in my senior year of high school. Studly worked as a stocker, keeping groceries lined up on grocery shelves at the local Piggly Wiggly, and as a sacker who efficiently packed shoppers’ purchases into bags and then carried those bags to their cars. My dad was his boss and even before I began dating Studly, Daddy would comment on his superior work ethic.

“That Noyes kid works circles around the rest of my crew,” he’d say. (FYI, Studly Doright sometimes answers to the name David Noyes, but don’t tell anyone.) Coming from my dad that was high praise and most likely impacted my feelings for Studly even before I’d gotten to know him.

Our first date was to the homecoming football game in 1974. I can’t remember who our team, the Dumas Demons, played that night, or even if we won. I just recall how comfortable I was with this boy, and that was not the norm for the awkward kid that was me.

When he walked me to the door after the game and kissed me goodnight I knew I was a goner, so perfect was that kiss. Once inside the little house my family was renting I shut the front door and leaned back against it. My mom had been waiting up for me and gave me this look.

“Oh, Mom,” I said. “I think I’m in love.”

I didn’t say those words to Studly until that Christmas, though, and not until after he’d said them to me first. My family had returned to our hometown of Floydada, Texas, to spend the holidays with family. For nearly a week Studly and I had to endure being apart. I’m sure I mooned around like a lovesick puppy, and from accounts from friends, so did he.

As soon as we were reunited he took me to our favorite parking spot in his ’66 Plymouth. We were a little awkwardly sweet at first. His motorcycle helmet was in the seat beside me, and as a goof I put it on. Underneath the protective layer of that helmet I said, “I missed you a lot.”

Studly replied that he’d missed me, too.

“I might like you a little,” I confessed.

“I think I might love you,” he responded.

“Oh! I love you, too,” I said. We most likely kissed after that. I forget.

We’ve been married more than 41 years now. We’ve had some epic fights over four decades. We’ve hurt each other’s feelings and done incredibly stupid things, but on some level we’re still those two teenagers, sitting in that old blue Plymouth shyly declaring our love for each other. Every single day.

Promise Me

We were sweethearts in high school, Studly and I. We’d begun dating in September of my senior year, just a few months after I’d moved to Dumas, Texas. Apparently Studly had followed me around all summer, but I was pretty clueless. I wasn’t the kind of girl boys like him pursued. I was more the type they avoided.

Studly worked for my dad who managed the local Piggly Wiggly grocery store. Not long after I asked him where the ketchup was shelved, we began dating and fell head over heels in love. We were inseparable for my entire senior year, and when I moved to Amarillo in the fall of ’75 to attend college the angst of separation drove us both a little crazy. You see, Studly is a year younger than I am, and still had his senior year of high school to get through

I came home to Dumas fairly often, and Studly drove to Amarillo every chance he got. Dumas and Amarillo are only about 45 miles apart, after all, still, it might as well have been a trillion miles, so in love were we.

When Christmas break rolled around I couldn’t wait to spend some quality time with Studly. We went out every night and fell deeper and deeper in love. On Christmas Eve Studly and I went parking in our favorite spot at the old motorcycle track, and when he presented me with a small velvet box my heart started pounding so hard I thought I’d pass out.

I knew it wasn’t an engagement ring. We weren’t at that point in our relationship yet, but I thought it might just be a promise ring, a symbol of our intention to someday be engaged.

Anyway, I opened the box and found myself looking at the ugliest, cheapest piece of jewelry I’d ever seen. See the green one below? That’s the one.

It had the look of a prize from a gum ball machine, but Studly looked so earnest when I opened it that I had to gush over it.

“Put it on!” He urged.

So I did. Luckily it had an adjustable band. Could he not tell that it was obviously an extremely cheap piece of jewelry? I thanked him for the ring, trying to be upbeat, but all the time wondering if he’d bought it from some scam artist.

We made out for awhile, before he suggested that we go to the Pizza Hut for dinner.

“You can show off your ring!” He said, as I cringed.

When we got to the Pizza Hut, it was hopping. There were no empty booths to be had. I was relieved. Maybe I wouldn’t need to show my dubious promise ring to anyone after all. Then a couple we knew waved us over and asked us to sit with them. Crap.

Almost immediately after we joined them the girl, Karen, exclaimed, “Guess what? We’re engaged!” She then showed me her lovely engagement ring.

Studly and I both admired it. Her ring was small, but so pretty. Studly gently took my hand, and said,

“Honey, aren’t you going to show them your ring?”

I wanted to hide under the table. I knew Karen and her guy would see the ring for what it was–a cheap piece of plastic in an adjustable band.

Just as I was about to bring my trembling hand up to show them the ring, Studly stopped me. “Maybe you’d rather show them this one.”

Out of his pocket he pulled a small blue velvet box. When I opened it I began laughing.

I didn’t know whether to hit him or kiss him. I showed Karen and her guy the first ring Studly had given me. We all had a good laugh when I told them the story.

I don’t know what happened to that gum ball ring. Studly said he’d spent a lot of money trying to win a ring from the gum ball machine. It might’ve well cost as much as my little sapphire by the time he finally got it. I wish I’d kept the cheap one. I had no appreciation for such things back then, but I do now.

There’s a lesson there, I suppose. Pay attention to the little things. Someday, they’ll be really important.

Happy New Year, friends.

We’re Watching the Bad Boy Mowers Gasparilla Bowl Among Others

My husband, aka Studly Doright, is closely following all of the college football bowl games this year. He and a group of coworkers entered into a pool in which they each ranked the 37 college football games. If a team he picked wins its game, Studly gets to add the number of points according to how he ranked them.

For example, he ranked Wyoming #27, so when they defeated Central Michigan he racked up 27 points. A couple of games have come down to the last possession. He predicted both of those incorrectly. Today, though, his teams came through and he’s feeling optimistic with 321 points.

The winner of the pool gets nothing except bragging rights, and the joy of saying the name of the bowl game out loud. There are the Bad Boy Mowers Gasparilla Bowl, the Nova Home Loans Arizona Bowl, and the Cheribundi Tart Cherry Boca Raton Bowl among others. I can’t make this stuff up, folks.

I’m dating myself when I say I remember when the games were simply the Cotton Bowl, the Sugar Bowl, and the Orange Bowl. At least the Rose Bowl has maintained its original name, even though the corporate sponsor, Northwestern Mutual, has tagged its name into the end.

The four playoff games leading up to the national championship are scored separately. It’ll be interesting to see how Studly fares in this friendly competition. He’ll never be able to say Cheribundi with a straight face.

Below, a screen shot of the CapitalOne Orange Bowl:

Patches is even into the game:

Peace, people!

Jumanji You Say

I was spectacularly unmotivated yesterday. There was laundry to be done that I didn’t do, a closet to clean out that I left cluttered, and a blog post to write that was left unwritten. It’s a darned good thing I don’t get paid for any of the above tasks, else I’d be holding a pink slip instead of a paycheck come next Friday.

After an entire day of doing nothing except drinking coffee and petting our cats, Patches and Scout, I was on the restless side by the time Studly Doright got home from work. One might even say I was whiny.

“I’m bored!” I complained, in my best imitation of a ‘tween girl on a random summer Tuesday.

Studly countered with, “You can come out and help me work in the shop. I’ll find things for you to do.”

I huffed, “Oh, that sounds fun. Not!” I followed him outside anyway and sulked just within the realm of his peripheral vision.

“It’s too cold out here. I’m shivering. My fingers are going numb.”

Studly held up the thermometer. “It’s 62°. You’re not likely to freeze.”

I held up one of my fingers. It might have been a middle one. “See, it’s blue. And shivering.”

“If you get to work you might warm up.”

“Fine,” I sulked, still channeling my inner twelve year old. “But I’m sure I won’t warm up. The kids will find my frozen body in this shop next time they come for a visit. That’s if they ever come for a visit.”

Wisely, Studly ignored me. We worked for a bit while I grumbled under my breath, and he kept up a running commentary about some of his projects in progress. I was enjoying my role as the petulant pre-teen, so when Studly said, “That’s all we can do for now, how about we see if there’s a showing of Jumanji?”

Crossing my arms over my chest and pouting as prettily as possible, I said, “Fine. But I probably won’t like it.” Of course my smile ruined the effect, but I had to add, “I probably don’t have a thing to wear, either.”

And that’s the story of how I got Studly to take me to see Jumanji. It’s a fun movie, and given my earlier performance I could have been a character in the movie. I guess I won’t get paid for that, either.

Peace, people.