Tag: humor

Wishing

First star knows about wishes.
She hears them murmured wistfully:
Star light,
Star bright,
First star I see tonight,

First star understands wishes.
She gathers them like forget-me-nots:
I wish I may,
I wish I might,
Have this wish I wish tonight.

First star hears wishes,
and then promptly forgets them.
Star light,
Star new,
I wasted many a wish on you.

First star regrets her lapses,
but what can we expect from a ball of gasses?
I wish I may,
Oh, wish I do,
To someday have a wish come true.



Only Through Self Control

As God is my witness, I’ll keep this resolution. Granted, it will require self control and hours of hard work, but I thrive on challenge. 

Hands

My hands are sixty years old, and not the least bit shy about letting everyone know. Several years ago, back when they were only fifty, my hands and I had lunch with two of my oldest and dearest friends. I hadn’t seen these ladies in quite some time, so we had much catching up to do.

We chatted with each other over plates of delicious Tex Mex cuisine at a restaurant in Dallas, alternately reminiscing about our shared histories and filling in the blanks where our paths had diverged. 

They’d both gotten their degrees four years after graduating from high school, marrying and having children only after they’d accomplished that educational milestone. My route was different. I’d married Studly, had two children, and then worked on earning my college diploma. By the time this luncheon took place I was already a grandmother, while they still had children at home. Different paths, many joys.

After the plates were cleared I noticed our three sets of hands on the table. Mine were clearly older than theirs. Where my friends’ hands were soft, smooth, and unmarred by age spots, mine were like a satellite image of a desert land, mottled and wrinkled, freckled and uneven.

I brought my friends’ attention to our hands. 

“Look at how much older my hands look than yours do!”

They looked at me like I was slightly nuts. Why would I call attention to such a thing? I even wondered that as I left the luncheon.

Maybe I like my old hands. They’re certainly the oldest looking part of me. Good genetics, for the most part, have kept the rest of my body and even my face, from reflecting my true age. I’m not terribly wrinkled yet, except for a few crinkles around my eyes and several decent laugh lines around my mouth. (I’m probably pissing off the gods of aging right now and will soon be inundated with wrinkles.)

But my hands show everything: Years of helping Studly Doright mow lawns in the summer Texas sun to help ends meet during some very lean years, years of being an assistant Little League softball and soccer coach, years of piloting a motorcycle without wearing gloves (stupid!).

Nowadays they’re more pampered. They receive occasional manicures and are treated nightly to a fairly expensive cream to keep them from further deterioration. But they still look old.

On the other hand, they might look sixty, but they are still nimble. They can tie shoelaces and dry tears, pat people on the back, and occasionally shoot someone the finger. My hands are terrific at picking pennies up and at wielding an ink pen. They text pretty well and can scroll through pages on the internet like hands half their age. 

I think I’ll take them shopping today. “C’mon, hands, we’ve got stuff to do. You, middle finger, show some restraint. That’s a good girl.”

Peace, people.people.

Looking Ahead

Post-election depression has put a real damper on my Christmas spirit. I’ve shopped and wrapped gifts, partaken of eggnog, and watched hours of Hallmark Channel movies, but I’m really just going through the motions. A future with Trump in the White House seems too horrible for contemplation. Alas, barring a last minute miracle, that stark reality seems to be in store. 

But I’m not a gloom and doom person at heart, so I’ve made a list of things that will definitely lift my spirits:

  1. Hugs from the grandchildren
  2. Large quantities of wine
  3. Hanging out with my kids
  4. More wine
  5. Having my mother-in-law, Saint Helen, with us for Christmas
  6. Did I mention wine?
  7. Studly Doright’s love and support
  8. And wine
  9. Cat kisses
  10. Cheers!


I feel better already.

Fashion Sense-less 

Why is it that when I try to channel my inner Carrie Bradshaw…

Me trying to emulate Carrie Bradshaw (aka Sarah Jessica Parker) is akin to a mealworm trying to emulate a butterfly.

…my outer Phyllis Diller shows up?

I loved Phyllis Diller. Apparently my style reflects that.

The Case of the Missing Mary

The Case of the Missing Mary

By Leslie Noyes

(Note: This first appeared on my blog two years ago, back in the good old days when Trump’s candidacy was merely a bad joke. Guess I should’ve thrown more darts.) 

I leaned back in my wooden chair and tossed a dart at the picture of Donald Trump I’d taped to the door of my cramped office. Bullseye, baby. Before I could launch another sharp projectile at the human embodiment of evil there was a tentative rap at the door.

Quickly I stashed the darts, downed a shot of Glenlivet and hid the bottle under the desk.

“Come in,” I intoned with as much gravity as I could muster. I was new at this detective gig and badly needed a client. Throwing darts at Trump, no matter how satisfying, wasn’t paying the bills.

The man who walked through my door was a sight for hungry eyes. Tall, dark, and handsome, and apparently built like Thor if the bulges in his well-tailored suit were to be trusted.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Mr. Noyes, the private investigator…”

“It’s Ms. Noyes,” I smiled. “My receptionist just stepped out for a bit.” Little did he know my receptionist, Glenlivet, was hiding under the desk. I nudged the bottle with my foot for reassurance.

“Oh!” He was clearly flustered, so I rushed to reassure him. Rising from my chair I stepped closer, hoping to encourage him to stay.

“Don’t let my gender color your expectations,” I said. “I’m fully qualified to handle discreet investigations.”

I held my breath as I watched him wrestle with his thoughts. Finally he extended a hand, and I exhaled.

“My name is Joseph. Joseph Carpenter, and my wife has gone missing.”

I motioned for Joseph to have a seat and took my place on the other side of the desk. Pulling out a pen and notepad I asked Joseph for details.

“She was right beside me. We were watching over our newborn son and I turned away for just a second to greet a man, a foreigner of some distinction, who’d brought a baby gift. When I looked back, Mary was gone.”

Joseph’s rugged face collapsed in tears. It took all of my strength to maintain a professional distance. My maternal instincts were urging me to comfort this man, but he didn’t need a nursemaid, he needed a detective. And by God, that’s just what he’d get.

“Do you have a recent picture of your wife, sir?”

“No, we weren’t into pictures. But she was just a little thing. Maybe five feet two. Brown eyes. Dark brown hair. Olive skin. She was, is, beautiful. She has the most beatific smile.”

I tried my hand at sketching a picture of Mary. “No, her nose is a bit larger,” Joseph said. “Yes, like that. And her lips fuller.”

Finally we had a sketch that Joseph approved.

“Joseph, did you notice any strange characters hanging around, let’s see, the manger on the night of your wife’s disappearance?”

“Well,” he began, “Besides the foreigner there were a couple of other visiting dignitaries. They looked fairly trustworthy; although, come to think of it I have no idea why they dropped by.”

“Ok, that’s a starting place. Anyone or anything else?”

Joseph snapped his fingers. “There was a shepherd there ranting about some star he followed. Could it be…?”

“I couldn’t say right now, Joseph, but I promise to do everything in my power to find your Mary.” I stood and indicated we were through.

“By the way, how’s the baby?” I asked offhandedly. “I know newborns can be a handful. Is it possible Mary just took off?”

Joseph’s temper flared. I could see I’d hit a nerve. “Absolutely not! You have no idea what Mary has gone through to have this child, why….”

I held up one hand. “I had to ask Mr. Carpenter. I believe you.”

I told him I’d need a retainer and I’d bill my services at a hundred dollars per hour. Then I assured him I’d get on the case immediately.

“Money’s no problem. One of those foreign dignitaries brought gold. For a baby!” He shook his head sadly.

As he paused at the door, Joseph Carpenter turned, his face half in shadow.

“Ms. Noyes. Have you done anything like this before?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Every December.”

Almost every year one piece of my nativity goes missing. One year it was the lamb. I found it nestled next to the Christmas snow globe. Another year it was a wise man, the one carrying myrrh. He didn’t turn up until I was putting decorations away. Apparently the myrrh king had been napping in a Target bag. This year it’s Mary. One can’t very well have a nativity scene without the mother of Jesus. I’ll keep looking. Until I find her I have a cut out Mary from a Christmas card to stand in for her:


The scale isn’t that bad, right?

Studly’s Big Birthday Adventure, Part 1

Saturday was Studly Doright’s 59th birthday. Having feasted to the overflow mark on Thanksgiving he wanted no special birthday foods and said he’d play a round of golf to celebrate the big day. I sang “Happy Birthday” as he headed to the golf course while he grinned. I have that effect on people.

When he arrived home after golf, though, he told me to pack an overnight bag. He’d bought some motorcycle parts online and we needed to pick them up. In Metairie, Louisiana, outside of New Orleans! I didn’t quibble and ten minutes later we were on the road. 

New Orleans is a five and a half hour drive from Doright Manor, and we made it to the seller’s home around 5:30 p.m. Studly was delighted with his bargain, so while he and the seller stood swapping motorcycle tales (a.k.a. “kicking tires and telling lies”) I booked us a hotel room in Metairie. 

After a nice light dinner at PF Chang’s we checked into our hotel and cheered on the Florida State Seminoles from the comfort of our bed. 

A birthday toast at PF Chang’s.

Knowing the New Orleans Saints were playing at home at noon on Sunday we planned to get up early and be well away from the area before game time. Studly had me find us a breakfast spot using Siri, and with only one little mixup we were soon seated at a table at Willa Jean, a top brunch spot in the central business district in downtown New Orleans.

I had beignets on my mind, but unfortunately they weren’t on the menu. But, oh my goodness! What a menu! Studly, who is a breakfast traditionalist, had biscuits and sausage gravy and proclaimed his meal to be perfect. I enjoyed grilled cornbread with a syrupy butter and a side of bacon. We both believe it was the best restaurant meal we’ve had in years. Check out their website: http://www.willajean.com. 


After we left Willa Jean, finding the interstate was a cinch. I snapped this photo of Louis Armstrong just standing on a corner:


Ok, so Satchmo was only there in statue form, but the city was waking up around him in preparation for the game.


Once on the interstate I took a few random shots. Whatever did I do before I had an iPhone?


I’ll finish up my piece tomorrow with photos of our visit to the USS Alabama. For a low-key birthday, we had a pretty grand time. Thanks for reading! 

Peace, people!

Politics: What’s Words With Friends Got To Do With It?

The 2016 election was a soul sucker. It was like carrying a baby for nine months and after 36 hours of labor having the doctor announce, “Congratulations, it’s a full grown rattlesnake!” 

On the one hand, you’re glad it’s all over, while on the other hand you wonder how long it’ll be before your baby delivers the lethal bite. Ah! Good times. 


Thank goodness for diversions like Words With Friends. Currently I have 21 games in progress, and any time there’s a lull in the action I start another one. Right now, I don’t even care if I win or lose. It’s the distraction from current events that counts.

The president-elect names a white supremacist as his chief strategist and senior counselor? I find a way to play a word containing both z and v.

A woman who doesn’t support public schools is named Secretary of Education? No worries, I play “teazles” for 182 points, and I don’t care that I have no idea what it means!*

I hear that Trump is refusing to take security briefings? Ok, I cried, but then I went on to play “equinoxes” and temporarily forgot that we have elected a lightweight to the highest office in the free world.

Reality bites right now. I think I’ll go start another game.

*verb archaic: 

teazle 

1. raise a nap on (cloth) with or as if with teasels.

Cooking for Studly: Thanksgiving for Two

Those of you who are new to my blog might not realize that I have a life outside of bashing our president-elect, but I do! I live with my husband, Studly Doright, and our two feline supervisors, Scout and Patches, in our own little piece of paradise that I like to call Doright Manor.

We have two perfect children and five absolutely superior grandchildren (funny how that works, seeing as how Studly and I just barely peek over the average range), but they live far away from our home outside of Tallahassee, Florida.

Studly and I were high school sweethearts in Texas, and in forty years of marriage we’ve moved 14 times, lived in five different states, and I’ve lost count of the number of homes we’ve shared. We aren’t retired yet, but it’s number one on our bucket list.

Studly married me thinking I’d turn out to be a great cook like his mom (Saint Helen) or my mom, (Gingymama), but I had neither the aptitude nor the attitude to develop into much more than a mediocre heater upper. Poor, poor Studly.

Twice a year, though, I focus all of my energies into cooking a kick ass holiday meal. I plan and prepare and check ingredients off of lists and shop and preheat–all the necessary stuff. Sometimes, it all turns out perfectly. Other times we pretend. Wine helps.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day here in the US. So today I’m baking a pecan pie, hard boiling eggs, and making cornbread. Doright Manor smells amazing. I’ll arise early tomorrow to prep and roast a turkey, make cornbread dressing, a fruit salad, and deviled eggs, along with Studly’s favorite green bean casserole (ugh!) and cranberry sauce. With any luck neither of us will need to pretend that it tastes great. Again, wine helps.

It’s just going to be the two of us for dinner, well and the cats, but I’m thankful that we are healthy and have each other. I’m most thankful that at Christmas we’ll get to see our kids, grandkids, and Saint Helen, when we congregate in Nashville, Tennessee, for a family holiday extravaganza.

Now, the smoke alarm hasn’t sounded even once this morning, so all is well at Doright Manor. I’d best go, though, and open a bottle of wine. Just in case.

Peace, and Happy Thanksgiving, people.