I always mess up “air kisses.” Read on:
He gave her a kiss,
A gentle touch of
Lips against cheek.
Very cosmopolitan.
Her attempt to
Reciprocate ended
In a sloppy smooch
Gone terribly wrong.
Her bright pink
Revlon left a smear
Starting near his nose
And ending at his ear.
Oh dear.
Peace, People!
I love you, dear one
Every beat of my heart
Claims this basic truth.
What is our love worth?
The sky plus the earth, and more?
I’ll tell you, much more.
Do not disregard
The consequence of our love
It brings me such joy.
Please note that Studly does actually exist; although, he hasn’t quite mastered the spelling of his last name. My very unexpected bouquet of roses is as fragrant as it is beautiful. Studly forgot he’d sent them, so they languished on the porch most of yesterday.
For Studly, I baked his favorite brownies overflowing with walnuts. I added a little something extra for the special day.
Not too shabby, eh?
I hope you have a sweet Valentine’s Day.
Peace, People!
Golf is Studly’s thing. He plays golf every Saturday and Sunday, weather permitting. And by “weather permitting” I mean that the golf course hasn’t barred him due to snow, flooding, or the threat of impending lightning strikes. I’ve seen the man dress for a round of golf in so many layers that he looks like the kid brother from “A Christmas Story,” barely able to move his arms, legs, or head. Now, you know that makes for a picture perfect swing.
I’m glad he plays, though. It keeps him off the streets and out of the pubs. After chasing a little white ball around 18 holes Studly doesn’t have much spare time to chase anything else except for me, and that’s a good thing.
That’s Studly on the left, pictured above with some of his golf buddies on the 18th fairway at St. Andrews Old Course in Scotland.
When the kids were younger I often felt abandoned on the weekends. Studly and I both worked all week, then just when I was ready for some grown up time with my man he’d go to play golf and I’d be stuck at home cleaning house and doing laundry. Grrrr. Of course I knew he needed his golf time, but I needed him. The heart wants what the heart wants, right?
After much grumbling and griping, arguments and tears, Studly and I realized we needed a dedicated date night, a time to do something each week to celebrate our couple hood.
Most weeks date night meant a dinner out or a movie at the local cinema. Sometimes date night consisted of packing the kids off to a friend’s home so we could have the house to ourselves.
If you google Pinterest, there are some great date night ideas for every budget:
Even now that our children are grown we still celebrate date night. One might argue that for a couple of empty nesters every night is date night. But we still find fun in holding hands at a movie or laughing at each other’s corny jokes over a table in a restaurant. It’s our thing. And our thing keeps me from grumbling about Studly’s thing, and that’s a very good thing, indeed.
Peace, People!
Studly and I married in 1976. We were young, oh, so very young, and so very broke. We spent our wedding night at The Camelot Inn in Amarillo, Texas, but had to move to a less expensive motel for the rest of our honeymoon. The only thing less expensive than The Camelot Inn was a Motel 6, but none of that mattered. We were in loooove!
We had rented a tiny two bedroom house in Dumas, and thank goodness we’d paid our first month’s rent in advance, otherwise we’d have been in serious trouble. I’m not sure what either of us thought marriage was all about beyond the fact that we could now sleep together legally.
To commemorate this wondrous new development, we adopted as our song, “Afternoon Delight,” a one hit wonder by John Denver’s backup singers, The Starland Vocal Band. To this day when I hear the lyrics, “Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight…” I get all tingly inside. Of course nowadays I generally dismiss that feeling as menopausal in nature and wait for it to pass.
Peace, People!
My parents were huge Dean Martin fans, so I was introduced to the music and comedy of the handsome half of the famous Martin and Lewis comedy team early on.
I’d forgotten just how appealing Dean Martin was until I went on a hunt for one of his songs, “You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Loves You.” I hoped to find a You Tube video of him singing, so I could share it here for my Love Month theme, and I wasn’t disappointed. His charm and good looks transcend the decades.
Now the lyrics to this song always bothered me a little. I wasn’t a particularly lovable kid: taller than average, skinny, and bookish, not much to look at and even less to talk to, I was afraid, seriously afraid, that no one would ever love me. And if no one ever loved me, did that mean I was a nobody?
Then, in my typical analytical fashion I began to observe other people. There were some less attractive than me, and they’d found love. There were a few weirder than me, and they had someone. So maybe, just maybe there was hope for me.
Of course now I know I was always somebody. My parents loved me, Studly loves me, my kids and grand babies love me, but most importantly, I learned how to love myself.
Peace, Somebodies!
Love is the best
Four letter word.
I can tolerate
F-bombs and
Damn, hell and
Dang and S-H-I-T.
But hate, no doubt,
Hate is the worst.
Hate robs and steals,
Lies and deforms.
Hate starts wars and
Ends compassion,
Hate aggravates,
Exacerbates, harms,
Defeats.
Is it fair to say I
Hate hate, or is
Hate too strong a
Four letter word?
I found this post so interesting, and it fits perfectly into my Love Month theme. Plus, nagatayakyoto.com translates his posts into Spanish! I hope my make friends get choco this year.
Since deciding to learn to cook for my handsome husband, aka Studly Doright, I have experienced a flood of support and advice from more domestically-minded friends. One such friend, Lee Ann, sent me a lovely gift (pictured above) to help me in my quest. Lee Ann and her husband Gary visited us at Doright Manor last month just as I decided to become the cook no one ever thought I could be.
Lee Ann, besides being one of the sweetest women I’ve ever known, is a true domestic goddess. She cooks, sews, keeps a spotless home, and never seems to break a sweat. Even better, she’s never made me feel inadequate for being the exact opposite. That’s the real gift, if you want to know the truth. Supportive and non-judgemental. Now, if I could convince her to support the Dallas Cowboys instead of the Indianapolis Colts, she’d be about the perfect human being.
Love you, Lee Ann! Thanks for the cookbook. Look, you could still wear blue if you ditched the Colts for America’s Team!
A month devoted to love should include a look at physical love. Back in the days before Studly and I were married I enjoyed nothing more than dancing to country Western music. It wasn’t my preferred listening genre, that honor went to rock, but when it came to dancing, nothing could compare to a good Texas 2-Step, or even better, a waltz.
Anytime the DJ played “Love on a Hot Afternoon” by country artist Gene Watson I had a physical need to be on the dance floor. I always melted to the fiddle playing in this homage to hot, sweaty sex. Ok, who wants to dance?
(Even if you aren’t a fan of Country music, listen through to the end. That fiddle is swoon-worthy.)
Love on a Hot Afternoon
From somewhere outside, I hear a
Street vendor cry “filet gumbo”
From my window I see him, going
Down the street and he don’t know
That we fell right to sleep
In the damp tangled sheets so soon
After love in the hot afternoon
Now the bourbon street lady,
Sleeps like a baby in the shadows
(in the shadows)
She was new to me, full of mystery,
But now I know (but know I know)
That she’s just a girl,
And I’m just a guy, in a room
Full of love in the hot afternoon
We got high in the park,
This morning and we sat, without talkin’
Then she came back here,
In the heat of the day, tired of walkin’
Where under her breath,
She hummed to herself a tune
Of love in the hot afternoon
Praying for Eyebrowz 