Newlywed Sandwich

My husband, Studly Doright, enjoys recalling our early days of matrimony when his young bride (me) tried to settle into the life of a domestic goddess. Studly was a hard working young man, in a blue collar job with a natural gas company, and I was clueless.

On Studly’s first day back to work after our honeymoon, I arose early to prepare his lunch. I’d never prepared a lunch for anyone other than myself, but how hard could it be? I spread two slices of white bread with a smear of mayonnaise, a piece of bologna, a bright yellow square of American cheese, and added a baggie filled with Studly’s favorite Cheetos. I was pleased with the way his lunch looked as I loaded his manly lunch pail and sent him to work with a smile and a kiss.

When my husband came home from work that afternoon he politely told me that his lunch wasn’t quite big enough. So, on day two of making his lunch I put not one, but two pieces of bologna on his bread and added a few more Cheetos to the baggie. Again, I admired the way his lunch looked and sent him on his way with a sweet smile and a kiss.

Studly came home from work that afternoon, took me by the hand, looked me in the eye and said, “Honey, I’m going to make my own lunches from now on.”

Apparently I was starving him to death. Even forty-one years after those first days of marriage Studly remembers how he almost cried upon seeing how paltry his lunch looked. I’d like to think I’d do better now, but he’s not taking any chances.

Thanks to https://nonsmokingladybug.wordpress.com/ for the inspiration for this post.

Tell Me Two Things

Studly and I have been discussing pop music as we drive the back roads around Doright Manor. Well, I’ve been discussing music while he pretends to listen, just occasionally asking, “What?”

I recently told him that I think the Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby has the finest lyrics of any pop song from the 60’s, perhaps the finest of all time. 

“What?” Studly asks, then after I repeat myself, “Oh, yeah, it’s got a catchy tune.”

“Don’t you even listen to the lyrics?”

“Not really,” he said.

How have I managed to stay married to this man for 40+ years? Oh, I guess there is that crazy little thing called love. 

So, readers, tell me two things: 

1)Which pop song from the last five decades has the best lyrics? 

2)Does your significant other understand what lyrics are?

Eleanor Rigby
The Beatles

Lyrics

Ah look at all the lonely people
Ah look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice
In the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face
That she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Father McKenzie, writing the words
Of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near
Look at him working, darning his socks
In the night when there’s nobody there
What does he care

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Ah look at all the lonely people
Ah look at all the lonely people

Eleanor Rigby, died in the church
And was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt
From his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Songwriters: John Lennon / John Winston Lennon / Paul Mccartney / Paul James Mccartney

Eleanor Rigby lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Black Days and White Knights

Black Days and White Knights
by Leslie Noyes

She wiped down the counter,
Rinsed out the cloth and draped it on the sink’s edge to dry.
At least three times each day, often more,
Her life boiled down to these
Clean counters.

Daydreams of white knights,
Daring rescues carried out beneath a watchful dragon’s eyes.
While envious ladies-in-waiting stood, wringing expertly manicured hands,
Sighing wistfully.

She never learned their names.
The knights blurred one into another over forty years of drudgery.
And those ladies never amounted to much, married hastily in stiff organza,
Ignoring dragons.

“The Sword of Air” by R.J. Madigan

Who Gets Sick in Paradise?

He snores beside me,
deeply, but not too loud.
Maybe after three days of
fevered restlessness he has
Found some equilibrium.

Just outside our hotel
room, people frolic in the
Warm waters of the blue green
bay, while I play Words With
Friends on my iPhone.

A morning spent on the beach
alone, pretending to be a
Minor celebrity escaping
pursuit by rabid paparazzi
Proved far too lonely.

So I drank too much rum punch
before returning to the dark
Comfort of our air conditioned
suite where I slipped beneath
Cool sheets to be with him.

At a Loss for Words

I turned to Studly Doright a few minutes ago and said, “I’ve got nothing. No blog ideas. No inspiration.”

He grunted. So here’s a post about grunts.

     “Grunting Muse”

Honey can you help me?

Ungh?

I need an idea now.

Mmmph.

Anything on your mind?

Hunh?

Something with some zow?

Ergh!

You’ve been so very helpful!

Whuh?

With all your clever sounds.

Hmmm!

My muse you’ve been, as usual.

Shhsh!

Your wisdom knows no bounds.

Harrumph

Peace, people!

Craving Pizza

If pizza were a man, I’d have married it. 

Do you, Leslie, take this Pepperoni with onions and pineapple, for greasy or not, through thick and thin crust, with marinara or Alfredo, ’til high cholesterol do you part?

I do.

You may eat the groom.   

I saw a tshirt today that read, 

Can’t get out of bed.
Send help and pizza.
Or just send pizza
.

Bravo. Bravo. Now if we could do something about those pesky calories.

  

Peace, people.

Phobia

I have no phobias as far as I can tell. At one time in my life I was fearful of escalators, but only those heading down. After years of traveling through airports and department stores I overcame that fear. The time it took to circumvent the escalators cut drastically into my travel and shopping time, so I cured myself.

I do understand irrational and deep seated fear, though, and I’m sympathetic to those who suffer from phobias. Having said that, some of these are a bit hard to swallow:

Pharmacophobia is the name given to the fear of medicines.

Quackery

 

Do not go into nursing or motherhood if you suffer from this.
  
Really?
  
A weird one, granted, but those black symbols can be daunting.
  
I forgot to be afraid of this one….
  
Studly Doright has an odd fear of lakes.
  
Totally understandable. Only the shadow knows what’s in the shadows.
  
That explains why people scream and run away when I enter a room.
  
I can understand this! Ventriloquists’ dummies are pretty creepy.
  
Could I claim this one after 39 years?
 
And then there’s

 

I might develop this.

Peace, people! 

Courting Studly

The title is deceptive. I have no intention of detailing my dating years with Studly Doright. Suffice it to say we made out a lot in parked cars, and at one point he asked, “So, you want to get married or what?”

To which I answered affirmatively, and the rest is history. Ancient and yet present history. No, this post is about Studly answering a summons to report for jury duty here in Gadsden County, Florida.  

I get all excited when I’m selected for jury duty. I’ve gotten the summons many times, but was chosen to serve just once. I think maybe my bright pink Pick Me! Pick Me! banner is a bit off-putting to attorneys. I can’t imagine why.

Studly does not share my enthusiasm for performing his civic duty. In fact, his response to the summons included a string of colorful curse words, and he seldom swears. 

After he calmed down I assured him it was unlikely he’d have to serve. “They call up tons of folks! What are the odds?” I offered to let him take my lucky pink sign. 

Apparently he should’ve taken my sign or purchased lottery tickets this week because he came home from the jury selection on Monday with the grimmest expression I’ve seen outside of a Criminal Minds episode. Another string of imaginative swear words accompanied his telling of the story. I fed him dinner and patted his hand. 

Curious, I asked him if they’d been given any idea as to what crime had been committed. He nodded, thoughtfully chewing an extra savory bite of roast that I’d lovingly prepared, but said he wasn’t able to tell me. 

Now it was my turn to say something colorful. “Son of a biscuit eater!”

So I changed my tack. I cajoled and flirted. Flashed a sexy thigh. Seductively bent over the laundry basket and wiggled my backside. But he wouldn’t spill the beans. 

This morning I sent him on his way with an admonition to be a good little juror, and a husky whisper promising all sorts of naughtiness if he’d just give me the scoop. But, still he refused. 

There’s a reason I call him Studly Doright. Dammit!

Peace, people!