the marital fire,
even after all these years
takes her by surprise.

anger hot and tense
searing inferno engulfs
scalding tears leave tracks

no compromising
his way or no way again she assumes the blame.

deemed instigator
without an understanding;
it is all her fault.

somehow her failings
have caused him to act rashly, a burden she bears. 

Why I Like This Photo, Round 2

Sure, it doesn’t look like much now, but in a few weeks this is going to be Studly Doright’s long-anticipated man cave.

To hear Studly tell it he’s never, ever had a place to call his own. Now keep in mind, this is a guy who, after he spends 10 minutes in a bathroom, owns that bathroom, simply because no one else will venture inside.

Of course he did move directly from his parents’ home into our cozy little (read: crummy) rental house 38.75 years ago, so even though we’ve purchased progressively nicer homes every time we’ve moved, he really never has had a place of his very own.

Studly’s man cave is going to be part motorcycle garage/part workshop. I’ve even hinted that we could put a cot out there for those times when he snores so loudly that even the cats need earplugs.

I’m almost as excited for the man cave to be completed as Studly is. It means more space in my, I mean, our garage, less clutter in my, I mean, our home, and more opportunities for Studly to build stuff for me, I mean, us.

Who knew just how much I needed a man cave?

Peace, people!

Good Old Days

I had a motorcycle exactly like the one pictured below back in 1977 or ’78. Even better, I was once as slender as the young woman on this DT 175 Yamaha.

Now nearly 38 years, two kids, and probably 50 pounds later I can look back on those days with great fondness, at the time though life felt very complicated. 

Studly and I were learning how to be married. We were just kids, really, and pretty selfish. I was unwilling to learn the domestic arts. Studly felt like I should be able to do everything his mom did, and smile in the process.

I was ready to enjoy freedom from parental control, while Studly, raised in a very male-dominant household thought it was his duty to provide me with structure. That did not sit well with me.

We butted heads. Often. But we also had a lot going for us, not the least of which were our respective senses of humor and the commitment to making this very young marriage work. There were a lot of folks who didn’t think we’d make it, so of course we had to prove them wrong.

Not long after we married Studly went to Ronnie’s Yamaha in Dumas, Texas, and bought me a little yellow scooter called a Chappy. I rode that little scooter all over town and gained some much needed self-confidence. 

After I proved I could stay up on two wheels Studly came home with a DT 175 like the one pictured above. I loved that bike. We took it to the Canadian River, just north of Amarillo, almost every weekend, and while David took on the big challenges I learned how to ride in deep sand (go fast!) and shallow water (go slow!) and on rock strewn trails (pick a line and give the bike its head!). I even ran over a couple of snakes and a good friend (sorry Patricia!)

After our kids came along I stopped riding. It just didn’t seem to be a motherly thing to do. Back then I was pretty bound by what others thought of me. Dammit. Oh, to be young again and to know what I know now! 

Once our youngest graduated high school I took up riding again and wondered why on earth I hadn’t been on a bike for 18 years. There is something about having one’s own motorcycle that is both grounding and freeing, especially for a woman.

Even though I have a mega scooter now, I’d like to find an old “foo foo” bike like the DT. It wasn’t outstanding at any one aspect of riding, but good at most of them. And the memories of those early days of marriage are all wrapped up in it somehow.

I guess if there’s a take away from this post it’s that no matter at what stage of life we find ourselves we should do what makes us happy and more fulfilled. To heck with what others think.

Peace, people.

When Studly is Sick

much has been written

’bout men being sick:

they’re wimpy and snively

and not worth a lick.

and then there is Studly

that man among men

stronger by far than 

one even might ken. 

when Studly is sick,

though, all bets are off

his sneezes are epic

and, oh my, his cough!

he won’t take my help,

but, boy, does he need me

and heaven help us both

if I’m not there when I should be.

of course I’m aware it’s 

my cold he’s caught,

still I’m an an angel when ill

and he’s certainly not.

Poor Studly!

Things I Love: Date Nights

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!

Afternoon Delight

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!

Hey, Good Lookin’! What Ya’ Got Cookin’?


In just a week my “full time/part time” job will be at an end. Yea! I will continue administering assessments to 2, 3, and 4-year-olds at various preschools in the area, but I’m stepping away from the intervention arena.

My new gig won’t pay as much, but it will truly be a flexible, part time role. Studly is fine with me making less money, as long as, (drumroll) I take on all of the cooking duties.

I don’t cook. It’s basically against my religion. Twice a year, on Thanksgiving and Christmas, I ignore the basic tenet (thou shalt not cook) of The No Cook Cathedral of the Coast and prepare a meal. This might not seem like a big deal to some, but in my religion it’s basically the same as ignoring the commandments against infidelity and idol worship.

My culinary skills are pretty basic. I can boil water. I am qualified to operate a can opener. I’m surprisingly adept at microwaving. But, the stove is off limits unless I have adult supervision. And knives are a no-no. No–a NO-NO-NO!! If I had a dollar for every time I’d sliced into some portion of my hand I’d be able to retire comfortably to a remote Caribbean island, and perhaps purchase a prosthetic appendage.

But I’m going to take Studly up on his offer. I’m going to refute my no cooking religion and embark on a new adventure: Cooking for Studly. Heaven help us both. Speaking of which I’ll probably need to find a new religion, too.

Peace, People!

Timberrrrr! Again

I fell this morning.
On my way to fetch
Clean water for the cats
I spilt a few drops, slipped,
Went splat!

The slow-mo footage did not
Play this time.
The fall was fast and furious
Like a Hollywood film,
Only less sexy.

Water puddled ’round me
Subjugating me to its wishes.
Literally, I had fallen and
Could not get up.
Somewhat feebly I called “help!”

The cats scattered, ostensibly
For first aid.
I sat cataloging my injuries
Thanking God that I
Still bounce a bit.

I scooted on my derrière
Until I reached the rug.
Managed to grasp the
Counter and pull myself
Up. Slowly.

Surrounded by water
No towels in reach
I moved inch by inch
Using the rug as my

Now my elbow hurts
Like a son of a gun
From clipping the counter
On my way down
Down, down.

Somehow I managed to
Ping pong between the
Kitchen island and the
Cabinets, bruising both
Hips symmetrically.

My lower back, my
Ass and shoulders
Protest the insults
Heaped upon them
Once again.

And Studly, when he returned
Could not resist
Lecturing me on my
Lack of awareness.



New Year’s Eve for Old Folks

At my chiropractor’s office this morning the young assistant excitedly asked, “So what are you doing for New Year’s Eve?”

“Oh nothing,” I said. “My husband and I will probably stay in, watch a movie, maybe drink a toast at midnight, if we even make it up that long.”

“How awful!” she said. “That sounds so sad.”

“Actually,” I told her, “A quiet evening sounds like tons of fun to me.”

She gave me a pat on my hand as if to say, “you poor old lady.”

Not too many years ago I’d have had the same reaction. After all, isn’t New Year’s Eve tailor-made for partying? When did that change?

Was it during the years when our children were young and we knew that the sleep we missed on New Year’s Eve would not easily be recouped?

Did it change those years when Studly was working shift work, and we spent the big night in separate locations?

Or did it happen when we realized how bad we felt after a big night of partying, and how long that feeling lingered?

Chances are it was an accumulation of causes. At any rate, one would have to drag me out of my home screaming and kicking on New Year’s Eve.

Unless there’s dancing. I’m always up for dancing!


Is Studly Actually a Famous Football Player? You Decide

Studly Doright believes with his whole heart that he and Brett Favre could be twins.





Now, if I squint, I might mistake Brett for Studly’s second cousin’s great uncle’s youngest son. Otherwise, I just don’t see the resemblance.

But, you can weigh in. If he gets enough “yes” votes I’ll get up and make his breakfast on Saturday morning.

But wait, Studly said I needed to use this photo of Brett:


Personally, I think this view comes closest to resembling my guy: