All Dressed Up

On Friday evening Studly Doright and I got to see Steve Martin and Martin Short perform at Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater, Florida. I dressed up for the performance: Black dress, heels, and pearls.

Of course 98% of the other women in attendance were dressed casually, in jeans or slacks. Alternately, I felt overdressed and ultra chic. I enjoyed the disconnect.

There were two women around my age dressed in evening gowns. They’d also donned fascinators, that looked adorable, yet idiosyncratic. I made a point of telling them I thought they looked nice. I used the word fascinator, and they were impressed.

“Most people just say they like our hats. You knew they were fascinators.”

Well, of course I did.

The performance was everything I’d hoped it would be and then some. My heart almost stopped beating when Steve Martin simply walked onto the stage with no fanfare to begin the evening. I’d been dreading an opening act, then there he was, the comedian of my dreams. Steve Martin WAS the opening. Damn. How could the evening get any better?

Then Martin Short joined Steve Martin and, wow! Together they were golden. After some witty repartee, Steve Martin exited stage left and Martin Short had his time in the spotlight. The two were incredible, separately and together.

In two hours the pair endlessly enchanted and entertained, exchanging one liners faster than I could keep up. Studly and I recalled what we could as we drove from Clearwater to Tallahassee on Sunday morning, but we couldn’t come close to remembering their seemingly effortless give and take.

And lest I forget, Steve Martin played his banjo, as a solo performer as well as with a group of women billed as “The First Ladies of Bluegrass.” Absolutely outstanding. And Martin Short was a bagpipe. Yep, a bagpipe.

They were worth getting dressed up for.

https://youtu.be/9vnT5Ny8I48

Peace, people

Anxiously Off to Clearwater

My husband and I have plans for a weekend getaway, and I’m a bit fidgety. You see, it’s a rare occasion when I can lure Studly Doright away from his weekend golf games. I’m excited, but there’s a great deal of pressure involved, too. How can I possibly compete with the opportunity for a birdie on the tenth hole? Okay, I know how, but do I really want to go there?

Should I have compiled a list of talking points? Or maybe perfected the art of eyelashes batted in adoration? I’ve done neither. Instead, I’m going to watch the scenery pass by through the passenger seat window and make astute comments about the sights I see. Maybe my witticisms will elicit a laugh or two.

This trip is proof that Studly loves me, though. He’s taking me to see Steve Martin and Martin Short at Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater, Florida. This, in spite of the fact that he hates crowds and concerts and anything that requires him to dress up and sit for two hours in a crowded auditorium. In spite of the fact that he’d much rather be on a golf course.

On Saturday we’re going to explore the Clearwater/Tampa Bay area. There’ll be many hours of unstructured time. Again, I’ll feel the pressure to make sure he’s enjoying himself. Why do I internalize all these expectations? Am I alone in this dilemma?

Peace, people.

Open Minded

My husband, Studly Doright, never ceases to amaze me. I’m not sure if it’s his wit, but I’m fairly certain it’s not his wisdom.

Friday afternoon he reminded me that he’ll be attending two celebration of life ceremonies on Saturday for two men he’s played golf with for the last eight years. The guys died within a few hours of one another right before Christmas, and now they’ll be remembered on the same day. The golfers will head straight to the first service following their Saturday round on the links and then to the second after that. They were both good men, as far as I could tell, and had lived interesting lives.

As usual when contemplating death I think ahead to my own wishes for end of life arrangements. Studly and I both want to be cremated, and I told him that instead of a funeral and/or a celebration of life that I just want a wake. I want beer and wine to be served and for everyone to just sit and talk–mostly about me, but I guess I can’t control that. Prayers for a safe transition would be appreciated, and I’d probably be happy with a few tears being shed. Nothing too sad, though. I’d like my kids to pick out some suitable music–they both know what I like.

As to my cremated remains, if I go first I’d like my ashes to be placed in a pretty urn–World Market has some beautiful ones that fit the bill, and they’re a fraction of the cost the funeral home charges. When Studly dies his ashes are to be added to mine.

I was saying all this out loud when Studly interrupted to ask about his second wife.

“Hmm,” I said. “I guess she could join us in the urn if she didn’t have other plans.”

“Wow, you’d be open to a threesome?”

If it makes him feel better, I suppose so.

Peace, people.

The Worst Hard Time

Yesterday I shared a poem I wrote called, The Dust https://nananoyz5forme.com/2020/01/14/the-dust/. It was inspired by memories of my childhood in Floydada, Texas, when the wild winds blew stinging dust into every little nook and cranny of my world. I hated the dust and the dry Texas winds. They drove me slightly mad. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?

And as a young wife, I grew to hate the wind and dust even more when on two separate occasions the back door of our rental house in Dumas, Texas, blew open while Studly and I were at work. We came home to find inches of dust on our floors, our furnishings, and inside of our cabinets. I cleaned for days and still found dust where dust shouldn’t be. I cursed the dust.

When Studly and I moved away from the Texas panhandle I missed the family and friends we left behind, but never the wind and the dust. I could live there again if I had to, but I pray I’ll never have to.

While living in Illinois I joined an informal book club. We drank a lot of wine and sometimes even discussed the book we’d been assigned to read that month. One that made the biggest impact on me was The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan.

The book chronicles the Dust Bowl era of the 1930’s through interviews with those who lived through that time. I knew every town mentioned in the book. And as awful as my memories of windy, dusty days were, they were nothing compared to the nightmare of the Dust Bowl years.

One lady in the book club complained that the book went on about the dust way too long. I countered with, “I think that was the point.”

If the author had glossed over even a bit of the despair caused by the weather conditions he’d have missed his mark. She also asked if anyone still lived there.

“Well, yes,” I said. “I have family and friends there along with hundreds of thousands of other hardy folks.”

“Unbelievable,” she said.

There is a lot of beauty in that part of the country–days so perfect, sunsets so gorgeous, you could almost cry. But I always remember the dust.

Peace, people.

Advanced Bed Making for Dummies

My mom was a stickler for a well made bed. As the only girl child in her home I was judged by my ability to create precise hospital corners and deliver a perfectly smooth bedspread. Wrinkles were a no-no. I let her down. A lot.

As a mom, I was much more relaxed with my bed making rules; although, I did attempt to demonstrate the principles my mom tried to instill in me. Neither of my kids paid much attention to the lessons, though, and I didn’t think bedspreads were the hills I wanted to die on. Pick your battles, right?

Nowadays at Doright Manor, my bed making philosophy revolves around our psychotic younger cat, Patches. I call it “Layering. It’s not just for clothing anymore.”

Patches has developed the nervous habit of peeing on just about any surface that suits her when the anxiety strikes. We took her to the vet to see if there was an underlying medical reason for her bladder control issues, and she’s fit as a fiddle. The vet prescribed a special food, but it requires about eight weeks to kick in.

She also prescribed an anti-depressant that I have to rub on the inside of Patches’s ear every 12 to 24 hours. I’m afraid the lengths I have to go to to corral Patches and administer the drug are increasing her anxiety levels and aren’t doing much for mine either.

She thinks I have an ear fetish. I’m afraid she’s right.

So what does this have to do with making the bed? Twice now Patches has relieved herself on our bed necessitating the laundering of our heavy bedspread that takes forever to dry. Following the first time I added an additional layer of covering to our bed. After the second time, I realized one layer was simply not enough. Now the rule is to have at least three layers on the bed in addition to the bedspread.

This isn’t going to get me a mention in Better Homes and Gardens any time soon, now is it? And my mom would be so heartbroken. Sorry, Mom!

Oh, before you suggest I use deterrent sprays and/or calming sprays, trust me. We’ve been there; done that with multiple concoctions. Patches seems totally immune to their effects.

She does seem to be making a bit of progress, though. Knock on wood, but I haven’t detected any pee on the baseboards or behind Studly Doright’s chair in the past couple of weeks, and those were among her favorite areas to go. And this morning for the first time in ages I watched her play with one of her toys.

We’d appreciate good vibes for Patches, and for me. It now takes me longer to make and unmake my bed than it does me to shower in the morning. And that’s the truth.

Peace, people.

Don’t be fooled by the sweet face. She’s plotting her next attack.

Signs of the Apocalypse?

Studly kept me busy Friday afternoon taking apart a 1976 Honda GL 1000. I’m not sure I was much help, but I had a lot of fun.

After we removed the Corbin seat, the pipes and a few other choice bits, we loaded the frame, along with a variety of other pieces and parts onto Studly Doright’s motorcycle trailer and drove over to a salvage yard in Tallahasse.

Now, Studly has a fondness for places that deal in salvage. His grandad, Benjamin Bernard Noyes (aka Papaw), owned a salvage yard in Hereford, Texas, and Studly spent hour upon hour there from the time he was a small child on into his teens. Papaw put him to work getting the copper, brass, and aluminum out of the pumps and motors that came into the yard. For his efforts Studly was paid enough to keep him in spending money. That yard was his world.

When we drove through the gates of Leon Iron & Metal and saw the towering piles of scrap iron, I could feel his excitement. I have to admit, it got me pumped up, too. I cannot explain the beauty of the place, so I took photos.

The little scooter in the bottom right was something we added to the pile.

Mr. Claw was ready!

The little splash of yellow and the tire are what’s left of our old GL 1000.

The two photos above made me think APOCALYPSE!

We had to remove any batteries from the scrap, so they could be weighed and disposed of safely:

Signs, signs, everywhere a sign…

https://youtu.be/oeT5otk2R1g

As we left the salvage yard, savoring the hefty pile of cash we’d earned from our afternoon of hard labor (okay, it was $30), I had just one question for Studly:

“What else can we take apart?”

He just laughed, but I swear I noticed a little gleam in his eye.

Peace, and junk, people!

Plan A, B, or C

In light of our foolhardy and reckless potus doing his bumbling best to start a war with Iran, I felt compelled to tell Studly Doright what I would do if I found myself away from Doright Manor in a worst case situation.

“I’m getting home. Even if I’m miles from the house, and my car no longer runs. I’ll come home.”

“Okay,” he said.

“You’d come home, too. Right?”

“Of course. As soon as I could.”

That’s about the extent of our plan.

So, I jokingly/not jokingly asked my Facebook friends:

Even though none of them are “preppers” most had non-joking answers. One cans food and has a stockpile. Another has already thought ahead to getting enough propane to allow for hot meals. One has several cases of wine (if I can’t get home, guess where I’ll head).

A friend who lives in Taos, New Mexico, says he’ll journey out to the Taos Pueblo which has withstood the ravages of “civilization” for centuries. Still another said he’d just sit back and watch how it unfolds.

The thing about my plan is that if Studly is here with me that’s all that matters. We’ll be okay. And if we’re not okay, we’ll at least be together.

Seriously, let’s keep hoping that someone in authority practices common sense in these fractured days.

Peace, people.

Orange is the New Black Gets Real

Studly Doright and I both became a little emotional last evening watching an episode of Orange is the New Black. We’re currently on season seven, and the United States’ horrendous immigration policy is front and center.

We were both doing okay until a scene in which two young children were in front of a judge who asked them if they had a lawyer. “What’s a lawyer?” the older of the two asked.

I lost it. I looked over and Studly looked kind of shaken, too. He’s not nearly the “bleeding heart liberal” that I am. I told him that this stuff’s actually happening. Real children are representing themselves in court, often with heartbreaking results.

We’ve been watching several episodes each evening, but neither of us could take any more after this particular episode. I think about these children in detention facilities. They’re missing their families. Many have no idea why they’re in detention to begin with. When did the U.S. lose its moral compass? Maybe we never had one.

Peace, and Justice people.

Phone Me

For Christmas Studly Doright bought me a new iPhone. According to him it’s the biggest, baddest iPhone available. I’m properly humbled and intimidated.

In my typically stubborn way I dove into setting up the new phone, heedless of Studly’s advice to let someone at the Verizon store assist me. “They said it’ll be easy!” Studly assured me. “Just switch out the memory cards and you’re good to go.”

It was not easy. I’ve lost all my contacts and have had to download all of my apps and remember the passwords and try to recall user names until I’m ready to scream. Plus, the navigation between pages is totally different. And all my contacts are screwed up. Argh!

It literally took me an hour to figure out how to get from the home page to my app icons. If you don’t hear from me again, it’s because I’ve been admitted to a psych ward–preferably one where no electronic devices are allowed.

Peace on earth and all that jazz.