Tag: Studly Doright

I’m Fine, I Think

I fell out of bed sometime early Wednesday morning. To be more precise, I fell while trying to return to bed after getting up with the cat.

Scout has been extra needy the past few weeks. After receiving a steroid shot for her allergies her appetite has increased exponentially. I don’t question the time she wants to be fed, I just feed her. She’s elderly, like me, and we know what we want, and we want it NOW.

Usually I can feed my girl without turning on any lights, but this time I couldn’t locate her clean dish in the dark, so I flipped the lights on in the kitchen. After taking care of Scout I turned out the lights and ventured down the hallway.

My eyes still hadn’t adjusted by the time I reached our bedroom, but I figured , “Hey, I could navigate this with my eyes closed.” Turns out, I can’t.

I took it slowly, using baby steps, but still misjudged where the bedpost was and stubbed the three middle toes on my right foot on said bedpost. In what I’m certain played out in cartoon fashion, I grabbed my injured foot and swiveled to sit down on the bed, missing my mark by several inches. Lucky for me, the floor broke my fall.

Studly Doright asked, “What happened?”

“I fell out of bed,” I said, not going into detail.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Do you need help getting back into bed?”

“I don’t think so. I’m just going to sit here for a few minutes. Maybe forever.”

When I finally crawled back into bed I already hurt from stem to stern, and I knew that there’d be hell to pay later. Well, it’s later. Apparently I pulled a muscle in my right leg, damaged three toes, and need a crutch to get around. On the plus side, I can still feed the cat on demand. Nothing else really matters.

Peace, people

Fever

Last night I went to bed early. I didn’t feel well and after taking my temperature realized I was running a slight fever. I NEVER run a fever. My normal is 97.8 and even on my sickest days it barely rises to 98; however, last night it was up to 99.2. Not enough to be worrisome, but enough to make me feel rotten.

So I blew Studly Doright a kiss goodnight and made myself a nest in one of the guest bedrooms where I was alternately hot, then cold, then hot again for much of the night. Only after my fever broke was I able to sleep. Amazingly, this morning I felt fine.

Of course, being the hypochondriac that I am, I was certain I had contracted Covid-19, even though I never leave the house without a mask and am super careful about interactions with others.

Then Studly Doright cut his golf game short today because he didn’t feel well. I’ve seen him play eighteen holes on knees that were so bad he could barely walk from the cart to the ball, so for him to leave mid-game is telling.

After a nap and some homemade (okay, Campbell’s) chicken noodle soup, he’s feeling much better. Studly never ran a fever like me, but his stomach was rebelling.

The two of us seem to have gotten a bug of some kind. Hopefully it’s played itself out and we can get back to worrying about something else, like whether to watch college football or another episode of Dexter.

Peace, people!

https://youtu.be/JGb5IweiYG8

Blast from the Past

Studly Doright’s middle sister, Angie, sent us some old photos she found while cleaning out some boxes the other day. And when I say old, I mean OLD.

Here’s Studly and me dancing at the annual Sweethearts’ Ball in Dumas, Texas. The photo isn’t dated, but it must’ve been mid-80’s. At any rate, we were both still skinny.

When I first saw this photo I thought it was taken the same year that the one below was—after all, I’m wearing the same skirt and blouse. I’m thrifty like that. But I had that awful perm in the top photo. I think I should wear my hair like this again. All in favor, say aye.

From left: my sister-law, Angie, her husband Steve, my former brother-in-law, Don, then Studly Doright and me. My eldest sister-in-law, Lyn is seated in the middle.

The next photo cracked me up; my sense of style was a bit skewed. I have no memory of this horrid skirt, and why did I think that necklace would go well with this ensemble? And it looks as if I’m wearing a headband. I NEVER wore headbands. I know we were poor, but yikes! Maybe it was a tacky-themed party? Let’s hope I burned the whole shebang soon after.

There’s nothing like old photos to make one wince, is there?

Peace, people!

Your Friendly Neighborhood Serial Killer

Studly Doright and I have been watching “Dexter” on Netflix. We’re just finishing season 2. The show is gory and sexy and yes, darkly amusing. Dexter is a serial killer, but he only kills serial killers. And he’s killed a bunch of them.

Michael C. Hall plays Dexter. He’s also a forensics specialist for the Miami police department. That makes his “hobby” as a serial killer both easier and more difficult. He has access to the inner workings of the police department, but he also has to watch every move he makes lest his off duty habits raise suspicion amongst his highly observant peers.

The supporting cast is great: Jennifer Carpenter as Debra Morgan, Dexter’s sister, Luna Lauren Vélez, as Maria LaGuerta, a tough and loyal department captain, the gorgeous, yet troubled Erik King, as Sgt. Doakes. The lovable David Zayas, as Angel Batista, and sweet Julie Benz, as Rita Bennett, Dexter’s girlfriend.

One would think that a serial killer wouldn’t engender feelings of sympathy. Honestly, we should be hoping that Dexter gets caught, but episode after episode we root for him, hoping he’ll evade the authorities and live to kill another day.

Maybe we don’t want him to continue killing, but we don’t want him to be discovered either. If Dexter dies, there’s no more series, and the series is so blooming good.

I don’t recommend “Dexter” unless you have a strong stomach, and a perverse sense of humor. Apparently, I have both.

Peace, people.

December-December Romance

I was telling Studly Doright about my recent blog posts dealing with songs featuring younger men in relationships with older women. He’d never heard the term May-December romance.

“That’s us,” he said, when I finished my explanation.

“That’s not at all us,” I countered.

“Sure it is. You’re way older than I am.”

To be fair, I’m a year and almost two months older than my husband. Certainly not enough to make our 44 year relationship earn the May-December designation, but try telling that to Studly.

At any rate, my blogging friend, author, Shehanne Moore, shehannemoore.wordpress.com, turned me on to another song written about a younger man involved with an older woman. “Desiree” by Neil Diamond fits the bill even if the lyrics were somewhat censored.

https://youtu.be/JHmPRISYB6k

According to Shehanne, “…the words, ‘Became a man at the hands of a woman who was twice my age,’ were changed to ‘Became a man at the hands of a woman who was wise and sage….’ Which does not have quite the same raunch and ring.”

I agree! Why’d they feel the need to change perfectly awesome lyrics? Confession: I’m not a huge Neil Diamond fan, but I listened to “Desiree” for research purposes this morning, and it does meet the May-December theme even in its sanitized version.

Okay, now I’m sure there are more similarly themed songs out there. It’s not like I know everything after all, even though I pretend to on occasion. I’ll just have to keep looking.

Peace, people!

Over Exposed

Thursday evening Studly Doright and I rode to dinner on our respective motorcycles. We’d bought mine secondhand from a man in Panama City and spent Wednesday cleaning it up, checking it over, and airing up the tires. The bike isn’t pristine, but it’ll do nicely.

So, tonight was my maiden voyage on my 400 Yamaha Majesty. I got all ready to ride: helmet, gloves, long pants, and boots. It was so hot outside Studly said we could dispense with our riding jackets since we weren’t riding very far.

Off we went, Studly in the lead and me following at the prescribed distance. The first few miles of riding was on a gentle, two-lane backroad where I got to know the bike, noting where the mirrors needed to be adjusted, and the handlebars raised, and just generally remembering how to ride. All was good.

Until, that is, we merged onto a four-lane road where the speeds were considerably faster and my shirt, which I’d forgotten to tuck in began rising to expose my 63.75-year-old, lily white belly. At one point my bra, in all its grandmotherly glory, was in danger of being exposed.

I held my arms as close to my sides as possible, but not so much as to impede my ability to ride safely. People were passing us in cars, slowing down, it seemed to see how much higher my shirt might climb. I could almost sense their phones being set to camera mode so that my less than flat stomach could be captured for posterity.

So, in the next couple of days if you see a photo on the internet of an almost elderly woman riding on a white mega scooter with her even whiter belly reflecting the sun in all its glory, it might be me. I’m hoping it isn’t, but it just might be.

Definitely Not Me

Peace, people!

A New Bike

Studly found a 400 Yamaha Majesty on Craigslist today, and I think we are going to buy it for me. We’ll look at it on Wednesday (today) afternoon, I’m excited. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a bike.

The Majesty is a mega scooter, and so much fun to ride. I had one several years ago, but we sold it, and I’ve missed it so much.

I haven’t seen a picture of it yet, but I know it’s white. Here’s hoping it meets all of my expectations!

Eeeeee!

Peace, people!

The Worrying Gene

If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s worrying. I come by the skill honestly, having inherited it from my mother who was a world class worrier.

She was full of “what ifs” and “might could happens” and she handed them down to me in a messy little package made up of sleepless nights and tied up with great big bows constructed from fatalistic flights of fancy.

Studly Doright, on the other hand, never worries, or if he does he never mentions it. Oh, he ponders deep stuff, like how to rig his bicycle with a battery and a throttle and a golf bag holder so he can use it on the golf course instead of a golf cart.

He might obsess a bit, but he never worries that he won’t get the bike to work or that he’ll crash and break a leg on the hole farthest from the clubhouse and have to crawl to safety. No, he leaves those worries to me.

His mom, Saint Helen, is not a worrier either. Even when she was on her own, raising five kids, she didn’t expend any energy worrying. She knew worrying wouldn’t solve a thing.

So, is this a nature versus nurture issue? Did my mom pass the worrying gene down to me, or did I learn from observing her that one should fret over situations one cannot control? Did Studly choose to emulate his mother, or is there a single speck on a gene that prevents him from worrying?

It’s probably a bit of both. We may never know. What I do know is that the old saying that opposites attract rings true in this case. Thank goodness.

Peace, people!

Paper or Plastic?

Today is the 44th anniversary of the day Studly Doright and I said our vows in front of friends and family members at a small Baptist church in Dumas, Texas.

I’ve had his gift for several weeks and will give it to him tonight. This morning, though, I was curious as to what the prescribed gift for the 44th anniversary might be. Maybe, I thought, I’d pick up something that fit the bill in addition to what I’d already bought.

Imagine my surprise when I realized I’ve been celebrating our 44th anniversary nearly every day since we said “I do!”

I should start saving up for next year right now, though. Probably can’t get a sapphire at the Publix store on N. Monroe, either.

Peace, people!

Can You Hear Me Now?

Something I’ve noticed as more and more people are wearing masks is that I rely an awful lot on watching people’s mouths in order to understand what they’re saying.

Studly Doright has told me for years that my hearing has deteriorated. I just say, “Huh?” and move on to the next topic. But now I get what he’s talking about.

Yes, the masks dampen sound, but even if someone is speaking up and enunciating, it often takes me three or four tries to understand what’s being said. Once I had to ask a person to write down their question. It was, “Do you want fries with that?” Color me embarrassed.

The masks at least, offer an excuse, but I have a feeling it’s time I sought professional help. I’d hate to miss out on someone yelling “Timberrrrr!” or “Fore!” or “Chocolate!”

Peace, people!