What Ails Me

Each morning I wake up and think, “Today’s the day this cold virus is officially going to stop messing up my life.” So far I’ve been wrong, but since when has that stopped me?

My nights are marked by throat tickling coughs that I try my best to hold in until I almost explode, and my days are spent fighting the dizziness and nausea brought on by draining sinus passages. In other words, I’m a real hoot to be around right now.

I take one medication for this symptom, another for that. My bathroom counter looks like the inside of Walgreens. Let’s spin the wheel and see what works this time.

My favorite “medication” is spicy Mexican food, so I’m self-medicating at Tijuana Flats, a great little place near Florida State University, that carries its own line of salsas:

I’m desperately hoping my cure resides in one of these containers. They did load my meal up with extra jalapeños–they take great care of me here. 

I stopped drinking my hot toddy mixture. The whisky was tasting just a little too good, if you know what I mean. Oh, who am I kidding? I ran out of the stuff and Studly won’t fetch me a new bottle. 

If you have a favorite end of cold remedy please share. I need to get well. 

Peace, people

Hank Williams and Insomnia

Normally I’d be asleep by now. Study is snoring, but it’s my sore throat, not his sonorous rumblings keeping me awake tonight. Rather than toss and turn I got up to make myself a cup of hot tea with lemon, but somehow the tea ended up being a shot of whiskey in a hot toddy. I’m sipping it now, and it’s working a miracle on my poor, raw throat.

I have a song lyric stuck in my head (again). This time it’s an oldie–“Your Cheating Heart” by Hank Williams. Not the whole song, mind you, just the part about not being able to sleep. Very fitting tonight.

“Your Cheatin’ Heart”

Your cheatin’ heart
Will make you weep
You’ll cry and cry
And try to sleep
But sleep won’t come
The whole night through
Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you…

When tears come down
Like falling rain
You’ll toss around
And call my name
You’ll walk the floor
The way I do
Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you…

Your cheatin’ heart
Will pine some day
And crave the love
You threw away
The time will come
When you’ll be blue
Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you…

When tears come down
Like falling rain
You’ll toss around
And call my name
You’ll walk the floor
The way I do
Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you…

Don’t worry, no one around here is cheating; I’m too crazy about Studly Doright, and he IS Studly Doright, after all.

I’m about finished with my hot toddy and will try sleeping again. But I’ll leave you with a little Hank.

Update: Now, a friend scolded me about using a Hank Jr. video, and I must admit to my error. However, in my defense, I did tell you all I was leaving you with a “little” Hank.

As always, Peace, People!

Cold Sufferers’ Bill of Rights

IMG_0829I’ve decided I’m probably not dying anytime soon, but I definitely have a cold. A serious cold, as opposed to a frivolous cold. In order to form a more perfect healing environment I drafted the Cold Sufferers’ Bill of Rights:

1. The cold sufferer shall have the right to construct a nest of pillows and blankets. All items necessary to healing and/or comfort shall be arrayed in appropriate positions either within or precisely adjacent to said nest. Items might include, but are not limited to, pillows, tissues, medications, books, and the t.v. remote.

2. The cold sufferer has the right to suspend by the thumbs anyone attempting to disturb the aforementioned nest.

3. The cold sufferer has the right to the entire bed for as long as his/her cold shall last.

4. The cold sufferer has the right to moan pitifully periodically with no repercussions, including, but not limited to sarcastic eye rolls or sighs of exasperation.

5. The cold sufferer has the right to be waited upon hand and foot for the duration of the cold.

6. The cold sufferer is excused from any domestic duties for the duration of the cold and perhaps beyond depending on mood and acting ability.

7. The cold sufferer has the right to request his/her minions er, attendants make as many trips to the drugstore as are necessary for the health and well-being of the cold sufferer.

8. The cold sufferer is deemed right in any debate. Arguing can curtail the body’s ability to heal.

9. The cold sufferer should be allowed full control of the remote. If she/he needs to watch Star Wars, Episodes IV, V, and VI repeatedly for a full week, so be it.

10. The cold sufferer shall be given immunity from repercussions relating to anything said or done during illness.

That’s all my poor stuffed up head can handle for now. Studly, bring me another hot toddy. (snapping fingers) Studly? Studly? He always was a bit of a rebel.

Peace, people!

Limerick Frenzy

There once was a man from Nantucket….

Whoa! That’s not where I’m going with my limericks.

Apparently limericks come in three types: ones you can tell in the presence of ladies (what a sexist thought), ones that can be told in the presence of clergy, and true limericks. Mine are just a mixture.

Studly and I moved out east
To avoid that old snowy beast
In Florida we’ve begun
To worship the sun
Or to revel in warmth at the least.


A bather in beauty to see
In a suit cut way up the knee
Once arrived on the beach
As pert as a peach
Amazingly she was a he.


Believe it or not, the beautiful person pictured above is transgender. Cool, eh? I should look so good!

Jose Cuervo and I went a’dancing
He wasn’t much for romancing
After two or three shots
I puked up my guts
And Jose went on with his prancing.


There once was a lady so daring
Her bodice was cut low for baring
The men all around
Made hardly a sound
So caught up were they in their staring.


Cleaning House for the Housekeeper


Studly Doright and I are not messy people. Well, Studly isn’t, but I am. And I have few domestic skills. While I’ve begun cooking for the Studmeister I still don’t clean for him. Twice each month a lovely woman comes to Doright Manor and makes everything sparkle like a shiny, new penny. What I do before the lovely Rosa sets foot in our home every other Friday is, according to Studly, pretty ridiculous.

On Thursday evening I go room to room inspecting for misplaced items and returning them to their appropriate positions. I scour around the cats’ litter boxes. Anything in the kitchen that looks even remotely as if it’s been used goes in the dishwasher or the recycling bin. Trashes are emptied, counters wiped down. I straighten the closet and align our shoes. On Friday morning I hide everything that’s been left on the bathroom counter in the cabinets and clean out the cat boxes one more time.

By the time I’ve finished, the house almost appears as if it doesn’t need cleaning at all. That, of course, is my goal. Well, I’m writing this at 7:25 on a cold Thursday, February evening. I guess I’d better get to work. The house isn’t going to clean itself.

Peace, people!

From Studly With Love



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!

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!

Rower’s Remorse

My husband, Studly Doright, and I recently purchased a home, Doright Manor, on a small lake near Tallahassee, Florida. We are not lake people. We are Texas panhandle people, born and raised in the dry, dusty plains and ill-prepared to handle any body of water larger than the occasional rain puddle.

When we bought our lake home we both envisioned rowing hither and yon around our lake for hours on end, working those muscles that spend too many hours typing on a keyboard and too few doing actual labor. We were going to get in shape! To that end, Studly bought us a two-person kayak. Thank goodness he had the foresight to purchase a fishing kayak–broad on the bottom and damned near impossible to tip over.

Our first venture into the world of kayaking was tense. I yelled. He cried. Or maybe it was the other way around. At any rate, that was just the part where we tried to get into the vessel without getting wet. After several borderline pornographic physical manipulations, Studly and I found ourselves seated in the appropriate slots. To us it made sense that he take the front seat and I take the back. Him: Strong. Me: Weak. We: Wrong.

The back person does all the hard work. All of it. The front person is just there to look pretty and occasionally help steer. We discovered this at the halfway point. There was no way we could switch places without one of us getting drenched. I had to shoulder the load–the big load where the pretty one should be.

Slowly I rowed. Inch by painful inch I paddled and an hour later we found ourselves at our dock confronted with a final challenge. How the heck do we get out of this infernal thing? My arms were shot and Studly couldn’t get enough leverage to pull himself up onto the dock. You see, boats don’t stay still when you pull them into the dock. No. They continue to move in all sorts of ways. Back. Forth. Sideways. They rock and roll. They Zumba.

But, we are not quitters. Nossirree. Neither of us wanted to die out on that lake mere yards from our own back door. “Let’s back the boat away from the dock,” said Studly. “We’ll aim for that grassy area beside the dock, get a running start and shoot onto dry land.”


“Yea,” he said. “Just help get us out into the inlet and I’ll power us onto the grass.”

“Sure.” Wearily, I pushed against the dock, and then stroke, stroke, stroked
out into our little inlet, giving my man plenty of room to make his final stand.

He instructed me to lift my paddle and be ready to spring out of the boat as soon as we hit the shore. Spring. Yep, he said that. I’ve never seen arms work so powerfully. Boom, boom, boom and we hit paydirt. My spring was sprung and I fell onto damp grass, almost, but not quite, touching my lips to the solid ground.

“Quick! Grab the boat!” Studly yelled. Just in time, I caught hold to prevent him from floating away. I steadied the vessel as he rolled out, sprawling in lake mud. I’d have laughed at the sight, but I couldn’t summon the energy.

We both recovered. Slowly. And we’ve been out in our kayak many times since that first one. Every time we learn something new, but getting out never gets easier. I keep intending to google the topic. “How do I get out of my kayak without inflicting mortal wounds on my partner?” The good news? I think I’m developing an arm muscle. But it might be a mosquito bite. Time will tell.

Peace, People.


Above is glimpse of our lake.

Things I Love: Good Friends


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!