Last night my voice began to wane. Try as I might I couldn’t manage much more than a croak. Once in bed I turned to Studly Doright and whispered, “I don’t get it! Why am I losing my voice?”
Without missing a beat he responded, “Maybe because my wish came true?”
Very funny Studly.
Instead of going on and on about what a pitiful excuse I am for a domestic goddess I thought I’d share a recipe that Studly Doright and I really like. If that isn’t progress, I don’t know what is.
FIVE INGREDIENT CROCKPOT RANCH CHICKEN
1 boneless, skinless chicken breast per person
1 pkg. dry Ranch dressing
1 small potato per person
1 sweet onion
1 frozen small corn on the cob per person
–Wash potatoes and slice
–Slice onions
–Create foil packets and put potatoes and some of the onion in one for each person along with a pat of butter and some of the Ranch dressing.
–Wrap individual corn on the cob in foil packets along with a pat of butter and a bit of Ranch.
–Place chicken in crockpot.
–Pour a half cup of water, along with some butter, Ranch dressing, and onion over the chicken.
–Place veggie packets on top.
–Cook on high for 4 hours.
No kidding, this is one of the best, easiest meals out there. One can substitute kale for the corn packets for a healthier option, and obviously butter needn’t go into every ingredient, but oh my! It’s so good.
Almost every person I know has had a close encounter with a celebrity. Studly Doright once met Patrick Swayze. According to Studly, Mr. Swayze was short of stature. I think Studly was trying to negate the star’s charms.
I almost met Jamie Fox in a back hallway of Caesar’s Palace, but my friends hustled me away before I did something embarrassing.
Other than that my biggest celebrity encounter was the time Dallas Cowboy greats Walt Garrison and Bob Lilly flew into Floydada, Texas, to campaign for some forgettable politician.
The men autographed a football for me. I was 12 at the time and promised to never let that football out of my sight. Somehow my younger brothers found it and left it outside where the autographs faded to nothing.
I also met the Cowsills family rock group at a restaurant in Levelland, Texas. You may laugh, but that was a big deal to me. My friend, LA should have hustled me away before I embarrassed myself. I did end up with autographs from John and Barry (eeeee!) as well as two buttons and and a nickel in exchange for my green ink pen. That Barry (may he rest in peace) was a shrewd horse trader.
What brought up this topic today? I’m sitting in the outside dining area of Gordo’s Restaurant (where one can get lei’d every Friday night) certain that US representative Gwen Graham is seated a table away from me. I really wish a friend was here to hustle me away. “Hey Gwen! I voted for you!”
Peace, People!
Every day I spend a little time thinking about my Daddy. I don’t plan to; it just happens. He was quite a guy, and he impacted our lives in many ways.
Studly Doright and I were privileged to have Daddy live with us the last few years of his life, and it was a great experience for all of us; although, I’m sure Daddy often thought we were nuts. That’s ok, he was a little nuts, too.
Daddy loved golf and was in part responsible for Studly playing. But, by the time he moved to Melbourne, FL, where we lived at the time, Daddy’s COPD prevented him from hitting the course as much as he’d have liked.
He still played a few times, though, even earning a “Closest to the Pin” trophy in a charity tournament. Man, was he proud of that trophy! Any visitor to our home was invited to gaze on it in awe.
Long after Daddy stopped playing he would sit out in our garage imagining courses he’d played in years gone by and putting together the perfect set of clubs for a round of golf there. Often Studly would go looking for one of his clubs only to find it taking up space in Daddy’s “dream bag.”
“Gerald,” Studly would ask, “Have you seen my 5 wood?”
“Yeah, it might be in my bag,” Daddy would say. “I was thinking of number 4 at the Floydada Country Club. I thought I could reach the green with that 5 wood.”
Even now that Daddy has been gone for many years we still go looking in his bag anytime a club is missing, just in case he needed it for that perfect round.
Miss you Daddy. I hope you’ve got just the right clubs for whatever course you’re playing now.
more than 800 miles stretched before us
upon leaving home early this morning
with 300 strong horses to serve us
we conquered the road, 4 wheels a’turning
but summer’s freeways hold pitfalls galore:
roadwork, collisions, detours, and potholes
soon our horses could stretch their legs no more
the brakes were applied more than our throttles.
with technology we looked to the skies
and soon plotted a course for our horses
our new path allowed those miles to fly by
thanks to heaven for satellite choices!
our route now is open; traffic is clear
the steeds are running in their highest gear.
Studly Doright is responsible for much of this poem, most of which was composed as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic on I65.
two bikes in the back
of an old blue pickup truck
red striped straps hold firm.
a long way to go
Fayetteville, Arkansas, bound
settled in the cab.
bypass truckers’ stops
favoring mom and pop shops
plain country cooking.
Good conversation
with a real good man, my man;
wonder if he knows…
that these shared journeys
mean much more to me than where
this old road might go.
Not our truck. Not our bikes. But you get the idea!
I was slow getting up and around this morning. The digital clock on Studly’s side of the bed clicked over to 8:05 before I even crawled out from under the covers. The cats demanded treats immediately, so I obliged them before eating breakfast. After a hot shower I looked through my closet for something to wear. Normally this is an easy task, but we are leaving on a motorcycle trip tomorrow, and I didn’t want to wear anything I’d need to pack.
After a bit of consideration, I pulled on my purple Haunted Mansion t-shirt and an old pair of JAG denim capris. At one time, these capris fit me perfectly, but they must’ve shrunk or something because their patented elastic band doesn’t seem to have much give anymore. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the 20 extra pounds I’m currently sporting. Okay, maybe it has something to do with the weight gain, but they just felt completely wrong. Since I had no need to go into town I didn’t change out of them and got down to business.
The morning was spent doing laundry and figuring out how to stuff everything into my smallest bag to make room for my riding gear. After rolling and folding, packing and planning, I went out to take water to the men who were putting the brick on Studly’s shop and chatted with them for a minute or two before heading in for a bathroom break.
After taking care of business I went to the sink to wash up. Taking a look in the mirror I realized why my pants felt wrong. I’d pulled them on backwards. The back pockets were right there as evidence. Sheesh. It’s a good thing the brick layers had my car blocked in. There’s no telling how many people in Tallahassee might have witnessed my blunder otherwise.
One question. How wealthy does one need to be in order to employ a stylist? I think I qualify as someone who desperately needs one. I’m sure the bricklayers would testify on my behalf.
Peace, people!
I could have sworn I’d written before about my near-fatal fake heart attack, but I could find no such post in my archives. Knowing me, I probably gave it some off-beat title like, “Only the Heart Knows” or “Deadbeat Heart” and now I’m unable to locate it. That shouldn’t be a problem with this post.
First, if one is going to have a heart attack a fake one is by far the best kind to experience. Chances are there will be a full recovery given enough time and plenty of TLC.
Studly Doright and I had recently moved into our temporary rental home on the northwest side of Tallahassee. Delighted by the pleasant February weather we decided to ride our bikes around our new neighborhood on that bright Sunday afternoon.
Having moved from Mahomet, Illinois, where February temperatures seldom climb into the 70’s, we pedaled about with abandon. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, the gentle hills of Tallahassee were beckoning.
We rode for thirty minutes or so. It certainly wasn’t a strenuous ride, or wouldn’t have been for someone used to the hills. Or to exercise. But I was neither.
When we returned to the house and I dismounted from my old green Schwinn, my heart was beating so hard I thought it would tear out of my chest. I wasn’t in pain, just embarrassed at being so out of shape. Finally it slowed its frantic bump-bump-bumping and we had a good laugh. I promised myself to begin doing some cardio so I could avoid this situation in the future.
I started dinner while Studly showered and that’s when the first Holy Cow pain hit my chest. I had to sit for a minute while the pain subsided. I knew it wasn’t good. Figured, in fact, that I was dying. When Studly found me sitting at a chair in the kitchen I told him just that.
“I’m dying.”
“No you aren’t.”
I returned to cooking, which in itself often seems enough to kill me. We had dinner and I poured myself a glass of wine and had my second Holy Cow pain. This time Studly witnessed it and we decided to go to the emergency room.
Of course we weren’t sure exactly where that was. Neither of us thought to use the GPS, instead we headed down Thomasville Road to where we thought we’d seen a hospital. Holy Cow pain number three hit just as we located Tallahassee Memorial Hospital’s emergency facility.
The facility was busy, but a suspected heart attack moved me to the front of the line, and I was in an exam room in under five minutes. Emergency staff began hooking me up to machines even as they took my information.
They were efficient and thorough and were about to send me home with a pat on the head and an admonition to take it easy on the exercise until I acclimated to the Tallahassee terrain when another pain hit and the EKG spiked. The young doctor on duty determined that I should have a stress test, but that their facility didn’t do those. With great earnestness he suggested I go to their hospital, spend the night on a monitor and have the stress test the next morning.
“You’ll be home by noon,” he said. I was then transported by ambulance to TMH’s hospital across town.
Noon he said. Ha! Two long days and countless tests later, my deductible for the year completely satisfied, I was told most likely a chest wall muscle was spasming, but that my heart was quite healthy.
Thank goodness for good health insurance. Apparently they pay for fake heart attacks just as well as for real ones. Studly makes a convincing argument that my hospital stay would have been considerably shorter had our insurance not been quite so good.
In case anyone wonders, I made a full recovery. The only lasting consequence is any time I have a pain of any intensity Studly is quick to remind me of the expense of a fake heart attack.
On a serious note–never ignore chest pains. Had this been a real heart attack these guys would have saved my life. I received excellent care, and I’m glad I had everything checked out.
Serious note number two: everyone deserves affordable health care.
Peace, people!
True story:
At midnight Studly Doright and I were sitting in our oversized whirlpool tub. I was on my cell phone listening earnestly to a man speaking French while Studly looked to me for his next move. Then things really began to heat up. I know what you’re thinking: Ew!
Trust me, it wasn’t kinky, but it was and continues to be, a mystery. Read on.
Studly Doright and I are early to bed, early to rise people. Seldom do we stay up much past 9 p.m., but last night we had dinner with friends at Angelo’s in Panacea and didn’t get home until 10:30. It was a great evening on Ochlocknee Bay, but by the time we’d dropped off our friends we could barely keep our eyes open.
Once in bed we exchanged goodnight kisses, and Studly was snoring gently before I could even say “amen.” I had just drifted into that stage of twilight sleep, a dream on the tip of my brain, when a roar erupted from the bathroom. Not like a lion’s roar, more like the sound of an approaching demonic tornado from the movie Twister, or the sound an airplane’s engines make just before takeoff.
Studly jumped (crawled) from the bed and ran (limped) into the bathroom. I cowered. I cower well. Within a few seconds the roaring ceased and he returned to bed.
“What was that?”
“Just the drying cycle on the tub.”
“How’d you get it to stop?”
“Pushed a button.”
“You’re my hero.”
Again Studly was snoring before I even shut my eyes. Several minutes passed, before Roooooooaaaaaaaarrrr!
I got up with him this time, so I could see which button Studly pushed to keep him from pushing it again.
“Which button did you push?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t read the screen so I just pushed a button.”
At least I could read the instrument panel without my glasses, so I did the right thing and pushed a button that read, EXIT. Immediately, the drying cycle stopped. Problem solved. Back to bed.
Roooooooooaaaaaaaaarrrr!
“Dammit!”
Back to the tub. I suggested that Studly go find the breaker switch for the tub and turn it off. He took his phone to the garage while I sat in the tub with my phone and we talked as he scanned the circuit breakers.
“Did that turn it off?”
“Nope.”
“How about that one?”
“Nope.”
This fascinating conversation went on for a good five minutes, but we never hit pay dirt. When he came back in he stepped into the tub with me armed with the tub’s owner’s manual. I noticed a contact number on the instrument panel and thought, “What the heck? I’m calling.”
So at midnight I called the customer service line at BainUltra. Immediately, someone answered. In French. I don’t speak French. Fortunately I recognized the cadence of a voice mail message directing me to press two for English and to just stay on the line for French. Quickly I pressed two and was directed to a menu, in heavily accented English, only to be told that all customer service reps were busy and that we were to leave a detailed message as to our problem and they would return our call as soon as possible.
We’re still waiting, unless they’ve called Studly on the golf course this morning. That’ll tick him off.
The dryer went through two more loud cycles before it was completely done for the night. We did figure out how to reduce the amount of power it was using and lowered the temperature of the dryer after I realized my bum was getting hot as I perched on the side of the tub.
This morning I’ve read the entire trouble shooting section of the manual. Nowhere does it cover demonic possession or ghostly hauntings, but I have a feeling that’s what our French-Canadian friends are going to tell us when they finally call.
Peace, people!
My mother-in-law, Saint Helen, who I love dearly, celebrated her birthday on the 26th of May. Even though she’s officially retired from the workforce she continues working on an occasional basis in the office of her church.
Saint Helen happened to be working on Tuesday, so the priest and a co-worker offered to take her to lunch for her birthday. Just as their food arrived her co-worker, the office manager, got a phone call from the local police saying that a car had been hit by an apparently drunk driver in front of the church office. Yep, it was my mother-in-law’s car. Wrecked. On her birthday.
She hadn’t had the car long, but she loved it. And she is pretty bummed out. Saint Helen just doesn’t get bummed out. This woman has faced head on more troubles than most of us can imagine, all while holding her head high and pouring out blessings on all around her.
This is one of those times I wish desperately that we lived closer so Studly Doright could help his mom negotiate the trials of dealing with insurance companies. But Saint Helen has other wonderful children who live near her and will gladly be there for her.
If my readers have a couple of good thoughts to spare, please send them her way. I love her very much and she deserves good things.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 