Dean Martin and Love: I’m Somebody

My parents were huge Dean Martin fans, so I was introduced to the music and comedy of the handsome half of the famous Martin and Lewis comedy team early on.

I’d forgotten just how appealing Dean Martin was until I went on a hunt for one of his songs, “You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Loves You.” I hoped to find a You Tube video of him singing, so I could share it here for my Love Month theme, and I wasn’t disappointed. His charm and good looks transcend the decades.

Now the lyrics to this song always bothered me a little. I wasn’t a particularly lovable kid: taller than average, skinny, and bookish, not much to look at and even less to talk to, I was afraid, seriously afraid, that no one would ever love me. And if no one ever loved me, did that mean I was a nobody?

Then, in my typical analytical fashion I began to observe other people. There were some less attractive than me, and they’d found love. There were a few weirder than me, and they had someone. So maybe, just maybe there was hope for me.

Of course now I know I was always somebody. My parents loved me, Studly loves me, my kids and grand babies love me, but most importantly, I learned how to love myself.

Peace, Somebodies!


Guatemala Bound

I booked my flight to travel to Antigua, Guatemala! My trip isn’t until April, and Studly kept urging me to hold off on booking.

“Prices will come down,” he said.
“Be patient,” he cautioned.

Does he not know me better than that?Patience might be a virtue, but it’s not one of mine. Now that I’m booked I can start on the other tasks I’ve set for myself, namely shopping for appropriate Guate-wear and brushing up on my Spanish.

Having grown up in Texas, I have a decent vocabulary of inappropriate Spanish. I won’t plan on using any of those unless I get into a heated discussion with someone smaller than me.

I did take two years of high school Spanish. I remember how to ask where the bathroom is located, and I can tell someone that they should take only one piece of toast because two is too many. Surely that phrase will come in handy with the toast-eating crowd.


Viva Guatemala!

Peace, People!

Things I Love: Studly’s Laugh

“Groundhog Day” is one of Studly’s favorite movies. On Tuesday evening as we watched Bill Murray’s character relive February 2nd over and over again, Studly kept up his running commentary during the film and laughed his wildly contagious laugh.

His laugh is one of the many things I love about him. When Studly finds something funny one might as well surrender to the hilarity and just move out of charm’s way.

And what does he find funny? His special weakness is sophomoric humor: “Animal House,” “Dumb and Dumber,” “Me, Myself, and Irene,” and the above mentioned “Groundhog Day.” He recently discovered “Tosh.0” on television and laughs himself silly every time he watches an episode.

I pretend to be above such nonsense, but when Studly starts laughing he breaks down all of my resolve. Maybe that’s part of loving someone–embracing all of their silliness as if it’s one’s own–while still remaining relatively sane.

When Studly Laughs

When Studly laughs
His whole body
Succumbs to waves of
Hilarity that begin in his eyes,
Travel to his cheeks, and
Explode from his generous

His arms cross his shaking
Chest, apparently attempting
To absorb the energy he
Expends when he is genuinely
Amused by a joke, or a pratfall,
Or gloriously, sometimes by

Nothing beats making Studly laugh.

Peace, People!


Cooking for Studly: He’s Late for Dinner!

Well it was bound to happen sooner rather than later. Dinner, Studly’s favorite chicken and rice casserole, is ready for consumption and he is nowhere in sight.

Now what? Should I leave it in the oven and hope it doesn’t dry out too much? Do I take it out and reheat it when he gets home?

Studly’s job is a demanding one. His stress level is high, and his schedule erratic. I know he’d have called if he could. Nonetheless, I’m not sure what I should do.

I absolutely detest chicken and rice casserole. Made to Studly’s specifications it is the blandest slop in the world. It’s like eating paper only with less pizazz. So maybe there’s no right or wrong to taking it out of the oven. It’s not going to miraculously grow less bland, right? And I doubt it can become more bland. I’m voting to leave it in.

Wow! Thanks for helping me with my dilemma! Sometimes you just need to talk it over with a friend.

Peace, People!


I Mustache You a Question

My name is Nana Noyz and I have a mustache. There, I’ve said it. Let the 12 Step Program commence. While I have come to terms with my crinkly wrinkles, my saggy breasts, my droopy eyelids, and my jiggly arms, I cannot embrace my facial hair, nor have I been able to admit that I am powerless to stop it.

I remember gazing in amazement at the sparkling white hairs on my Grandma’s chin and upper lip. They were fascinating to 5-year-old me, and I might have made the mistake of wishing for some of my own. If so, I rescind the wish! I do, I do, I do!

Fifty years ago I don’t think women of a certain age worried as much about random hair sprouting from their chins and cheeks. Those were the days, my friends. But in the 21st century we are almost obsessed with keeping a smooth visage until death removes all such vain concerns.

Heaven knows I try to keep ahead of the hair growth, but sensitive skin keeps me from going the depilatory cream and/or wax routes. Instead I look in a magnifying mirror every morning searching for offending follicles and then ruthlessly pluck the fruit, er, hair. There are two trouble spots.

The first is a place on my chin just left of dead center that can always be counted on to yield a pluck-able strand. It amazes me just how quickly a hair grows in this spot and I’m thinking of willing this particular follicle to science. Not only is there always a hair there, but it is consistently two shades darker and three times coarser than the hair growing on any other part of my body. Truly it is a worthy topic for Unsolved Mysteries or Ancient Aliens.

The second place is just above my upper lip. I’ve named it, The Fringe. The Fringe isn’t dark, and it isn’t coarse. In fact, it is so fine that I almost cannot see it even with the 20x magnifying mirror, but I can FEEL it. Sadly, plucking on a daily basis yields almost no results, so I end up waiting until individual hairs grow to an obscene length. You know, like when the small child sitting next to you on the park bench tries to get your attention by tugging on one.

My only consolation is that my husband, Studly Doright, cannot see anything up close without his reading glasses. This is the reason why women should always marry men near their own age. He thinks I look just like I did when we married 38 years ago. Poor guy. He got a raw deal in the “for better or worse” department; he just doesn’t know it.

I’m Nana Noyz, and I have a mustache that my husband can’t see. There. I’ve accepted it.

Peace, People.


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