In our case, the ecstasy part of the idyll had to wait until MG and I endured the agony part, namely United Flight 310 to LA. United Airlines boasts the following amenities. It charges you for both checked luggage and carry-ons. Its seats have no leg room of which to speak unless you’re four feet six inches tall or shorter. Its seats are scarce on width unless you have buns the size of an anorexic runway model’s. Don’t board hungry and thirsty. UA will only provide you with a tiny package of mini pretzels (unless you’re willing to purchase an overpriced snack), and a non-alcoholic beverage in a tiny cup. So far, I wasn’t thrilled with the trip decision. Thank you, friendly skies. Not really.
After arriving at LAX, our traveling companions, MG, and I traipsed through the airport in search of a quick breakfast before our connecting flight to Tahiti. Only in LA will you find a champagne and caviar bar in an airport concourse, but you will have trouble finding an inexpensive breakfast.
We then followed an endless array of signs directing us to our departure gate. Naturally, our departure gate was at the far reaches of the airport— in another building. We had to board a shuttle bus to reach it, a fifteen minute ride.
At last, we reached the gate and boarded our eight and a half hour Air Tahiti Nui flight. It was as if we entered a portal into a fantasy world. The flight attendants wore colorful native dress and they appeared genuinely happy to see us. The jet’s interior was colorful and welcoming as well. MG and I were permitted to sit together without paying an up charge. We each received a pillow, a blanket, and a goody bag containing ear plugs, a sleep mask, socks, and audio ear buds. The movies, TV shows, video games, magazines, and music on our individual monitors were free of charge!
As soon as we reached cruising altitude, we were served beverages and a hot lunch—a delicious hot lunch for which we were not required to pay. Wine was served free of charge as well. Snacks and beverages during the flight were available any time we wanted them. An hour before landing a complementary breakfast was served.
What fresh hell was this? Perhaps it was an elaborate prank. Surely none of it was real because our tickets were clearly marked economy class.
At the airport in Papeete, Tahiti, the flight attendants guided us to the arrivals entrance. While in line to go through security, we were entertained by a native band. Welcome to French Polynesia!
Following transfer from the airport to our cruise ship, Holland America Line’s MS Maasdam, we boarded just in time for dinner, the first of many sumptuous meals on board. We stayed overnight in Papeete on Sunday.
At 2:00 pm on Monday, we were marshaled for the Mandatory Passenger Emergency Muster Drill—roughly twelve hundred perspiring bodies crammed together in the heat and humidity on the Lower Promenade Deck. Guests who refused to participate would not be permitted to sail with the vessel. Oh joy.
Finally, we sailed for our first port of call, scheduled to arrive on Tuesday. While at sea on Monday, we were treated to the first of many informative Port Talks on the islands we were to visit. We learned that most ports did not have docking facilities for large ships. Passengers would necessarily be shuttled to shore and back via the Maasdam’s tenders. Of course, this process could be subject to change depending on local conditions. Lovely.
Hiva Oa, our first port of call, fell under the category of adverse local conditions. Large ocean swells made it impossible to board the tenders safely. Instead we had another day at sea with an alternative shipboard activity schedule. Not an auspicious beginning. ::sigh::
Fortunately, we were able to use the tenders safely enough at our next island port, Nuku Hiva in The Marquesas. When we debarked from the tender, we were greeted by three women in traditional island garb singing a welcome accompanied by a group of men on drums. I shot a bit of video of them with my iPhone8Plus. This was more like it. Things were looking up. Yay!
We spent another day at sea that also turned out to be our first gala dinner night. In other words, we had to wear our fancy duds instead of our smart casual rags. We survived it.
Rangiroa, an atoll, was up next. We took a tour of a black pearl farm there. We learned the process of producing those exotic and coveted Polynesian ($$$$$) cultured pearls. We observed a technician remove pearls from harvested oysters and then reseed those that produced pearls of good grade. Those that did not were consigned to the death row crate to become someone’s appetizer course.
That ended the first week of our French Polynesian Idyll. Soon we would visit the fabled South Pacific island paradise of Bora Bora!
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This time, the invasion was ghastly. The Pod Person Imposter tackled my clothes closets. Yes, closets plural—I need a guest room closet for the overflow. I never get rid of anything I can convince myself that someday I’ll be slim enough to wear again. (Someday has yet to arrive. Surprise, surprise.)
The Imposter decided to get rid of everything—almost. She saw a post on the web at ClassyYetTrendy.com about The Capsule Wardrobe. It involved a minimalist wardrobe with core items that could be mixed and matched to create numerous outfits. One could save both money and closet space. The Imposter was intrigued and followed up on it. The first step involved removing all clothing from one’s closet, closets in my case, and then evaluating what to keep, what to donate, and what to toss.
The range of clothing sizes in those closets was huge. Unfortunately, sizes went up, not down. There was one outfit in size 8 (was I ever), a half dozen in size 10 (not so bad), a bunch in size 12 (uh-oh), several pants and jeans in sizes 14 and 16 (oh dear), and one pair of chinos in women’s size OMG! The Pod Person was appalled and overwhelmed. I believe she wept.
In preparation for me to pack light for an upcoming cruise, The Imposter began the monumental task of downsizing my wardrobe to capsule form. Another impetus was the impending visit of my Baby Sister, The Fashionista—and her obligatory critique of my lack of style and my overcrowded closets. The Imposter feverishly began to condemn some articles of clothing to exile.
That the Pod Person Imposter somehow managed to clear some space in the guest room closet for the Fashionista by the time she arrived was remarkable. Once informed of The Imposter’s project, The Fashionista was all in. In fact, she took over.
Ruthlessly, she pawed through my wardrobe, declaring item after item too small, too unfashionable, or too ugly to ever again see the light of day or even the dark of night. (She tells me constantly that my clothing choices aren’t feminine enough.) The items she found acceptable were few and far between. She spared a few long formal suits and dresses that had classic lines that don’t go out of style. That there were any outfits of which she approved surprised the hell out of both of us.
She didn’t stop at divesting my closets of my wardrobe. She viciously targeted my accessories as well. She tossed out most of my hats (crimes against fashion), purses (what was I thinking when I bought them), belts that didn’t circumvent my waist (what waist), gloves (was I really in need of full length gloves that no longer fit), and then there were the two dozen pairs of shoes on the upper closet shelf (out of fashion, too small to fit now, and just plain too hideous to wear in public).
As if that wasn’t traumatic enough, she attacked my stash of undergarments next. I’ll spare you the gory details. Let’s just say she rid the undergarment drawer of upper and lower foundation items that might fit a female elf but didn’t fit me. The highlight of this purge came when The Imposter tried to squeeze herself into a body suit I hadn’t worn in ages. Once partially in the suit, she became stuck. She couldn’t get it all the way on, and she couldn’t get it off either. Too much sausage and not enough casing. The Fashionista tugged as hard as she could to pull the body suit off The Imposter. They couldn’t stop laughing hysterically. Tears streamed down their faces. The Fashionista laughed so hard she had to pee. Eventually, they got The Imposter out of the body suit and it went into the toss pile.
The Imposter and The Fashionista had a productive day. They tossed out more than they donated, but they were still able to take two carloads of clothing and accessories that were in very good conditions to Goodwill. They also discovered several existing items of clothing in my closets that would work well with The Capsule Wardrobe System. The Imposter promised The Fashionista she would buy some feminine-looking items to flesh out The Capsule Wardrobe.
Before she left my body, The Pod Person Imposter reorganized my closets. She moved the clothing I wore every day or most often to the master bedroom closet. Clothing I wear infrequently or for special occasions she moved to the guest room closet. It’s much more convenient now, and neither closet is overcrowded any longer. (I wish I could have persuaded her to stick around long enough to help me declutter and reorganize my office—yet again.)
Neither The Imposter nor I thought to take “before photos” of my closets for before and after comparison. The before photos would have looked like explosions in a garment factory. The after photos are below.
I don’t know if there are support groups for this affliction as yet, so I’m going to testify here on my blog.
I have become obsessed with social media. I am hooked on posting, tweeting, liking, commenting, replying, following, sharing, and friending. I wasn’t addicted at first. It happened slowly, insidiously, innocently. I wasn’t even interested in social media in the beginning.
Originally, my sons and daughters-in-law emailed family news and photos of our grandchildren to MG and me. We loved receiving those emails. Then the younger generation became involved with Facebook. The emails with news and photos ceased. We complained. We whined. We grumbled. The kiddies said it was quicker and easier for them to post their news and photos on Facebook than in emails. They said we should join Facebook if we wanted to see everything from them, from our extended family, and from our friends. MG was solidly set against it, but eventually we caved and joined.
Little by little, Facebook sunk its hooks into me. I heard from other writers that editors and agents expect a writer to establish a presence on the Internet. So, I found a fabulous virtual assistant and she created a website and blog for me. The writers also explained that social media is helpful to gain name recognition, and that a writer should create a social media platform even before publication. That too?
If nothing else, I am coachable. So, I created a Facebook author page and author accounts on Twitter and Pinterest in addition to my personal pages. The V.A. waved her magic wand and cast a spell that copied my blog posts to my Facebook and Twitter accounts, and copied my author account Facebook posts to Twitter. The next thing I knew, I also had accounts with Goodreads, Tumblr, and Instagram.
I was sinking deeper and deeper into the social media quicksand. I began to spend an inordinate amount of time on my social media accounts. I felt overwhelmed trying to keep up with all of them. They were a giant time suck. My writing suffered from neglect. I knew I should be writing, but when I turned on my MacBook I couldn’t resist the social media siren call. I posted and tweeted and pinned much more than I wrote.
Two weeks ago, I viewed a TV news segment that dealt with a study of social media addiction and how widespread it is. The percentage of addiction was extremely high. The reporter listed the symptoms, behaviors, and the problems it causes. I had them all. That report could have been written about me.
How had it happened? How had I let it happen? How was I to shake the addiction?
One big obstacle that I see is that I can’t quit social media completely because of the professional accounts I set up and need to maintain. I’m pretty sure I have way too many of them. It takes too much time away from my writing to keep up with them all. I decided to eliminate all but three professional accounts: Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. I’m going to drop my personal Pinterest and Twitter accounts and cut way back on my personal Facebook posting. I’ll follow my family and friends and unfollow the pages of news and political organizations that especially tempt me to engage in controversial political debates.
The first step I took to get my social media obsession under control was to remove the social media apps from my iPhone. That iPhone is always with me, and those apps made it far too handy and tempting to post all day long and into the night. It doesn’t help that Facebook keeps encouraging me to post because all my friends want to hear from me. Of course, they do. My posts are utterly fascinating. ?
After deleting the social media apps from my IPhone that first day, I began to feel the symptoms of social media withdrawal. I felt disconnected, out of the loop, in the dark. Someone somewhere was posting something of interest to me or something with which I would disagree, and I was missing out. The knowledge that I was missing out tasked me. I struggled through the day and night, tormented by the lack of a social media fix.
The following morning, I woke and reached for my iPhone. It was my daily habit to check Facebook first thing. What’s this? No social media apps! It was with chagrin that I recalled deleting them. What was I thinking? I was so tempted to restore them. Instead, I pulled up my big girl pants and soldiered through the day without them.That night, I logged into the three professional accounts on my MacBook. I spent a short time on each. I checked in, posted a few things, and replied to a few others. I practically broke out in a cold sweat when I logged out.
So far today, I haven’t checked any of my social media accounts. I revised a chapter in my WIP and wrote this post. I got so involved in writing that I didn’t feel the urge to check social media. I probably will tonight when MG logs onto Facebook on his iPad and starts regaling me with details of what everyone is posting. If any posts have something to do with family, I may check to see for myself.
The ultimate game plan is to tame the social media beast by whatever means necessary, to concentrate on my writing, and to strive toward publication. I hope I have enough will power to keep from backsliding. I have my fingers crossed. I also have MG to nag me if I show signs of weakening.
As you can see, I’m not attempting to quit social media cold turkey. That isn’t entirely possible. I suppose you could describe my limited quitting efforts as lukewarm turkey. Hey, whatever works, right?
As we all know, Labor Day celebrations are just about synonymous with cookouts. Our baby boy has a neighborhood friend whose birthday is a day earlier. For the past few years, they’ve been celebrating their birthdays together with what our son dubs a “food-apalooza.” The two birthday boys invite friends and family to supply side dishes and partake in a feast that closely resembles a Roman food orgy—or an Italian family’s Sunday dinner.
This past Labor Day weekend, our son outdid himself in proving his culinary versatility. You see, an ordinary grill wasn’t good enough, so the kid bought himself a smoker a few months ago. He is carrying on a human male tradition that began with the first cave dwellers—burning meat over an open fire. He cooks slabs of brisket and racks of ribs, but with the smoke instead of the flames.
After smoking the slabs of meat and the ribs,he wraps them in butcher paper and places them within a large metal box that could pass for a floor safe. Inside this warmer thingy, the meats reabsorb the juices lost during the smoking process. The result is so delicious it is indescribable and quite possibly sinful. I’m sure we all committed the deadly sin of gluttony many times over. I’m too embarrassed to go to Confession and admit it.
So, in addition to the chunks of smoked meats, the friends and family—including MG and me—supplied an extravagant amount of side dishes, desserts, and both alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. There were four huge salads (Ambrosia, Cole Slaw, Seven Layer Salad, and Southwest Corn Salad), a pan of Old Settlers’ Beans, a huge crockpot of cheesy potatoes, two dozen corn muffins, two apple pies, a peach cobbler (made with fresh peaches), a pan of chocolate and peanut butter frosted brownies, Oreos in whipped cream, and an assortment of cookies. The wine and cocktails flowed freely, as did the iced tea. There was something for everyone.
After consuming a nearly endless parade of food, we were barely able to move our bodies. Our hands remained operable, so we played a few card games. The guys got a Euchre tournament going. That went on for hours. I have it on good authority (my son) that he and his friends (who stayed up much later than his in-laws, MG, and me) spent the next day in their pajamas recovering from the ‘food-apalooza.” MG and I also suffered the agony of overindulgence.
As it turned out, the fun greeting card I chose for our birthday boy was extremely apt. It’s in the video below. Take a peek.
]]>I can screen calls on our land line using Caller ID and an answering system. Unfortunately, I cannot stop the phone from ringing and driving me nuts while I am writing—or trying to write, as it were.The constant calls play havoc with my ability to concentrate on my work in progress. MG insists I check and answer the ones I’m not sure of just in case it might be an important call. Only once has that occurred. All the rest were unwanted intrusions. Seriously enraging are the junk calls that come up on Caller ID with my local area code but are actually from out of area. Surely the phone companies can do something to combat that.
It takes every ounce of will power to keep from yanking the phone cable from its terminal and throwing the phone against the wall each time my train of thought is derailed by an unwelcome caller. The only card I have to play is to report the offenders and their phone numbers to the Do Not Call Registry website. I can report cold callers, such as the credit card “customer service” people for whom I am not a customer. They promise they will reduce my fee rates, etc. If I press a number on my phone, they then promise to take me off their list. They never do, of course. They keep right on calling, and always from a different phone number. May Alexander Graham Bell taunt them with incessant cold calls in the afterlife.
What is extremely unfortunate is that one cannot report political calls. Legislators conveniently exempted themselves from the Do Not Call Registry. To cover their obviously self-serving hind quarters, they threw in an exemption for certain 501c charitable organizations in an attempt to put political parties on a par with charities. The ruse fooled no one and aggravated legions.
Not long ago, junk calls began polluting our cellphones as well. That is especially annoying when I’m driving because I have the calls set to come through Majel’s Ford Sync system—hands free. Driving with the maniacs on the road is frustrating enough. Having to deal with junk calls in addition is too much of a distraction.
Fortunately, yes, fortunately, my iPhone 8Plus is smart enough to help me out. There is a setting that prevents calls, messages, and alerts from coming through to annoy me while I’m driving if I enable that setting. I definitely enable that setting.
I have devised a helpful plan to screen calls and messages on my smart phone when I’m at home writing as well. I found an app titled RoboKiller that intercepts and answers junk calls and calls from people or groups not in my Contacts. The app’s recorded answers are hilarious and designed to keep the caller stuck on the phone wasting lots of time to discourage them from ever calling again. I haven’t received a junk call on my iPhone since installing that app. That means fewer interruptions of my writing time. Yay!
In addition, my iPhone 8Plus allows me to assign specific tones for calls or text messages to individuals in my Contacts so I may recognize their identities should I choose to answer. I went ahead and assigned tones to my family and close friends. I treated them as I would characters in a novel when I made my choices. I analyzed them and selected their specific tones based on the personality traits, likes, and activities that defined them. Clever, wasn’t I? For example:
My Firstborn is an Eagle Scout and Cub Scout Cub Master. He does a lot of hiking and hill climbing with the Scouts. He is also a computer geek who works in the IT field. As his ringtone, I chose Summit. For his text message tone, I selected Electronic.
His Little Brother is a former jock and a fun-loving, laid back, good ole boy. His other favorite pastime is writing hilarious rants on Facebook. I chose Playtime for his ringtone and Input for his text tone.
MG was a piece of cake. He has been a car fanatic his entire life, buying and restoring classic cars and collecting model cars. He loves to snack between meals, and his very favorite snack of all is buttered popcorn. Can you guess the tones I selected? Yes, I thought you’d guess them. I chose Old Car Horn for his ringtone and Popcorn for his text tone.
I thought the Old Car Horn tone was cute, just like the car horns in the old-time cartoons. Ooga-ooga, ooga-ooga. The sound is so funny.
Well, I thought it was funny until the first time MG called me while I was out grocery shopping. Every shopper’s head turned in my direction when my iPhone blared like an old Model T’s horn in the frozen food aisle. I couldn’t answer it fast enough. I mean, I literally couldn’t answer it fast enough. It was buried deep down in the outside pocket of my shoulder bag. I couldn’t pull the dang thing loose right away so I could make it stop its embarrassing ooga-ooga, ooga-ooga racket.
Sometimes a writer can be a little too clever for her own good.
I’ve had a busy summer so far. MG and I are celebrating a big anniversary this year. We’re doing things throughout the year to celebrate. Recently, we spent a week in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, with our sons and their families—all under the same roof in a large house we rented. About ten days ago, we hosted an anniversary brunch to celebrate with family and friends. In the fall, we plan to take a Polynesian Islands cruise. All that planning, travel, and celebrating takes time. Mostly, it takes time away from my writing. That spells trouble with a capital T for me.
When I go too long without writing, I lose my momentum. My creative juices dry up. My enthusiasm flags. Disinterest rears its ugly head. My energy takes a hike. My drive disappears. Hard as I try, I just can’t work up the oomph to drag myself to my office, sit my butt in front of my MacBook Pro, and pick up in my WIP where I left off.
I find chores that must come first, and therefore writing will have to wait till last. I have laundry to do, bills to pay, flower beds to weed, vegetable plants to water, floors to mop, email to answer, social media accounts to check, thank you notes to write, skin to exfoliate, and so on.
I don’t get away with slacking off for very long. Soon the headaches begin. It’s them. I know it’s them—my characters. They’re responsible for my pain, and they are unmerciful. They pound on the inside of my skull, demanding to be let out, insisting I write the rest of their story or they will drive me insane. More insane than usual, that is.
I suppose I should thank them despite their antisocial behavior. Without their insistence, I might go even longer without writing. Their demands force me back to my MacBook Pro as a matter of survival. Remarkably enough, once I begin writing about them again, my headaches vanish. There has to be a connection, don’t you agree?
Tonight, I have to chance making my characters wait a little bit longer for me to write about them while I take care of one last chore—my blog post for this week. I sure hope they’ll understand. I’m awfully close to running out of aspirin.
How can that be?
Answer: The former Boy Scouts of America—now Scouts BSA—committed organizational suicide. It shot itself in the foot by opting to knuckle under to political correctness. The wound turned out to be mortal. The unfortunate decision alienated and lost the Boy Scouts of America its biggest sponsor and more than 400,000 members. Consequently, the Boy Scouts organization opened its membership to girls in order to recoup the severe financial and membership losses it incurred. Hence the name change to Scouts BSA.
You’ve got to be kidding. Scouts BSA? They took the Boy out of Boy Scouts? How pathetic is that? Seriously, folks. In what parallel universe can such a lunatic farce occur?
As a former Girl Scout, and as the mother and grandmother of Eagle Scouts, I have an answer to the Boy Scouts’ raid on the Girl Scouts’ membership. I say: No way! Leave the Girl Scouts to do their own thing in their own space. Don’t bring down the Girl Scouts with you. Beat it! Scram! Own your foolish mistake and deal with it. Clean up your mess of failure yourselves. Don’t put it on Girl Scouts to save your sorry butts. Boy Scouts should be for boys only, and Girl Scouts should be for Girls only. Period.
I’m certain Girl Scouting isn’t considered cool by the progressive crowd. Unlike rabid feminism, scouting does not encourage girls and young women to perceive themselves as victims and weak. Girl Scouting does something rabid feminism and liberal academia doesn’t do for girls and young women. Girl Scouting builds inner strength, self-reliance and self-confidence, encourages courtesy, tolerance, love of country, initiative, self-motivation, responsibility, accountability, dependability, and promotes service to others. (They don’t demonstrate, protest, or cuss at people; they just go out and do what needs to be done to help.)
I was an extremely shy child. Girl Scouting helped me to shed my shell and be more outgoing. I gained enough confidence to sell Girl Scout Cookies door to door without shaking in my shoes. I gained new skills by working to earn activity badges. For example, I earned: reader; writer; photographer (I developed my film and photos with my dad’s help); pen pal; skater; first aid; hostess; sewing; stamp collector; and outdoor cook (I learned how to make a camp stove from wax candles, corrugated paper, and a large coffee can).
A number of years ago, I remembered that little camp stove during a nasty winter power failure, pre-whole-house generator. MG was away on a business trip, of course, and I was home alone to fend for myself.
After I made a fire in the fireplace with one of those easy starter logs to keep warm, I yearned to cook something hot. I was getting hungry, after all, and my electric range was MIA thanks to the power failure. I had an unsuccessful and unpleasant experience cooking over fire in an indoor fireplace several years earlier during an ice storm in Virginia. It involved hot dogs that tasted like burnt wood and coating the walls of the family room with soot. I did not wish to repeat that disaster, so I set about making the coffee can camp stove.
I foraged through MG’s workroom and found a large coffee can filled with nuts and bolts or screws and some such. I dumped them all out. I found corrugated paper, cut it to the size I needed, rolled it into a coil, and inserted it into the can. I then gathered up a bunch of partially used wax candles and melted them into the can using a firestarter wand. When the coffee can was nearly filled, I let the wax harden around the corrugated paper coil. Voila! I had a handy-dandy camp stove.
As a former Girl Scout, I felt duty-bound to share my homemade appliance with other unfortunate cabin fever sufferers. I invited my next-door neighbor and her two young children to join me for lunch. I lighted my camp stove to the awe and delight of the little kids. Their mom marveled at my ingenuity and skill. (Humble person that I am, I gave all the credit to my former Scout Leader.) I boiled water in a kettle and made vegetable soup with a dry soup mix. We had hot soup and PB&J sandwiches for lunch. Later on, we had hot cocoa and cookies for a snack. I was a hero and acknowledged genius for quite some time after that, thanks to my Girl Scout training.
It would be criminal if Scouts BSA is allowed to absorb and thereby put an end to Girl Scouts of the USA simply because the Boy Scouts failed to live up to their own ideals, standards, and traditions, and because they failed to protect their own organization from the blight of political correctness. It pains me to think that young girls in the future may miss out on the kinds of experiences I had as a Girl Scout.
Former and current Girl Scouts and Leaders, will we stand idly by and permit that to happen?
Howard is make believe, of course, but everyone knows a real-life someone like Howard. For example, the thirty-something jobless man recently in the news who refused to move out of his parents’ home when they asked him to leave. His parents had to go to court to evict him because he wouldn’t leave the nest and learn to fly on his own—and support himself. His parents must be embarrassed that the entire country witnessed their failure to raise an independent and responsible adult. Their son didn’t appear embarrassed by his situation at all. Go figure.
A friend of mine has a very bright, successful young adult daughter who has moved out and is on her own–supposedly. She still expects her mother to drop everything and take care of things for her that she herself finds inconvenient, to solve her serious problems, and to pay for expensive things that she wants but doesn’t care to spend her own money. Her mother says her daughter reminds her of a newly-hatched baby bird with its beak wide open for its mother to feed it. Ouch.
Sometimes, the adult children move out but leave much of their stuff behind because they don’t have room for it in the apartment they rent. Even after he bought a house our Second Son didn’t come to claim his stuff despite all the hints we dropped. It took twenty years total to get him to remove his sports equipment and weights from our home’s lower level. I can’t help thinking of how much we could have charged him for twenty years of storage.
Every now and then we find other items our boys left behind for us to remember them by. When we moved from another small town to our house on the lake, we found a sack filled with Matchbox cars, most of which belonged to our Firstborn Son. Our grandchildren play with them now when they come to visit.
Just recently, while reorganizing the winter wear in the coat closet’s storage bins, I came across a wool hat in my bin that wasn’t mine. MG said it wasn’t his either. I pulled it inside out and discovered a name label. The wool hat belonged to Firstborn. I remembered ironing that label onto the hat when he was in elementary school. I took a photo of it and sent it to Firstborn via iMessage.
His response: Mom, that hat has to be 40 years old!!!
That sounds just about right.
I can’t help wondering what I’ll find next.
I wanted to get that out of the way first thing.
I feel sorry for MG having to put up with me, with late or no dinners, with unfolded laundry, with me staying up all night writing when I’m on a roll, and with coming home at day’s end to find me writing in my pajamas. Hair not combed. Teeth not brushed. Ugh.
Writers are eccentric. That’s the polite way of saying writers are nuts. We freely admit it because we cannot deny the obvious. We see the world differently than the rest of humanity, and our curiosity is endless. Everything is fodder for our stories, so don’t ever tell us your secrets. Be very careful what you say if one of us is within earshot. We are not above eavesdropping. We even have shirts we wear to warn you about us.
On behalf of all writers, I want to apologize for the faraway look in our eyes when you’re speaking to us. You’re correct to assume we’re not listening to you. We’re listening to voices you cannot hear—the voices in our heads, aka the characters we create. While you’re talking to us, we’re actually writing. When we sit at our computers, we’re merely transcribing what we already wrote mentally while not listening to you. [So sorry, MG.]
I’ve lost count of how many times I agreed to do something I had no interest in doing. I wasn’t paying attention to what my [husband, friend, neighbor—fill in the blank] was saying because my mind was on the manuscript I was writing. While I was in a world of my own making, the rest of me was on autopilot responding with “Uh-Huh” every so often, giving the appearance that I was all there and agreeing to whatever. For that inexcusable behavior, I deserved to suffer—and I did.
It gets worse. My mind also wanders to my work in progress during Sunday mass. I thought I was the only romance-writing reprobate who was going straight to hell when leaving this world. Thankfully, I was mistaken. I won’t be alone. A dear friend who shall remain nameless, and author Jennifer Probst (who confessed to the same sinful behavior in her book Write Naked), will join me in eternal damnation. Hell will never be the same.
Finally, for when I actually do listen to what you’re saying, I apologize for silently correcting your grammar and pronunciation.Yes, writers do that. We can’t help ourselves.
Despite all of the above, we fervently hope you have a forgiving nature and will continue to buy our books. Please?
Herbie isn’t the only automobile to exhibit sentience. My friend and writing bud Margo Hoornstra is convinced that Majel, my Ford Edge, doesn’t like her. Now Margo is a very likeable lady, yet Majel misbehaves when Margo is aboard. I’ve assured Margo it is mere coincidence.
You see, last year at the Mid-Michigan RWA (MMRWA) Retreat From Harsh Reality, Majel wouldn’t start when we tried to return to Shelbyville after running errands in a nearby town. Fortunately, we were rescued by a knight in shining armor. Majel started up and we got Margo back to the Bay Pointe Inn in time for dinner and for her to receive the MMRWA Angel Award that I managed to keep secret from her.
At Retreat this year, Majel appeared to be behaving like a proper lady. She got us to the Bay Pointe Inn with no difficulty on Friday afternoon, although she took us there on a different route than last year. Majel stayed put in her parking space during the entire weekend, but there was one unusual incident. On Friday night, another chapter member asked me if the burgundy Ford Edge was mine. (Actually, Majel’s color is Bordeaux. I mention that in the event Majel gets wind of this post. She would be very put out if I didn’t post the clarification.) I said yes, the Edge was mine. She informed me that the rear cargo door was up. Oh? I knew I closed it after Margo and I removed all our luggage and other gear when we arrived. Hmmm. I went out, I checked Majel over to make certain nothing was missing, and I dropped the door. I made sure it was down and secure, and then I locked Majel up for the weekend.
After another fabulous Retreat, Margo and I packed our luggage and the additional items we acquired at Retreat in Majel’s cargo area, and we pulled out of the Inn’s parking lot. Oddly, Majel started us out on a different return route to Margo’s place. It became apparent soon enough that the route was unfamiliar. Even though both Margo and I have no sense of direction, we did not panic. Looking back, we realized that this was a mistake. We should have panicked.
We both had iPhones with Maps and other GPS apps. That gave us a false sense of security. Margo got her iPhone out and started up a GPS app to verify Majel’s directions.I believe that’s what pushed Majel’s hood out of joint.
Immediately, Margo’s GPS app disagreed with Majel’s. Uh-Oh. Were we going the wrong way? Do we go straight or do we turn right? We couldn’t be sure. I was the driver, so I made a command decision. We would follow Majel’s route until we could be certain it wasn’t correct.
After a few minutes, Margo’s iPhone directions agreed with Majel’s. Okay, we thought. We’re going the right way! Yay!
Not so fast. At the next intersection, the GPS apps disagreed once again. This time, we gave Margo’s iPhone app the benefit of the doubt. We didn’t turn onto a major road. We went straight—and the road’s pavement ended not far from the intersection and we were on messy, grimy, dusty dirt. Being second-guessed by another GPS was insult enough for Majel. Having to eat dirt should have made her furious enough to seek revenge. Surprisingly Majel agreed with Margo’s iPhone app from then on.
Margo’s iPhone app took us on a long, drawn out tour of Southwest Michigan’s back roads. We were into an hour or more of driving home from Retreat and had no idea where the blazes we were at any given time. Every turn we were instructed to make was a wrong turn. Every legal U-Turn we were instructed to make was a wrong turn. Majel, the little stinker, agreed to every single one.
Luckily, we had a full tank of gas because we were becoming concerned that our families would never see us again. We had yet to have lunch and we were growing hungry. Fortunately, we had some snack food with us. We scarfed down the snacks that might possibly be our last meal, all the while hoping a Burger King would magically appear.
At last, to our great relief, Margo recognized the name of a road that would get us to her home: Vermontville Highway. From that point on, we ignored both GPS devices.
Once we were no longer dependent on our GPS devices, Margo and I conducted a postmortem of our misadventure. We concluded that the two GPS devices were angry that we consulted more than one of them. They conspired to seek revenge on us by getting us lost and striking fear into our hearts.
If you’re willing to believe as I do that this sort of thing is possible, I’m here to say they made a very thorough job of it.
