Jolana Malkston

Happy Birthday to Me

Feb 042014

Today is my birthday! Please don’t ask how old I am now; that particular question is personal and acutely invasive. It would place me in the awkward position of having to tell you to mind your own business—bless your heart.

Just kidding.

Actually, growing another year older doesn’t bother me one little bit. The alternative to growing another year older is a downer and sure would bother me. Getting to stick around for another year is a priceless gift.

My Baby Sister and I have winter birthdays that are only two weeks apart [five years and two weeks, that is] so we try to celebrate our birthdays together. Last year, I milked the occasions for four birthday dinner celebrations: one for her birthday, one for mine, one joint birthday celebration, and one on Super Bowl Sunday—which happened to fall on my birthday in 2013. I suppose all those birthday celebrations could have been aired in an episode of American Greed.

Yes, happy birthday to me. Aside from all those luscious birthday dinners, I received the gift of spending more time with my loved ones and getting more hugs and kisses from my grandchildren. I received the gift of seeing more of my children’s and my grandchildren’s accomplishments this past year—and seeing more of their comic antics.

I also saw another year’s worth of God’s comic genius, of his quirky sense of humor, of those little jokes he plays from time to time on members of the human race like the Polar Vortex. His best joke of last year: He actually had Miley Cyrus convinced that she is sexy and that people want to see more of her tongue. Ha-Ha! Good one, Lord. I’m still in stitches.

Birthday gifts are great fun. My Baby Sister gave me two dressy T-shirts because she says my T-shirts are not feminine enough. I don’t agree. I have one that says: “If a man speaks in the forest and there is no woman to hear, is he still wrong?” How do you get more feminine than that?

I hope to be around to celebrate more birthdays for a long time to come. I’m not ready to go to Heaven yet–presuming I will go Heaven, that is. At certain times, I’m not sure that my going to Heaven is a given.

One of those times occurs when I’m writing and I must sully my keyboard with some of the naughty words with which my characters insist on expressing themselves. Shameful. They make me want to wash my keyboard and my fingertips with penicillin.

Then there are the times when I experience a twinge (more like a stab) of envy when another writer experiences publishing success of some kind. I always feel petty afterward, I always remove the pins from the little doll afterward, and I always repent and sincerely congratulate the successful author afterward.

If I don’t go to Heaven, if I go in the other direction, I’m certain of the culprit: my writer’s mind. I don’t know if this happens to other writers, but my writer’s mind takes me elsewhere mentally no matter where I happen to be physically. I’m embarrassed to confess that I have been known to lose focus when I’m in church during Sunday mass. My writer’s mind wanders in the direction of my current work in progress. I find myself plotting when I should be praying. I’m hanging my head in shame as I write this, even though I know it is bound to happen again. ::sigh::

Macho Guy will be back from playing golf very soon, so I’m going to cut this short and get gussied up for my birthday dinner—and birthday cake, lots of chocolate birthday cake and ice cream. Mocha Almond Fudge, of course. Mmmmm. 🙂

What? I forgot to tell you how old I am? Well, they say the memory is the first to go.

Brrrrrrr—and I’m Down South!

Serious Whimsy 6 Responses »

Jan 302014

It’s 29ºF outside. The wind chill makes it feel like 20ºF. That wouldn’t be unusual or of particular interest for the month of January—except that I’m in Florida’s Panhandle where it’s not supposed to be 29ºF with a wind chill factor of 20ºF in January.

I’ve heard it said by some that global warming is to blame. Now that’s scary. If the Earth gets any warmer, we’re all going to freeze to death.

Macho Guy, Schnoodle Dog and I left Michigan to spend our winter vacation in the South to get away from that kind of cold. The idea was to spend time having fun in pleasant, warm and sunny weather. Ha! That is so not happening. Come to think of it, last year was pretty chilly too. It could be a seasonal weather pattern, but not one I’m in favor of.

When we first arrived in the panhandle this year, it rained and it was chilly. It rained quite a bit. It rained nearly every day for a week, and then it stopped. The sun came out for a couple of days, lulling us into a false sense of security. Yeppers, we fell for it.

When we least expected it, the weather gods played their nasty impractical joke on us. If you have been watching the national weather, you know that it’s cold down south, very cold. Not just very cold, mind you, it is freaking polar vortex cold down south.

This is not what winter weather down south is supposed to be like. It’s not supposed to be frigid, icy and snowing down south. It’s supposed to be sunny, pleasant and warm down south—even hot. I’m supposed to be spending my days wearing a swimsuit (one that covers as much of my mature figure as possible) and sunning myself on the sugar white sands of the shimmering Emerald Coast while reading a heart-warming and spicy romance novel. Macho Guy is supposed to spend his vacation playing bogey golf.

On the forecast of snow and/or sleet and ice, local school districts in this area of the panhandle ordered schools closed for the next 48 hours. Businesses closed. Golf courses closed.

When ice formed on the road surfaces, bridges and portions of interstate highways were closed. I’m guessing there was no line item in the transportation department’s budget for salt. Down south, I imagine they only use it for the rims of Margarita glasses.

Since it was too cold to do anything outside today but shiver, we decided to go to the movies. We bundled up in the winter coats we wore the day we left Michigan. There were only a few cars on the roads in addition to ours. We figured they belonged to “Snowbirds” like us who know how to drive in winter weather. Strangely enough, the roads we travelled were all clear.

We arrived at the theater only to find a notice taped to the entrance announcing that the theater was closed because of the inclement weather forecast. The second theater we tried was also closed. So was the nearby mall. It was mid-afternoon—broad daylight—and all the sidewalks had been pulled in.

There was nothing to do but go back to our rental cottage and sit around watching TV. Ho-Hum. We might as well have stayed in Michigan. If we were at home, we would not be paying rent in order to be bored stiff staying indoors in the winter. At home, we could be bored stiff staying indoors and shiver free of charge.

I am not pleased with this unexpected turn of events—and I am not taking it well. Neither is Macho Guy. We talked about a winter staycation for next year—where cold weather and snow wouldn’t come as a surprise and mess with our plans—and we talked about all the money we’d save. It sure is something to consider while we’re sitting around this rental cottage watching TV and being bored stiff.

I knew we should have packed a deck of cards. 🙁

My Dessert Quest

Serious Whimsy 3 Responses »

Jan 212014

It never fails. I find something I like. Something I really like. Something I totally like so much that I get hooked on it and then when I go looking for it again I can’t find it.

It could be anything: an exceptional new TV show, a delicious new cereal, or an oh so comfortable bra style. If I liked it, if I enjoyed it, if I wanted another, whatever it was would be doomed to cancellation or discontinuation.

Has that ever happened to you? It has happened to me so many times, I feel like a jinx. I’m afraid to like anything for fear of putting it in the crosshairs of termination.

While on winter vacation in Florida last year, it happened again. After nearly two months, Macho Guy and I reached the Key Lime Pie saturation point and went to Fresh Market in search of something—anything—different for dessert.

We were about a week from leaving for home and were trying to use up all the food left in the refrigerator and freezer, so we concluded it was best to keep it simple and go with that dependable old standby ice cream. In the interest of not having to throw out anything we didn’t eat, we decided to buy only one carton of ice cream.

Of course that meant selecting only one flavor. Uh-huh. You get the picture.

Macho Guy is a Butter Pecan man. I’m into any flavor as long as it is Chocolate. Would there be a duel to the death in the frozen food aisle—half-gallon ice cream cartons at ten paces? Neither of us was willing to surrender. A week and a half of dessertless dinners loomed on the horizon.

Usually when Macho Guy and I can’t agree on something, the rule is that we settle for a second or third choice that neither of us is particularly excited about but is willing to accept in the name of compromise. Ice cream flavors are an important exception to this rule. Taste buds are involved. One cannot settle for second or third best when it comes to ice cream. Our taste buds would rise in revolt.

Macho Guy blinked first. He threw up his hands in frustration, told me to get whatever I wanted, and walked away from the freezer section in a snit. I beat back the impulse to do a victory dance and was about to reach for the Chocolate-Chocolate Chip-Fudge when my conscience got the better of me.

Tsk, tsk. Thinking only of yourself. Is that how your parents raised you? For shame.

Oh, shoot. Just once, couldn’t I be a little bit naughty? Darn that conscience.

I sighed and virtuously went back to perusing additional selections to find a flavor both Macho Guy and I could live with. That’s when I spotted the winning candidate on the freezer shelf. There it was, a new flavor, one I’d never seen or heard of before—Mocha Almond Fudge.

It had to be delicious with a name like Mocha Almond Fudge. It had to be delectable with a name like Mocha Almond Fudge. It had to be decadent with a name like Mocha Almond Fudge. Not only that, it had both nuts and chocolate in it—something for both of us.

I yanked the freezer door open, grabbed the half-gallon of Mocha Almond Fudge, stowed it in my shopping cart and hunted Macho Guy down. He was still sulking like a two-year-old when I pulled up beside him at the Deli section’s olive bar and announced that I was all done shopping and ready to check out.

MACHO GUY: [with an air of martyrdom] Okay, what did you get?

ME: [coyly] Something different I wanted to try.

MACHO GUY: [peering into the shopping cart] What’s that?

ME: [bubbling with excitement] Mocha Almond Fudge.

MACHO GUY: [snorting derisively] I thought you said you got something different. Fudge is chocolate.

ME: [taken aback] Not just fudge—Mocha Almond Fudge. [reading from the description on the carton] “Coffee ice cream accented with chopped roasted almonds and a rich chocolate sundae sauce.” Sounds yummy, doesn’t it?

MACHO GUY: [unenthusiastically] I guess.

We had it for dessert that night. It tasted even better than its name sounded rolling off my tongue. We both loved it. We both had seconds. We both agreed that I was a genius for finding it.

We finished the half-gallon in a few days. We rushed back to Fresh Market to buy more. There wasn’t any.

Please, not again. I liked it a lot—loved it—so it’s gone forevermore. Why was I not surprised?

Disappointed, we left Fresh Market and stopped at a Publix supermarket on the way back to our rental condo. Ever hopeful, I was drawn to the frozen foods section to check out the ice cream. I scanned the ice cream freezer and—it couldn’t be, could it? Yes! It was! Blue Bell Mocha Almond Fudge—there on the shelf. I rejoiced—the jinx had been broken. Halleluiah! I couldn’t grab it fast enough.

We returned to Michigan in March, and I went grocery shopping on our second day home. I filled my cart with necessities and then headed for the frozen desserts. I scanned the ice cream freezers. Rocky Road. Moose Tracks. Chunky Monkey. Um, where was the Mocha Almond Fudge? I wasn’t seeing it. I scanned the freezers again, certain I must have missed it. I didn’t. I should have known it wouldn’t be there. I rejoiced too soon. The jinx had not been broken after all.

I refused to give up in spite of that initial setback. I searched and searched but couldn’t find Mocha Almond Fudge in any grocery or supermarket in my area of Michigan. It finally occurred to me that I could hunt for it more easily and efficiently online.

Yes! I found the Blue Bell Ice Cream website. I found Mocha Almond Fudge. I found joy. May God bless you, Google!

Uh-Oh. Now this couldn’t be good. Blue Bell distributes its ice cream in only 20 states. Michigan isn’t one of them. Bummer to the nth degree.

I reluctantly began to accept that Blue Bell Ice Cream is a southern thing and I would only get to enjoy Mocha Almond Fudge for the two months out of the year when Macho Guy and I winter in Florida. How unfair is that? ::sigh::

Hold on. I may have been too hasty. There were more results to check out.

Oooo! Dreyer’s/Edy’s Grand makes Mocha Almond Fudge and a Kroger store not far from me in Michigan carries it. Yay! Yippee! W00t! Dare I say “Halleluiah” again?

At last, my dessert quest reached a successful conclusion. Victory is so sweet. As Winston Churchill once said: “Never, never, never give up.” I’m glad I didn’t because now I can enjoy Mocha Almond Fudge in both Florida and Michigan.

Persistence may be its own reward, but I think I’ll reward myself with a dish of Mocha Almond Fudge. Care to join me? Just google it for a store near you that carries it. Your taste buds will be glad you did.

And So It Goes…Wrong

Serious Whimsy 4 Responses »

Jan 172014

Murphy’s Law merely states the obvious and inevitable. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

Here’s the way it was supposed to go.

Macho Guy, Schnoodle Dog and I take a pleasant, comfortable drive down South in clear driving weather, in excellent health and in high spirits, to spend a warm, joy-filled and fun week at Christmas with Firstborn and family in the Carolinas. Then our happy trio drives farther south for a cheery, upbeat New Year’s celebration and week-long visit in the Sunshine State with my fab Baby Sister, my seriously cool brother-in-law and their affectionate and unbelievably needy Viszla, in their new home. After that, we drive on up to Florida’s panhandle for a sunny and warm two months’ stay in a charming rental cottage near the enchanting Emerald Coast where I would write volumes and Macho Guy would play golf (under par, of course) three days a week in gorgeous weather while I write my masterpiece.

Enter Murphy’s Law, aka the downer known as reality.

Excellent Health? Right. I caught a nasty cold a week before we were to leave for Firstborn’s place. The cold got super nasty so I finally dragged my sorry self to the doctor the day before we left. She listened to my lungs, took x-rays and put me on high-octane antibiotics and two other major chemical concoctions for my not really a super nasty cold but actually a super nasty sinus/respiratory infection. I coughed up chunks of lung (I think it was lung) and got no sleep the night before we left. I was undead the following morning but with a bit of tinted moisturizer on my face, I passed for the living.

A comfortable, pleasant drive in clear weather? Not likely. We packed our Chevy Traverse a few inches from its roof with luggage and other travel necessities, leaving no room for comfort or maneuvering, and we hit the road. Rain was coming down when we pulled out of our driveway. It rained non-stop from Michigan to the Carolinas. I dislike driving in the rain, especially if the temperature is hovering at or around freezing, which it was when we started out. Scary, especially when largely insane drivers go zooming by as if they were qualifying for the Indianapolis 500.

High spirits? Oh, please. I coughed, sneezed and snuffled from Michigan to the Carolinas. The meds didn’t seem to help at all. I was out of sorts, irritable and—to be honest—totally bitchy. As a consequence I was a mostly, if not completely, obnoxious traveling companion. My bad.

A warm, joy-filled and fun week at Christmas? Guess again. When we finally arrived at Firstborn’s, the gang kept their distance having been forewarned that I was a walking petri dish swarming with bacteria. I couldn’t hug or kiss my grandchildren, a heartbreaking disappointment. I had to keep a safe distance when playing games with them too. ::sigh::

That wasn’t the only disappointment. We were at Firstborn’s for only two days when a major ice storm knocked out power to our area of Michigan. Little Brother, who also lives in Michigan with his family, drove to our house and hooked up a generator. Macho Guy refused to impose on our neighbors and insisted on driving home solo to keep the generator operating. Firstborn and I couldn’t talk him out of it, and he wouldn’t take me with him since I was still ill. On the way to Michigan, Macho Guy began feeling the symptoms of a cold and cough. [I can’t imagine how he caught it.] The power was out for several days, so Macho Guy spent Christmas alone in Michigan while nursing a nasty cold and cough, and I spent Christmas with our son and his family down south while nursing a super nasty sinus/respiratory infection. O joy. It was our first Christmas apart since we were married. Bummer doesn’t begin to cover the ground.

Our holiday plans suffered another setback while Macho Guy was holding down the fort in Michigan. Schnoodle Dog, who normally is able to go for eight hours or more without a pit stop, chose Firstborn’s home in which to lose control of his bladder indoors—on three occasions—while chasing after the family’s two female Labradoodles, the little lech. After the third embarrassing incident, we suspected a urinary tract infection.

The day after Macho Guy returned from Michigan, literally sick and tired, we postponed the next leg of our trip in order to take Schnoodle Dog to the Labradoodles’ vet. Schnoodle Dog had a UTI test (positive) and the vet’s examination revealed an enlarged prostate. She scheduled an ultrasound for the following day. Schnoodle Dog is our four-legged child. We were so worried about him that we delayed the Florida trip until we heard the ultrasound result. Fortunately, the enlargement was benign. Whew! Unfortunately, Schnoodle Dog has to wear an incontinence wrap temporarily. (It’s less humiliating for him than a doggie diaper.) Even more unfortunately, Schnoodle Dog will have to be neutered when we return home to eliminate the prostate problem. We haven’t told him. He is deaf; he wouldn’t hear us if we did tell him, but I suspect he read the vet’s lips. He’s been very clingy and more affectionate than usual since the vet visit, so I’m sure he’s on to us.

A cheery, upbeat New Year’s celebration and weeklong visit in the Sunshine State with my fab Baby Sister? Don’t I wish. By the time we dealt with Schnoodle Dog’s health problems, we ended up spending New Year’s Eve and Day with Firstborn and family, staying much longer than we planned. Since we missed our scheduled New Year’s visit with my Baby Sister and BIL by several days, our visit to their new home was scrubbed by mutual consent. Macho Guy and I drove directly to the panhandle from Firstborn’s place; Baby Sis, my BIL and their pampered pooch drove up to the panhandle to visit with us in our rental cottage instead.

A sunny and warm two months’ stay in a charming rental cottage? Seriously? It rained the entire first week, confining the four of us to indoor activities like hanging out at the cottage during the day watching movies from our DVD collection and hanging out at local bistros with live music at night. The sun came out at last the day before Baby Sis and her hubs were due to leave. It figured.

About Macho Guy’s golf. He missed out on his first three days of golf because of the wet weather. He prowled the cottage grumbling and muttering unpleasantries to himself. Once the weather dried up, he was able to play but again prowled the cottage grumbling and muttering unpleasantries to himself because of the inconsistency of his play. Still over par, dang it.

About my writing. I got back to writing once our houseguests departed, beginning with this blog post. Tomorrow, it’s back to the masterpiece. Okay, okay, so it’s back to the manuscript. [I was just thinking positively.]

And so it all went…not exactly the way we planned. Thanks a lot, Murphy.

My Writer’s Cave and Why I Love It

Serious Whimsy 6 Responses »

Jan 082014

Macho Guy and I fled south just before Christmas to escape the frigid Michigan weather. When we departed for warmer climes, I had to leave my beloved Writer’s Cave behind. I could hardly take it with me; it’s a room in our house.

It’s not any old room, mind you. It is strategically located in the Creativity Triangle, the place where uniquely brilliant ideas suddenly emerge from the wormhole connected to the collective unconscious and light the bulb over my head. I do my best work under the influence of my Writer’s Cave.

I am surrounded by books than inspire me in my Writer’s Cave: romance novels [naturally], science fiction [of course], mysteries, westerns, plays, poetry, memoirs, biographies, an eclectic assortment of non-fiction, multiple craft of writing books, and my old English Lit textbooks. [I’m sentimental about them.]

In my Writer’s Cave, books find a friendly home and express no desire to leave. They never complain about being crowded two and three deep on the shelves of my five bookcases, on my wall shelf, or on the hutch shelves above my corner computer desk. The volumes in my To-Be-Read Pile never express resentment for being stacked on the floor when I run out of shelf space. My books are also very gracious about being loaned to my book-loving family and friends, especially to those who have roomy bookshelves.

Artwork on the walls of my Writer’s Cave also plays a part in providing inspiration to me. A caricature of me done at a science fiction convention by the late Kelly Freas, the Dean of Science Fiction Illustrators, hangs on one wall. A pen and ink sketch of Star Trek’s Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock hangs beside it. I have three acrylic spacescapes and a print of “Earthrise” on adjacent walls.

Macho Guy gave me the gift of music several Christmases ago—a Bose Radio/CD Player that sits atop one of my file cabinets. For emotional inspiration, I listen to Andrea Bocelli. [Love that voice!] When I’m plotting, I insert a Mozart CD; he gets my inventive juices flowing. When I write earthy romantic scenes, I play the Russians: Rachmaninoff, Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin. I break out Ravel for much steamier scenes. Howard Hanson’s “Romantic Symphony” works well for afterglow.

Macho Guy also created a supply cabinet for me from an old used vertical double-locker. He painted it an off-white shade and fitted it with shelves for the office supplies that didn’t fit in my desk. The DIY Network would be proud of him.

I confess that I’ve been spoiled by the hardware and peripherals I managed to accumulate over the years. I adore my Officejet Pro All-in-One Printer-Copier-Scanner-Fax. I don’t have to run out for those services; I can do it all right there in my Writer’s Cave. [If Macho Guy hadn’t taken his golf clubs, I could have taken the Officejet with me.]

The external flat screen monitor on my computer desk, the external stereo speakers, and the external Apple keyboard and trackpad are added conveniences when working at my desk on my MacBook Pro. So are my comfortable, adjustable computer chair and the worktable opposite my computer desk.

On the subject of my corner computer desk, all I can say is that it is perfect for my needs. Most everything is at my fingertips: a file drawer for important files; a drawer for pencils, pens, etc.; a deep drawer for notepads, journals and other paper supplies, under-desktop drawers for the external keyboard and trackpad; a shelf for the modem; desktop space for a phone, an electric pencil sharpener, file racks for frequently used files, a postal scale, and a cup warmer for my tea or hot chocolate [depending on my mood].

My eyes are misting as I write this. Here in our rental cottage in Florida’s panhandle, I am making do with a very basic setup. I am sitting on a kitchen dinette chair instead of a computer chair. For a desk, I’m using a folding table. The only pieces of office hardware I was able to take with me were my MacBook Pro and a portable Deskjet printer. I sneaked my iPad and Kindle into an extra compartment in my wheeled computer case, and I managed to squirrel my electric pencil sharpener into the one box in which I fit only the most necessary of files. I had to leave the cup warmer at home.

Damn, I miss my Writer’s Cave!

The cover photo on my Facebook page is of the computer desk in my Writer’s Cave. To see what I left behind in order to stay warm for a few months, click on the following link—

https://www.facebook.com/JolanaMalkston

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Happy Birthday to Me

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Brrrrrrr—and I’m Down South!

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My Dessert Quest

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And So It Goes…Wrong

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My Writer’s Cave and Why I Love It

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