Since January 11 when I tripped, fell, and broke my hip, writing has been difficult. I’ve been held hostage to pain with no tolerable pain killer able to ransom me. When I say tolerable pain killer, that means any pain killer that could reduce my pain without turning me into a zoned out zombie barely able to keep my eyes open, remain conscious, or form a coherent thought–much less write a coherent sentence.
Following hip pinning surgery that ultimately proved unsuccessful, I was shipped off to physical rehab for about two weeks of various means of pain-causing torture. It’s worth mentioning that I have a pretty high tolerance for pain. My baseline for pain is labor and childbirth. Anything less is a minor inconvenience.
As a consequence, I didn’t have a clue of how to interpret the scale of pain represented by the happy to unhappy faces on the cutesy pain chart the nurse in physical rehab showed me. She said the painkiller the doctor would prescribe would be based on my level of pain. Okay. Sure, That’ll be easy enough.
The very unhappy face (#9) before the weeping face (#10), matched my mood because I was very unhappy and in pain but I wasn’t weeping. Naturally, I chose the very unhappy face. It was a perfect fit.
Little did I know that weeping face (#10) equaled a trip to the emergency room, and the very unhappy face (#9) was excruciating pain one step below that. Given my choice, the doctor prescribed oxycontin for me.
No matter how much something hurts any part of your body, never, never, ever take oxycontin. You’d be better off suffering. Oxycontin will turn you into the aforementioned zoned out zombie barely able to keep your eyes open, remain conscious, or form a coherent thought. Your most intelligible vocabulary will consist of the following words: huh, yes, no, huh, what, why, huh, who me, huh?
The physical and occupational therapists realized early on that I was completely out of it. One of them nicknamed me “the stoner baby.” Hey, I got all the way through the sixties and beyond without once getting stoned. This was so not me and a total embarrassment.
The therapists reported my condition to my nurses, and the doctor immediately changed my medication. No more industrial strength drugs for me.
When I regained my senses, the therapists informed me that during the session when I was…you know…stoned, I performed the therapy exercises as if they were a piece of cake. One of them kept asking me, “Who are you?”
Damned if I know. After all, I was…um…stoned at the time.
In my circle of family and friends, I am a well-known klutz. I spill things. I tear things. I drop things. I knock things over. I trip over things. I fall over things. I break things. After spending only one glorious week in the lovely beachfront condo, I managed a trifecta.
I tripped on a concrete block in a mall parking lot.
I fell over the concrete block in the mall parking lot.
I broke my left hip when I hit the pavement after tripping and falling over the concrete block in the mall parking lot–after which the entire Milky Way Galaxy appeared before my eyes.
Other galaxies joined the Milky Way when I was shoehorned into the front seat of my Baby Sister’s vehicle and again when I was extracted from said vehicle at the emergency medical center. My agony increased exponentially when I was informed of the break.
Two painful thoughts immediately sprang to mind: the surgery I would have to undergo to repair the hip, and all those stairs at the condo that I would not be able to climb without weeks of physical therapy.
There went all our winter vacation plans and our non-refundable, paid in advance rental fee for the condo. Bummer. We would have been better off had we remained in Michigan. I know for a fact that I would have.
The irony that surrounds this unfortunate incident? The concrete block that I tripped on and fell over in the mall parking lot, breaking my left hip, was located in a handicap parking space.
What are the odds?
Spoiler Alert: If you haven’t seen Star Wars: The Force Awakens as yet, and you’re determined to see it, don’t read any further until after you’ve kissed your hard-earned bucks goodbye. If you take my advice, I can save you the price of admission and the cost of all those overpriced concession items. Don’t go to see it. Just rent videos of the original Star Wars Trilogy—still the best of the Star Wars films—and you’ll see just about everything that is in the new ballyhooed Star Wars film in theaters now. It’s merely a clone of the firstest and bestest.
I confess. I’m a Star Wars fan—but only of the original three films, now designated as episodes four, five, and six. I saw all of them multiple times. Unfortunately, the three prequels stunk up theaters around the world. I’m not as easy to please as other Star Wars fans who buy into all the media hype about the new film. It is my considered opinion that George Lucas should have ended the saga with the original trilogy and quit when he and the saga were on top. Always leave them wanting more, George, so you don’t end up disappointing them by giving them less than they expected, which you did.
I was concerned when you sold your cash cow Star Wars franchise to Disney Studios. I suppose it wasn’t possible for you to sneer at the bundle of cash Disney dangled in front of you, but I shuddered at the thought that Disney might turn Star Wars into High School Musical in Space.
I saw SW7 once. It was one time too many. I believe a more descriptive title for Star Wars: Episode VII—The Force Awakens would have been Star Wars: Episode VII—The Force Falters or Star Wars: Episode VII—Déjà Vu. Take away the brand new updated computerized special effects and all you have left is a tired, derivative, repetitious story line.
The only thing new in the SW7 story line was that this time around the writers gave callow Luke Skywalker a sex change operation, turning him into feisty female loner and survivor Rey. My guess is that afterward the writers ate the shooting scripts of the original Star Wars Trilogy and puked out SW7.
A partial list of what they regurgitated:
- A rag-tag, outnumbered but defiant rebel/resistance force fights against a powerful evil overlord of the Dark Side, (Supreme Leader in place of Evil Emperor), his primary Sith Lord henchman, and his minions.
- An about-to-be-captured resistance pilot who is on a secret mission hides the vital information he obtained in the Disney-cute little droid B8—the same way Princess Leia hid the Death Star plans in the iconic cute little droid R2-D2.
- A hero in spite of himself helps the captive resistance pilot escape—similar to the rescue of Princess Leia from the Death Star.
- A young orphan (female this time) protagonist who is strong with the force and is living on a desert world—like Luke Skywalker—acquires the Disney-cute little droid B8—as Luke Skywalker acquired the iconic cute little droid R2-D2.
- Stormtroopers come looking for the droid and attack.
- The young female protagonist and the hero in spite of himself escape the stormtroopers in the Millennium Falcon hunk of junk spacecraft from the original trilogy and engage in a space dogfight with the bad guys just like the space dogfight in the original Star Wars
- Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi went into self-exile on the desert planet Tatooine when promising pupil [Anakin Skywalker] turns to the Dark Side and becomes Darth Vader, a Lord of the Sith. Jedi Luke Skywalker went into self-exile, destination unknown, when his pupil, Han and Leia’s son and Darth Vader’s grandson, turns to the Dark Side and becomes Sith Lord Kylo Ren.
- Keeping the evil in the family: in the original trilogy, the Evil Emperor’s attack dog is Luke Skywalker’s father Darth Vader; in SW7, the evil overlord’s attack dog is Luke Skywalker’s nephew (and Leia’s son) Kylo Ren.
- A force field generator has to be taken out [Again?] so the rebels/resistance fighter pilots can penetrate the enemy’s defenses [Again?] and destroy the enemy’s planet killer weapon [Again?]—just as it happened in the original trilogy with the Death Star. Golly gee whiz. Can’t the writers come up with Plan B?
- Obi-Wan was Luke’s father figure and mentor. He died fighting Sith Lord Darth Vader. Han Solo was Rey’s father figure and a bit of a mentor. He dies, assassinated by his Sith Lord son Kylo Ren.
An actually enjoyable part of SW7 that is reminiscent of the lighthearted tone of the original Star Wars movie occurs when Han Solo and Chewbacca appear on the scene. After he captures and reclaims the Millennium Falcon, two groups of disgruntled defrauded customers of Solo’s show up to collect their due. When Rey accidentally frees the dangerous tentacled creatures Solo has aboard the freighter, the mayhem that ensues is hilarious.
While I like a strong female protagonist, she needs to be believable at the very least. Rey wasn’t. She was too good to be true. She knows how to do everything she attempts and does it well. Seriously? Who can do that—other than Star Trek’s android Commander Data?
Luke and all the other Jedi Knights before him needed Jedi masters to train them. Luke had Obi-Wan and Yoda to train him through two of the Star Wars movies. Rey had no one to train her, but she learns to manage the force all by herself before the end of one movie. You go, Girl!
Luke was unaware that his father’s light saber was in Obi Wan’s possession. However, Luke’s light saber calls to Rey and she finds it on her own. She enters the underground chamber and after touching the light saber, she has visions in a similar manner to the way Luke did when he entered the cave as part of his Jedi training with Master Yoda.
Maz tells Rey the light saber is hers now because she heard it call to her. Ray soon recognizes that she has Force power and trains herself. Hot damn, she’s good. No mentor or Jedi Master needed. Holy Jedi Mind Trick. I mean, just wow.
When she is captured, shortly after realizing she has power, Rey uses the same “Jedi Mind Trick” Obi Wan Kenobi, a Jedi master, used on storm troopers in Mos Eisley Spaceport, and she compels her guard to set her free. Oh, please. That’s just too much. Now I’m laughing. The writers copied just about everything else from the original trilogy. How did they get that so wrong?
Even more unbelievable, the self-taught Rey defeats Sith Lord Kylo Ren in a light saber duel. Seriously? Impossibly implausible, but by that point I already lost my willingness to suspend my disbelief. Samuel Taylor Coleridge would have been right there alongside me.
Killing off Han Solo the way the writers did was nothing short of dramatic malpractice. It was a gratuitous and ignominious death. Solo was a hero—a hero in spite of himself, to be sure, but a hero nonetheless. He deserved a heroic death. He deserved to die fighting or at least die sacrificing his life to save someone else the way Finn did. Solo didn’t deserve to be killed off just so Rey could “inherit” the Falcon and Chewbacca as well, no questions asked.
I found the film’s direction to be choppy, almost episodic. And boo, hiss to director J.J. Abrams for stomping on Leia’s reaction when she senses Han Solo’s pointless death. The man she loves just died at the hands of their evil son and the director allows her a mere cringe and facial expression of sorrow. That’s it? That’s all? That’s criminally negligent, Mr. Director. I realize Leia is a strong woman, but come on. Not even one measly teardrop? And when she sends Rey off to find her brother Luke, all Leia says is “May the Force be with you.” Again, that’s it? That’s all? A human being with real emotions would say something else as well. Something like, “Find Luke and bring him back, Rey. The resistance needs him, and I need him. He’s all the family I have left now.”
The producers, writers, and director missed so many opportunities to make a better movie that it is beyond comprehension. What it also behind comprehension is the amount of praise that many are heaping on what is essentially a remake that is not anywhere near as good as the original.
Don’t panic. We’re not breaking up. My replacement New Year’s Eve date is my wacky and vivacious Baby Sister. Yes, she is. Seriously. I’m not joking. Permit me to explain.
We follow the same routine every winter come December. After spending Christmas with either Firstborn down south or his Little Brother up north, we drive down to my Baby Sister’s place in Florida to celebrate the New Year with her and my brother-in-law.
Our New Year’s Eve plans never vary. Mature cave dwellers that we are, we eschew noisy clubs or restaurants in favor of the cozy and relaxed atmosphere of remaining in our cave.
The hunters are in charge of providing the animal flesh for our feast. They seek the best possible cut of steaks and a full-bodied red wine—Cabernet Franc and Malbec are favorites. They then spread their bounty before us upon their return. The other gatherer and I assemble the ingredients for a salad and side dishes, crusty French bread, and key lime pie for dessert.
The hunters, of course, claim the masculine right of charring the animal flesh they procured on the hunt. They do so over an open fire outdoors—on a gas barbecue grill—while the lowly gatherers inside the cave’s kitchen prepare the rest of the feast.
In the early evening, the hunters begin toasting the New Year. While they grill the animal flesh, they engage in a masculine ritual that involves imbibing alcoholic spirits that have been poured over ice chunks in beverage containers. They refill these beverage containers frequently and then continue toasting and grilling. The animal flesh cooks and the hunters’ brains pickle at about the same rate of speed. Done at last!
The gatherers, who wisely remained sober early in the evening, had the accompaniments ready for some time. When the hunters enter with the charred animal flesh, they spread the entire feast on the table. The consumption begins in earnest.
During the feast, the now extremely mellow hunters switch to the red wine to toast the New Year. The more wine they imbibe, the sillier the toasts. The sillier the toasts, the louder their laughter. The gatherers glance at each other and roll their eyes.
Following dessert, the hunters and gatherers retire to the living area and turn on the TV to watch the New Year’s Eve celebratory programming. After a brief interlude—very brief—snoring on the part of the hunters begins to drown out the audio portion of the New Year’s Eve broadcast—even the heavy metals bands. The gatherers shake the hunters awake and chastise them for their drunkenness, for their snoring, and for being the worst New Year’s Eve dates ever.
The hunters doze off again, and the snoring resumes. The gatherers turn up the TV volume. Not to be outdone, the hunters snore even louder. The gatherers admit defeat. Better to be dateless than to endure more of this boorish behavior. They order the hunters to bed. The hunters oblige and, with no small assistance from the gatherers, they retire for the night (and most of the next morning).
The gatherers return to the cave’s living area to view the New Year’s Eve programming without the hunters’ additional sound effects. Together, they watch the ball drop, break out the noisemakers, hug and kiss, and toast the New Year with Champagne. The two polish off the bottle of Champagne and stay up for hours happily reminiscing about the good old days before heading off to bed on January 1st.
And that is the true and unadulterated explanation of how my Baby Sister became my annual New Year’s Eve date—in perpetuity.
Just about everyone who knows me is aware that I am all thumbs when it comes to crafts. I can paint a fairly decent picture, and I can take darn good photos, but when it comes to doing the kind of craft that involves dexterity and coordination, I’m not your girl.
Case in point: my childhood, when Nonna [Grandma] decided to pass her old country [Sicily] craft and cooking skills on to me.
Cooking lessons, which Nonna believed were the most important for a future Italian-American housewife, came first. Fortunately for Macho Guy, I aced the cooking lessons. I make a topnotch white clam sauce and a mean Baked Ziti.
When it came to the crafts, however, I was at the bottom of the deck. Every weekday when I arrived home from elementary school, Nonna and I would have tea and biscotti [I was deemed too young for espresso] followed almost immediately by torture. That’s what the craft lessons were for me. Torment. Misery. Agony of the highest order.
Nonna began the craft lessons with beginner crocheting. She showed me the basic techniques. Nonna’s hands moved so quickly they looked as if they were on fast forward. I asked her to demonstrate more slowly and she did. I attempted to duplicate her movements. I failed. She crocheted a two-inch doily in the time it took me to complete three stitches in a row without dropping one. We made the mutual decision that crocheting and I were not made for each other.
Then came knitting. Nonna thought I would do better at knitting because the needles, the yarn, and the stitches were bigger and thicker—easier for me to manipulate. It was a sound theory that we were unable to prove true. I struggled with knit one, drop one, purl one, drop two, and so on. Meanwhile, Nonna’s knitting needles moved so quickly all I saw was a blur. We made the mutual decision that knitting and I were not made for each other either.
We went back to cooking lessons where I was her star pupil. Thank you, Nonna!
A couple of weekends ago, I babysat four of my grandchildren while their parents were in Indianapolis at the Michigan State/Iowa game. It was too cold for outdoor games. The kids played on their tablets, played with trains, cars and trucks, played with Grandma’s jewelry, watched a video, read stories, drew with crayons, and then they began to look bored. Uh-oh.
In an act of bravado that may go down in history, or may be diagnosed as a case of temporary insanity, I suggested making homemade Christmas ornaments. The moment the words tripped over my tongue and passed through my lips, I cringed. My incompetence was about to be exposed in front of my grandchildren. What had I done? Naturally, the kids thought making their own Christmas ornaments was a great idea, so I couldn’t let on that I didn’t know the first thing about crafting Christmas ornaments. I had to think fast. Fortunately, inspiration struck.
Google it!
I went online and the kids helped me search for homemade Christmas ornaments. We struck out several times—a bunch of them were too hard to make, and we didn’t have all the materials to make some others. Finally, we found a template we could adapt to the materials we had, and it actually appeared to be easy to make. Victory was at hand. After printing copies of the template, and assembling corrugated paper, colored construction paper, old Christmas cards, glue sticks, string, and scissors, we got to work. The results were not at all embarrassing and were surprisingly satisfactory—even kind of cute.
Since we’ll be on the road before Christmas, we didn’t have a tree set up on which we could hang the newly crafted ornaments.
As luck would have it, we experienced a Christmas miracle—multi-colored Christmas lights on a decorative artificial birch tree in the living room. MG and I never noticed that we left the lights on it a few Christmases ago. We turned on the lights and the kids hung their creations on the little birch tree. Success! Who would have believed it?
No one. That’s why I took this photo.
Our local chapter of Romance Writers of America® has a combination writing challenge and chapter fund raiser that we call “I Will Write a Book.” Any member entering submits the title of her Work in Progress and five dollars by June 30. The challenge is to then submit the last page of the completed manuscript by November 30. All who finish have their names entered in the drawing for the cash award. The chapter gets one half of the cash entry fees; the drawing winner gets the other. There is nothing like a cash payday to get a writer motivated.
Along about November 1st, the procrastinators among us suddenly realize time is running out—thirty days to deadline. Other writers have already submitted their last pages. We have several chapters yet to go and may not finish in time. The horror!
You may have already surmised that I was among the procrastinators. Never fear. I determined to buckle down and make it to the finish line.
I advised Macho Guy that in the month of November, while I was trying to finish my manuscript by the deadline, the dinner menus would be sparse in the category of culinary delights. Only dishes that took minimal preparation time would grace our dinner table. Pizza (from the supermarket frozen food department), chili, fried chicken take out, Chinese take out, Deli take out, canned soup and salad, chicken nuggets, hot dogs, PB&Js, and anything he might choose to cook while I wrote, etc. He suffered in silence, thank heaven.
As the days went by, I became more and more driven to finish the damn book. I started skipping little things to have more writing time. I showered and shampooed every other day, then every third day, then every fifth day, and finally only on Sundays before church. Showering and shampooing took up too much time when I could have been writing. I skipped exercising for the same reason, and I skipped lunch when MG wasn’t at home.
The most important item of all that I did without was enough sleep. I got less and less as the month wore on. At first, I stayed up about an hour past my usual bedtime, and then it was two hours past, then three, then four, and finally five hours past bedtime on the last two nights before deadline. During the last week of November, I was getting between four and five hours sleep a night. I don’t know how Einstein and Edison managed it.
The main reason I got so little sleep is that Schnoodle Dog never lets me sleep past 8:30 a.m. most mornings, even on the morning after a late night of writing. MG taught the little guy to wake me in the morning when he was just a pup. Schnoodle Dog takes his job very seriously, and MG appears to take perverse pleasure in seeing the little guy rub his cold wet nose on my face. ::shudder::
Well, I finished the damn book, but sleep deprivation took its toll. I was so exhausted Tuesday morning that I never made it out of my pajamas and had to take a nap that afternoon. I couldn’t bear to sit at the computer for another day of writing, so I postponed writing my blog post for a day. It was for the best. My brain was mush. I actually had trouble thinking and remembering. I believe I lost half my vocabulary—temporarily. It found its way back home today.
I’m afraid to read the last two chapters of the manuscript. I have the nagging suspicion that as sleep deprived as I was, I most likely wrote crap there at the end. That isn’t the worst of it. I had to slap all the chapters together into one document file and paginate it so I could submit that last numbered page. I discovered that my manuscript is too long—195 pages too long. I have a bit of cutting to do before revisions and polish. O joy.
I confess. I marched in a protest once. Several female students and I felt compelled to object to a new admissions policy at Hunter College, one of the oldest colleges established for women only [1870] in the USA. We learned from a very reliable inside source that the administration was changing its admissions policy. The minimum high school grade average for admission was 90% for entering freshmen. Hunter’s administration decided to lower the admission average from 90% to 80% but only for a specific demographic group not particularly bright enough to matriculate at Hunter under standard admissions policy.
We were outraged at this special treatment policy, of course, so we staged a very peaceful and civilized protest. We marched up and down the sidewalk carrying handmade signs and were very respectful and well mannered. No one rioted or destroyed property. No one swore. No one waved the one finger salute. The only reason we raised our voices at all was to articulate our one demand of Hunter’s administration: Ban the Boys!
Pretty tame compared to today’s campus protests, right?
The mature adults amongst us today who viewed current protests on television and YouTube experienced a rude awakening, with particular emphasis on rude, since many of the student protestors displayed their advanced proficiency in profanity. The thought that these young people might possibly be our nation’s leaders someday made me cringe. I can’t begin to imagine a presidential primary debate with the candidates right up in each other’s faces spewing profanity.
If one particular protestor’s bleeped out potty mouth rant made me cringe, I had to wonder how that protestor’s parents might have reacted upon seeing the fruit of their loins as the star of a YouTube cellphone video in which she cussed out a university staff member at the top of her lungs. Would it have gone something like this?
MOM: [sitting at her computer] Honey, I just got an email from Mrs. Busybody next door. She said her son saw our daughter swearing big time in a disgusting YouTube video. She sent me the link.
DAD: Our daughter? That idiot son of hers must be mistaken.
MOM: That’s what I thought.
DAD: Well, click on that link and go ahead and play it.
Mom plays the video and both watch, slack jawed.
MOM: Oh. My. God. That is our daughter.
DAD: What the [expletive deleted]? Where the [expletive deleted] did she learn [expletive deleted] language like that?
MOM: No idea, Sweetheart. [major eye roll]
DAD: [grabbing the cordless telephone from the mom’s desk] I’m going to call that [expletive deleted] little garbage mouth and give her a piece of my mind.
MOM: Now, Honey, try not to overreact.
DAD: Didn’t you just watch the same [expletive deleted] video I did?
MOM: [deep sigh] Yes.
DAD: [speaking into phone] Guess what, Little Girl, your mom and I just watched your video on YouTube.
LITTLE GIRL: Yeah. I really told that guy off. Cool, wasn’t it?
DAD: Cool? Young lady, you were spouting language that would make a sailor blush.
LG: So?
DAD: [covers mouthpiece and whispers] You need to hear this too. [puts the phone on speaker] We didn’t send you to college so you could go around cussing people out and making a spectacle of yourself.
LG: It’s called protesting, Dad. Political action is an important part of the college experience.
DAD: Is that what you’re majoring in? Political action? Is that what your tuition pays for?
LG: Oh, please.
DAD: Don’t you “Oh, please” me. I want to know what I’m getting for my money. I want to see what classes you’re taking, and I want to see your grades.
LG: Sorry. You don’t get to see any of those things. I’m over 18. I’m an adult. The university sends my grades to me, only me. I get to make my own decisions about my education. You don’t have any say in that.
DAD: That’s bull [expletive deleted]. I’m the one writing the checks. Your mother and I could have travelled, could have had a bigger house, and could have had more than one car. We sacrificed a lot to save enough money to send you to a prestigious college. I decide if you go to class or [expletive deleted] away your time “protesting” like a godless communist.
LG: That bourgeois attitude is so typical of white privileged males like you. You’re an anachronism and an embarrassment to me.
DAD: What the [expletive deleted] is white privilege?
LG: Don’t pretend ignorance, Dad. You know very well what it is. You live it every day.
DAD: I don’t know what the [expletive deleted] you’re talking about. Who the [expletive deleted] is brainwashing you with this [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted]?
LG: No one is brainwashing me. My professors have assured me that by protesting, I’m doing my part to put an end to oppression and offensive speech.
DAD: From what I heard on that video, you’re the one contributing to offensive speech.
LG: That’s it. I don’t have to listen to any more of your insults. Good-bye.
DAD: Don’t you dare hang up on me, you ungrateful little [expletive deleted]. Hello? Hello? [puts phone back in its cradle]
MOM: [wiping her eyes with a tissue] If that girl was our daughter once, she isn’t any longer. What on earth have those college professors done to her?
DAD: Turned her into that girl from The Exorcist. Maybe her head spins around now too.
MOM: [sighs] I think we may be partly to blame for the way she turned out.
DAD: Us? How?
MOM: We wanted her to have an easier time growing up than we had. We gave her everything she ever wanted—even that new car we really couldn’t afford. We never said no to her.
DAD: And this is the way she repays us. [shakes his head]
MOM: Hmmm. I just realized something. We should give her what she wants one last time.
DAD: Are you nuts? After the disrespectful way she spoke to me?
MOM: Trust me. [picks up her cellphone and begins texting] It’s time—actually past time—for some tough love. I’ll copy you.
MOM’S TEXT TO LG: You were correct, my dear daughter. You are an adult and we were wrong not to treat you as one. We will do so starting right now. As an adult, you are responsible for yourself. We’ve decided to respect that, so as of today, you’re on your own. We will stop paying for your tuition, room and board. You might ask one of the protest-happy professors you so admire to lend you the money for your tuition and to put you up until you can find a job and a place to live. We will also stop making the loan and insurance payments on that brand new car you couldn’t live without. Those are your debts now. From what you told your father, we’re sure it would weigh heavily on your conscience and no doubt compromise your integrity to continue living off such bourgeois and politically incorrect parents. We’re also certain you wouldn’t want to live under our oppressive white privileged roof ever again, so we are going to remodel your old bedroom. I’ve always wanted to have a sewing room. We’ll put to good use all the tuition money we saved and once intended for you. Now that you made it clear you’re an adult and we’re no longer legally bound to support you, we’re going to live it up in grand style and travel the world. Good-bye, my dear politically correct daughter, and good luck. You’re going to need it.
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It could be worse. You could be watching TV and see a new invention or new product advertised and get a sinking feeling in your gut because you thought of that exact idea years ago. Unfortunately, it never occurred to you to take that idea and run with it—produce it and market it—and maybe get rich. So you palm slap your forehead and sulk because someone stole your inspired idea and your potential millions.
I experience that sinking feeling every time I eat a breakfast sandwich or see one advertised on a billboard or TV. It doesn’t matter if it is a McDonald’s Egg McMuffin, or a Hardee’s breakfast biscuit, or whatever handy-dandy breakfast sandwich other restaurants serve. I look at them and their popularity, and I feel as if my dad and I were robbed.
Why robbed, you may ask? I’ll tell you why. My dad invented and perfected the breakfast sandwich many, many years ago. Really. Seriously. Absolutely.
When my Baby Sister and I were growing up, weekend mornings were special because we got to have breakfast with our dad. During the week, Dad was up and off to work before Baby Sister and I awoke to get ready for school. On weekends, he was there when we awoke, and he cooked our breakfast in grand style.
We had a special weekend breakfast routine. On Saturday mornings, we were treated to Dad’s blueberry pancakes and link sausages. On Sundays, Dad would rise early and dash off to a local mom and pop bakery to buy a mix of rolls and bagels. (He would also pick up a crumb coffee cake for breakfast dessert.) Once he returned home with his bounty, he would scramble eggs and fry up bacon. The delectable aroma of bacon sizzling in a cast iron pan wafted from the kitchen and traveled throughout our apartment. ::drool::
Dad set out platters of the sandwich ingredients on the dining room table and the sandwich assembling began. We had the choice of a hard roll, onion roll, or bagel. Dad cut our choice of roll or bagel in two, slathered them with real butter, piled one half with fluffy scrambled eggs and crisp bacon, and topped it with the other half. That first mouthwatering bite was so heavenly. The breakfast sandwiches at today’s fast food restaurants are but pale imitations of Dad’s homemade masterpieces.
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I was every bit as inventive as Dad. I created the Egg McMuffin before it existed.
You doubt me? O ye of little faith. Read on and believe.
I worked at an advertising agency in Manhattan. [I wasn’t a genuine mindbender. I was an assistant to and a ghostwriter for one of the chief mindbenders.] To avoid the suffocating rush hour crowds on public transportation, and get to work on time, I had to leave home extra early—sans makeup. [Most of the other subway commuters were sleeping in their seats or hanging onto a strap half-asleep, and so were spared being scarred for life.]
I’d become nauseated if I ate breakfast before riding the bus and subway to work, so I chose to get to the office before everyone else, put on my makeup, and have breakfast at my desk. Once I arrived, I called a local cafe and ordered breakfast to be delivered. I then went into the ladies lounge to apply my makeup.
I was back at my desk when my breakfast order arrived: coffee, orange juice, a hard cooked egg, two strips of bacon, and a buttered English muffin. I sliced the egg and layered the egg slices and the bacon strips between the muffin halves and voila—my very own Egg McMuffin, ahead of its time.
It never dawned on Dad or me that our brilliant breakfast concoctions would be huge moneymakers some day. Opportunity knocked and we did not answer the door. Others did, appropriating our brilliant ideas and future millions, and became filthy rich instead of us.
So, why am I not rich? Sadly, the answer is obvious and succinct.
You snooze; you lose.
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I participated in a getaway with a group of writers this past weekend. Ours was a different kind of weekend getaway—a working weekend getaway. The getaway part involved removing ourselves from the typical household distractions writers—women writers in particular—encounter on a daily basis. We left our homes and their distractions behind beginning on a Friday afternoon, and then our “Write In” began.
There were twelve weekend warrior writers in all. Once we arrived at Lily Hill Farm Bed and Breakfast, our huge yet cozy retreat venue for the weekend, the first order of business involved setting our writing goals for the weekend. Everyone’s goals were posted; there would be accountability. We were there to write and write we did. We helped one another too, doing a bit of brainstorming here and there.
Everyone eschewed the formal and fashionable and adopted the casual and comfortable. Baggy clothes we would never wear in public and sneakers or fuzzy sleep socks and slippers were the order of the day.
Some of us didn’t bother to apply makeup—it was Halloween weekend, so no one was the least bit frightened. Some of us unapologetically sported bed hair in the morning. Some of us didn’t bother to take time out to shower when they could use the time to write instead.
We ate and drank whenever and whatever we wanted. We had no curfew. We wrote as much or as little as we were able, alone in our rooms or in the common areas beside someone else. Not once did we watch television. I doubt anyone missed it. I didn’t.
Our intrepid group got together at mealtime for food, fun, and fellowship. Trust me when I say we ate well. Too well. We all brought way too much food from home to share during the write in, all of it too delicious to pass up. [It’s been three days, and I still haven’t mustered the courage to step onto my bathroom scale.]
Our room assignments varied, as did the unique room layouts. A few had their own private rooms. Others of us had roommates. My roommate and I were in Treehouse 1, aptly named because the room was on the second floor up a long ::gasp:: seemingly endless flight of stairs. That may have been a good thing because going up and down those stairs was the only exercise we got all weekend, a break from sitting on our hind ends for hours while we wrote.
The write in was a huge success, at once energizing and relaxing, productive and fun. I’m delighted and proud to report that the members of our group either met their stated goals [I met mine!] or achieved at least seventy percent worth. All of us were sorry to see the weekend come to an end and wanted to stay longer. We enjoyed it so much that we decided to make it an annual event.
Given the laid back ambiance of our write in weekend, in many respects it strikes me that it could very well be the literary and slightly more refined equivalent of a hunter’s deer camp. Or not.
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It has been said that humans are the only creatures on Earth that will take another species into their homes simply for the pleasure of its company. If true, it may be our only redeeming virtue.
Raising a pet carries with it many of the same responsibilities as raising a child–a human child, that is.
As we all know a pet quickly becomes a member of the family, a four-legged child who must be fed nutritious meals, provided with health care, must be taught to obey the rules whether home-schooled or obedience school trained, and must be potty trained. I recently saw a YouTube video of a German Shepherd standing on its hind legs and using the porcelain facility. Good luck trying to train Schnoodle Dog to do that. For one thing, his legs aren’t long enough. So outdoors he goes, rain or shine.
I’m not heartless. I won’t let him out to get drenched when it rains or in winter to freeze while he answers the call of nature. Schnoodle Dog has wardrobe: a storm coat, a winter coat, snow booties, two sweaters, and two Halloween costumes. He also has luggage, a large tote bag of his very own, for when he travels with us.
Schnoodle Dog is older now, 16 1/2 to be exact, so his potty trained years are only a fond memory. These days he has to wear a padded incontinence wrap. [FYI, to spare his feelings, we refer to the wrap as “his pants.”] It reminds me of the icky diaper changing days when both our boys were babies. Schnoodle Dog still has occasional accidents of the fluid kind even while wearing the wrap–er–his pants. Those little leaks are nothing like the accident he had this past weekend.
We were away for a few days with friends, and we left Schnoodle Dog in a nearby kennel we used on several occasions but hadn’t used much since our four-legged child began to show his age. When we collected him, the kennel owners told us that he was fine the first two days but started whining and barking on the third. We took him home on the fourth day. He seemed fine by bedtime that night.
I’m a night owl. I get my best ideas at night, so I’m usually still awake and writing long after Macho Guy and Schnoodle Dog hit the sack. About an hour after MG and Schnoodle Dog went to bed, I finished my nightly toilette and exited the master bath in the dark to avoid disturbing their slumber. Silently, I felt my way to the bed by sliding my hand against the wall. As I approached my side of the bed, my slippers encountered a substantial obstacle on the carpet that slowed them to a halt, ending my forward progress. I thought it might be one of my tennis shoes so I tried kicking it out of the way. When that didn’t work, I bent and grabbed hold of the mystery object with my left hand. It was not a tennis shoe.
It was cold and it wasn’t solid. It was kind of wet and mushy. I gasped and said, “Oh, crap!” I reached up and turned on the light in the closet beside the bed to illuminate the floor area and discovered to my chagrin that I had correctly identified the mystery object and its several companions.
Eww. I’m standing in dog poop!
Eww. My hand was in dog poop!
Eww. My fingers are full of dog poop!
I shrieked, “Oh, my God!” at the top of my lungs.
My exclamation put a stop to MG’s snoring. He awoke with a jolt and turned on his lamp.
MG: What’s all the racket about?
ME: The dog pooped on the carpet over here and I walked on it in the dark.
MG: You gotta be kidding.
ME: [stepping back and then holding up my crappy slippers] Look for yourself. [Those crappy slippers went right into the trash!]
MG got out of bed and looked for himself. There was a sizable amount of dog poop to view. I thought he was going to cry. I was close to joining in. You see, we both knew we weren’t going to get much sleep. Our activities for the night as pet parents were preordained.
Scoop the poop. Clean out Mr. Crate. Launder the crate bedding. Shampoo the bedroom carpet. Take turns sleeping and watching over our fur baby. Put the little guy outside whenever necessary. Shampoo the bedroom carpet again. Give our fur baby Imodium. Shampoo the bedroom carpet one last time as the dawn broke. Cook chicken and rice to feed our fur baby until he’s well again–which he is now.
It was a very long night for Mommy and Daddy. ::yawn::
