At first, I was separated from my keyboard because of winter vacation activities. While I missed writing my blog, thankfully I did have fun with MG and our friends, and with my Baby Sister and BIL.

Once we returned home, it was a different story. March definitely roared in like a Lion in more than one respect. For example, I had to make the almost supreme sacrifice–put all our income tax documents and receipts together to take them to our CPA. I thought I had every tax deductible receipt accounted for and filed in our 2016 tax folder. Nope. I had to track down several receipts that were missing in action. I came to realize that if I ever tired of writing, I could have a successful career as a private investigator.

The next downer in March came in microscopic form. MG caught Influenza B and shared it with me. He’s such a generous gent. We didn’t realize we had flu until I started running a fever. At that point, we both went in to see our doctor and both tested positive for the B strain. We spent the rest of March in the living room, stretched out on couches in our PJs or sweats, resting, watching cable news or inane TV reruns–not sure which was which–and coughing up our lungs for about two weeks.

Then came the next downer for me. I coughed so hard that I sort of threw my back out. I know. It could only happen to me. It doesn’t seem possible that a person can cough hard enough to throw her back out, but it happens. It happened to me. I was in such pain whenever I moved, MG had to help me in and out of bed.

After a weekend of excruciating pain, I paid my doctor another visit. She shook her head at me and asked what kind of trouble was I in now. You see, I had a few problems before I went on winter vacation too. I was a walking ailment looking for the worst possible time to happen.

I told Dr. G that I had no idea how I hurt my back. I mentioned the constant coughing and that it hurt when I coughed even before the back pain. She said the coughing probably did it. She had me X-rayed, confirmed muscle spasms, prescribed muscle relaxant meds for my back and nebulizer treatments for my cough.

When I left the exam room, walking very slowly and painfully, the office staff told me they informed MG that I was on my way and would get to the lobby in a few hours or maybe by morning. Charming.

You may not have missed me, but I missed you. I couldn’t bear to put off writing this post any longer despite the back pain and the coughing. I guess you could say by writing the post that I’m suffering for my art. Yes, say that. I’m definitely suffering.

We are in the process of recovering from our winter vacation. We’re doing it in stages.

Stage One requires getting past the feeling that we are still moving down the road in the Traverse even when we we’re standing still. ::shudder::

Stage Two involves remembering where we are—at home—when we wake up during the night if nature calls so we don’t walk into the furniture or a wall in the dark. ::ouch::

Stage Three necessitates acclimating to Michigan’s wintery weather again. ::brrr::

Stage Four entails settling back into our accustomed routines and catching up. ::groan:: At times like this, I wish I were more like my Baby Sister, the Human Energizer Bunny, so I could get everything done a lot faster.

The first item on the homecoming agenda was grocery shopping. We made sure to use up any perishables before we left for Florida. The cupboard shelves were lean and the refrigerator shelves were bare. Had Goldilocks arrived before us, she would have fled in horror to the more accommodating home of the Three Bears.

Unpacking, doing laundry from the trip, and freshening the household linens were the next items of drudgery I checked off the To Do List. No sooner had I taken care of them than MG came in with the pile of mail we had the USPS hold in our absence. I dug through it dutifully. Bills, bills, bills, magazines, and junk mail. Lots of junk mail. I really must get us back on the no junk mail list. The no call list too, while I’m at it. Those cold callers and politicians disrupt what I’m doing morning, noon, and night. ::grrr::

I noted with dread that the mail pile also included an Infernal Rip-off Service tax prep packet from our CPA. Seriously? Can it be that time of the year already? O joy.

At this rate, my work may never be done, and I’ll never catch up around here. I’ll be lucky to find time to do what I love—write. ::sniffle, sob:: I’m doing the best that I can, but that time-honored saying is definitely true: The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.

This is the sunset view from the deck of our three-bedroom duplex condo rental on Florida’s Emerald Coast. Yes, we are wintering in an upscale condo right on the coast’s sugar-white sands. I shot this pic from the condo’s huge wraparound deck.

You may wonder how Macho Guy and I managed to move on up from a boring dowdy old cottage to a sexy newer and modern condo on the beach. It’s quite a story with unexpected twists and turns.

It began in January of 2015. Macho Guy and I had just barely arrived at the drab old rental cottage in Florida for our winter vacation when the very secretive rental agents we had yet to meet contacted us to see if we wanted to book it again for 2016. These peculiar agents possessed the uncanny paranormal ability to get after us about rebooking for the following year the instant we unlocked the door to our ramshackle rental.

At that point in time, MG wasn’t sure he wanted to rebook or even winter in Florida’s Panhandle again for that matter. He wasn’t pleased with the chilly and rainy panhandle winter weather nor was he happy about the state of his golf game. While the rundown cottage was pet friendly—we always take Schnoodle Dog with us—and we had rented it two years running, the place was dated and kind of shabby. The wallpaper was coyote ugly and peeling. Appliances and fixtures needed either replacement or repair. [The refrigerator was leaking water.] The TV set was old, and on a good day the cable reception was somewhere between terrible and horrible.

When we contacted the low-profile agents by phone about the needed fixes, we were told that the owner wasn’t interested in investing any additional money in upkeep. Additional money? I glanced around the place. Except for the addition of a very small writing desk (that I so appreciated), I couldn’t see where he had invested much money in upkeep.  The eerie agents, whom we never met in person and suspected they might be vampires, informed us by phone that they could only take care of one or two basic items on our list. They sent a couple of repair people out to fix them to make the crappy cottage more livable.

At that point, we learned that we lost a member of MG’s family to cancer. Grief-stricken, we loaded up the car again and travelled to the Midwest for the funeral, leaving the dilapidated cottage behind temporarily. We forgot all about responding to the two secluded rental agents’ query.

Upon returning to Florida, MG decided he wanted to rebook the ramshackle cottage after all. He sent an email to that effect to the two cloistered rental agents. The reply he received was a shocker. The tumbledown cottage was already booked for 2016—by someone else.

MG was rabid. We had worked with these two probable coven members as our rental agents for three years. Why hadn’t they notified us first before booking the crumbling cottage out from under us? Where was the consideration? Where was the loyalty? Their response was that since we made so many complaints about the condition of the decrepit cottage that January, they assumed we weren’t pleased with the accommodations and didn’t plan to rebook.  Ha. So that was it. They didn’t want to deal with legitimate complaints.

Having been rendered rickety cottage-less for the 2016 snowbird season, we sadly informed our friends that they couldn’t count on us to join them in Florida next winter. They were as devastated as we were. They even checked with their own rental agents, non-coven members all, but were unable to come up with a pet-friendly rental for us for 2016. We checked with numerous rental agents ourselves. No joy was to be had.

One afternoon, we happened by a rental agency while out for a bike ride. Lo and behold, the agency had a pet-friendly rental available for 2016! Yowza! We drove out with an agent to inspect it. It was a much nicer cottage than the ghetto model we were currently in. We liked it and put a deposit on it for next year. We went back to the cruddy cottage and celebrated our good fortune.

Our joy lasted for a mere twenty-four hours. The following morning, the new rental agent called to inform us that the much nicer cottage was unavailable. The owner forgot to inform the agency that it was no longer for rent. He was creating a complex, building a much, much nicer and larger home beside it, and planned to remodel and add the much nicer cottage to the complex as a guesthouse.

We were devastated, doomed to resume our futile search again or give up entirely and winter up north. O joy.

Hold on. The new agent called with good news. The much nicer cottage’s owner felt responsible for inconveniencing us by not removing the much nicer cottage from the rental list. By way of apology, he offered us his other property nearby and would let us rent it for the same rental fee as the much nicer cottage. Would that be acceptable?

The new rental agent drove us out to inspect the much nicer cottage owner’s other property nearby. O wow. There must be some mistake. The agent pulled into the driveway of an extremely attractive duplex—an extremely attractive beachfront duplex.

On. The. Beach.

My jaw dropped. My pulse raced. I almost soiled my undies.

Would that be acceptable? Hell, yes!!! MG and I went through the motions of inspecting the little palace anyway and pronounced the unit’s accommodations acceptable. We booked it immediately, before the owner could rethink his remarkably generous offer.

In jubilation, we returned to the confines of the seedy cottage where we notified all our friends that the crisis had been resolved in our favor. Yay! I then dashed off an email to the two coven-member rental agents who betrayed us.

I informed the coven members that there were no hard feelings because everything turned out for the best after all. With unbridled glee, I revealed that we successfully booked a duplex condo unit for 2016 with another rental agency and at the same rate the two broom riders were charging us for the derelict cottage from hell. With blissful satisfaction, I revealed that unlike the humdrum cottage, the condo was located beachfront.

It was so rewarding to have the last laugh, and so refreshing that our karma turned out to be a lady instead of a bitch.

We’ll be traveling south for the winter in about a week. While I like spending part of the winter in a warmer clime, I strongly dislike the prep—mainly packing. There is just too much decision-making involved in packing. Thinking about it alone stresses me out.

How much luggage can we fit in the Traverse? How much luggage will I need to take? How much luggage will Macho Guy allow me to take?

What types of suitcases? What sizes to use? Expandable or not?

Then there are the clothing choices. We stay in Florida’s panhandle. It can get chilly or downright cold there in winter. I have to pack for both warm and cold weather. Choices, choices. Can I stand the strain?

I approach my wardrobe with trepidation. Should I take this? Should I take that? How many dressy outfits? How much of everything will I need? How much of it can I stuff in each suitcase? If I don’t wear all of it while we’re down south, must I endure another of MG’s lectures about over packing?

Shoes are always a bone of contention. MG doesn’t understand a woman’s dilemma. He takes six pair: slippers, tennis shoes, golf shoes, sandals, loafers, and dress shoes. He says I only need five: slippers, tennis shoes, sandals, casual flats, and dress shoes. Only one of each? Even if they don’t coordinate with all my outfits? Give me a break. And don’t get me started on how many purses I may take. I’m a well-known purse slut. How can I possibly choose? Nervous breakdown, here I come.

Then there are the essential toiletries. MG fits all of his in a 10”x6”x5” leather dopp kit. I fit most of mine in an 18”x12”x1^1/2” hanging toiletries bag—that does not include my cosmetics, brushes, mirror, hairdryer, plus miscellaneous necessities too numerous to mention.

I also pack for Schnoodle Dog, but he is so easy to accommodate, bless him.

In addition, we can’t do without items from home that the rental condo doesn’t provide. We make a list of those necessities when we inspect the rental prior to booking. Somehow, we must fit all those additional items in the Traverse, along with MG’s golf bag, and my computer and office equipment plus a folding table and chair to set up my temporary office. No way can we live without those things. He must golf, and I must write or my head will explode.

This year, it is Firstborn’s turn to put up with us for Christmas, so we’ll be down south with his family over the Christmas holiday season. That means squeezing Christmas gifts in the Traverse along with everything else. Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry madness!

By the time we jam all our stuff in the Traverse’s cargo area, plus on and surrounding one of the rear passenger seats, poor Schnoodle Dog will be boxed in atop the lone rear passenger seat remaining. Occasionally, he whines to be allowed up front where he curls up on my lap. Are we there yet? Please, please let us be there.

Once we arrive at our destination, we then take part in the activity that I strongly dislike almost as much as packing. Unpacking.

You see, the reason I dislike unpacking almost as much as packing is that when the visit it over, I’ll have to repack those cussed suitcases. We’ll go through the unpack/pack drill again when we drive further south to visit my Baby Sister, when we get to and then leave our beach condo, and endure another torture session when we arrive back home.

I’m not sure I can bear it. Just thinking about it makes we want to weep.

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.

There was one little hitch in the plans. They scheduled the reunion in summer. In the month of August. In scorching, sweltering, steamy Missouri in summer in the month of August. After experiencing August in Branson, Missouri, it is my considered opinion that air conditioning should be written into the U.S. Constitution as an inalienable right of citizenship.

I distinctly remember that the day we arrived in Branson was the last day of the reunion on which I elected to wear makeup. It reached its melting point and slid right off my face the moment I stepped out of the car at the motel.

Damn, it was hot in Branson in August. It was so damn hot, anti-perspirant/deodorant failure was rife—and ripe. The directions on my anti-perspirant/deodorant’s label read: “Apply a thin layer to underarms.” I tried that. It didn’t last five minutes once I stepped outdoors. I tried applying a thicker layer the next day. Ten minutes, tops. The third day, I slathered it on like cake frosting.

Despite the heat, Macho Guy and three of his classmates decided to play a round of golf. I reminded him that the expected high for the following day was 101 degrees. He said it wouldn’t be a problem; they reserved an early tee time. The next morning, we had a very early breakfast together. Macho Guy left to golf in the oppressive heat, and I went back to our cool, comfortable air-conditioned room to shower before getting in some writing time on the old laptop I brought along.

I finished showering and opened the glass door to step out when in my peripheral vision I caught a somewhat blurry creature crawling across the tile floor to my right. Since my glasses were on the vanity, I had to squint at it to get a better look. I thought it might be a large insect of some kind, but it was a creamy, off-white color and it didn’t look like any insect I’d ever seen. I thought about stepping on it and squashing it. Not a chance. I was barefoot—I was bare, period—so I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Good thing I didn’t because I wouldn’t be writing this and you wouldn’t be reading it. The creature was beginning to look oddly familiar, more so the closer it came to the shower stall. When it climbed onto the fluffy bath mat, I got a good look at the distinctive upward curl of its tail. My flesh broke out in industrial-size goose bumps. Even without my glasses on I could see that I was in very deep doo-doo. My unwelcome visitor was a small but deadly scorpion.

A SCORPION? OH, MY GOD!

I was alone, I was dripping wet, I was in the altogether, and I was freaking out because a scorpion was right outside the shower stall.

HELP! SOMEBODY, HELP!

No one heard me, of course. Then I had a brilliant idea. One of Macho Guy’s female classmates had a sign on her motel room door that read: “I’m out of estrogen and I have a gun.” She could shoot the blasted scorpion for me—if I could get past the scorpion to get to the phone and call her.

HELP! SOMEBODY! ANYBODY! HELP!

The scorpion looked as if it was turning in my direction. Not good. Maybe it heard me yelling for help. Too bad no one else did.

I was on my own. I had to kill the scorpion before it killed me. Also not good. I freak out if I have to kill a spider. Where was Macho Guy when I really needed him? Oh, right. He was playing golf.

I took a frantic look around the shower stall for a weapon. Let’s see. One bar of soap the size of a credit card. One tiny bottle of shampoo the size of a tube of lipstick. One tiny bottle of after-shampoo conditioner, same size. One wet washcloth. Some arsenal—I was a dead woman.

The scorpion drew closer while I decided which of my weapons of miniscule destruction I should throw at it first. I decided on the tiny shampoo bottle, but then I hesitated. If I hit it and didn’t kill it, I’d probably make it mad. I did not want to make it mad. I didn’t even want to annoy it. There had to be something I could do that would prevent that scorpion from sending me to the Great Publishing House in the Sky before my time.

The wet washcloth. Of course! I could trap the scorpion under the wet washcloth and then escape. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? No, don’t tell me. I’ll get the answer myself . . . got it! I didn’t think of it sooner because I was scared spitless.

I knew I would have only one chance. I had to land the wet washcloth right on target because I wouldn’t be able to retrieve it if I miscalculated. With knees knocking and teeth chattering I leaned out and held the washcloth a few feet directly above the scorpion and dropped it.

Bullseye! I trapped the little beasty right under the center of the washcloth. I leaped over it to freedom and wrapped myself in a warm, dry fluffy towel.

As soon as I stopped shaking, I called the front desk and informed the desk clerk that there was a scorpion in my room. She made me repeat it twice before she realized she heard me correctly. She said she would send someone up to take care of it.

All the while I patted myself dry, I never took my eyes off that washcloth to make certain its prisoner did not escape confinement. Then it occurred to me that the desk clerk would probably send a man to take care of the scorpion, and I was still in my skin suit.

I was in a warm up suit when the scorpion wrangler arrived with his pincers and specimen box. I showed him where the unwelcome visitor was being detained. He reached down to lift the washcloth and I gasped. Was he insane? I asked him if he wasn’t afraid of being stung by the scorpion. He straightened and apparently thought better of lifting the cloth. He lifted up one boot-clad foot and stomped on the washcloth. He then peeked underneath. He nodded and said, “Yep. Scorpion.” He gripped the washcloth and the scorpion’s corpse with his pincers, deposited them in the specimen box and left. Whew! Close one.

I spent the rest of the morning writing and constantly looking over my shoulder to be sure no more scorpion intruders were sneaking up on me. I wouldn’t sleep in the bed that night until Macho Guy removed and shook out the bedding to be sure no scorpions had taken up residence there. We checked out the following day.

I thought we might get a partial refund because of the scorpion incident. I mentioned the scorpion to the desk clerk checking us out. She sure was quick on her feet. In a bright cheery voice, she said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. We won’t charge you extra for having a scorpion in your room.”