We’re Still Here

Happy birthday, Mom. We’re still here, living our lives as best we can. Hoping you’d be proud.

We’re still here, missing you. Remembering the Christmases you made special. The way you always overstressed just so everything would be perfect. And it seemed to somehow work.

And we’re still here, still wishing you were, too. No matter how many years you’ve been gone it still feels like yesterday. Like you might walk in the house any minute wearing that mile-wide smile of yours.

Like you might dance to whatever song came on the radio, not caring how goofy you looked. And we’re still here. Wishing you were, too.

Cost of Doing Business

I’m an author. I write and sell books for fun and profit. And while I may never get rich from my endeavors, I’m doing okay. Really. It surprises me, too.

But some days I’m floored by the way things work. You see, I went to buy some cards—birthday and Christmas greetings for friends and relatives, and when I averaged the cost of a card it came to just slightly more than the cost of my books on kindle. And not a great deal less than the paperback versions.

Maybe I’m in the wrong business. But then again, I’m just not witty enough or sentimental enough to make a living creating Happy Birthday cards. I guess I’ll keep plugging along.

Peace, people.

Dates That Won’t Work

A cryptic message found on a piece of scrap paper in the bottom of a junk drawer.

Dates That Won’t Work:

January 18

January 26

February 12

March 11

I pondered. Dates that won’t work for what? It’s a puzzle. Maybe next time I’ll elaborate.

Right. Like that’s gonna happen.

Peace, people!

In Spite of Me

My knee seems to be healing nicely from arthroscopic surgery, no thanks to me. Last night Studly Doright commented on just how well I was doing.

“You’re hardly whining at all,” he said.

I thanked him, then said, “I just can’t believe how little pain I’m having.” And followed that statement up with an abrupt movement, a quick bend of the knee, that had me in tears.

So all night I worried that I’d undone all the good the surgeon had done. I iced the knee with a vengeance (like regular icing, only with a great deal of scowling), and kept it elevated.

This morning I’m fairly certain no real harm was done, but I feel chastened and now have no plans to move my knee ever again. Ever.

Peace, people.

Knee Jerk Reaction

My right knee seems to be doing well following the arthroscopic procedure I had on Wednesday. I can’t take the dressings off for another thirty hours or so, but the pain is minimal.

The white compression knee-high hosiery is so not chic, but will be my constant fashion accessory until the follow up appointment on the 14th of December. I will wear it faithfully for I fear blood clots like some people fear spiders and snakes. And I don’t know why. I think maybe a distant relative died due to one (a blood clot, not a snake; although, that might’ve happened, as well), and the fear infected me in my youth.

I attempted to write yesterday, but the knee literally got in the way, sitting there like a smug, fat lump just beyond the edge of my computer. So I gave up and watched Hallmark Christmas movies, then dozed to images of square-jawed, flannel wearing men selling Christmas trees. Today, I’ll give it another go.

Peace, people!

Aging Like a Fine Whine

My right knee no longer likes me. Even during water aerobics, the gentlest of workouts, that knee doth protest way too much. And I amplify its complaints with my own whining. “Ow!” “Ouch!” “?$&@/!”

So, on the 30th of this month, at some time still to be determined, I’m having a little procedure aimed at relieving some of that pain. Now, Studly Doright is fond of telling people how I made him walk to such a procedure many years ago. And it’s true.

I was a new teacher—afraid to take a day off lest I miss the day I was to be observed by my principal. And in my mind, Studly was having a minor procedure. It was day surgery after all. I just needed to be there to pick him up. Silly me.

I’d forgotten that his pickup truck was a manual transmission and that his knee was in such bad shape that he couldn’t bend it to work the clutch. And he never mentioned a thing, knowing how worried I was about the observation. So he walked, on a bad knee, about two miles to the surgical center.

When I arrived to pick him up, the nurses berated me. “Where have you been? He’s been so sick.”

Still clueless, I said, “At work.” Duh.

It is a testament to his love for me that he only mentions this horrible story once a year. If the situation were reversed, I’d likely harp on it every night.

Of course, as the date for my procedure draws near I am a becoming a little nervous. We live about 20 miles from the outpatient surgical center. Perhaps I should begin walking now. Whining all the way.

Peace, people.

Just in Time for the Holidays

My newest book, Christmas at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, is live on Amazon!

Book four in the Happy Valley series finds Paula Arnett feeling a little humbug-ish as the Yuletide holiday rolls around. Her heart is in for a few surprises as the season unfolds. And not all of them come tied up in red ribbons and bows.

The books are best read in order, with Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort the first offering in the series. I hope you’ll consider joining the Happy Valley family. We’re a fun bunch.

Look for the books on Amazon!

Leaving Las Vegas

I had a crazy, wonderful week at the 20Books conference in Vegas. The conference featured some of the best indie authors in the business, from all over the world. I’m still a little star struck.

Craig Martelle? He was there. Elena Johnson? Sure thing. Michael Anderle? Yep. Britt Andrews? Oui! Kevin J. Anderson? Holy cow! Kevin McLaughlin? Yes, indeed. And these writers are just the tip of the iceberg.

When I wasn’t engaged in geeking out over meeting some of my writing heroes, I was busy learning stuff. Important stuff. And meeting TONS of people. My voice is practically gone.

I have wonderful ideas for incorporating all the knowledge I gained, but the main thing on my agenda now is getting home to Studly Doright and Gracie the cat. My flight leaves early in the morning, so I’m heading to bed soon. Hoping I can sleep even as my mind churns with possibilities.

Thank you for hanging with me!

Peace, people!

Vegas, Here I Come

I’m packed. Kind of. If there were a global list of travelers listed in order from most capable to least, I’d rank in the lower 10 percent. Right above those who’ve never left their homes and below those who once took a trip to their Aunt Jane and Uncle Bob’s place one town over.

No, scratch that, they’re all likely more capable than I am, and at one time in my life I flew weekly to visit schools all over the country. Back then, I was a lean, mean packing machine. I could cram all my training materials and a week’s worth of clothing into one suitcase in less than an hour.

And now? Now it takes me all day and I still end up leaving something at home or packing the wrong clothes or forgetting that my tennis shoes don’t necessarily go with everything.

Still, I’m packed. Kind of.

In spite of my failings, I’m super excited. I’ll be at Bally’s (aka The Horseshoe) in Las Vegas for a writing conference where I hope to learn from some of the best in the business. I wonder if any of them teach a class on packing? If so, sign me up!

Peace, people.

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