Write drunk, edit sober is good advice unless one’s drunk writing makes sober editing extremely difficult.
There’s really no point to this post except that I’m having TONS of fun (insert eye roll) finding all of the little mistakes and inconsistencies in my manuscript. I can see the finish line, but there are all these obstacles in the way, such as wayward quotation marks, accidental apostrophes, missing words, and redundant chuckles. She chuckled, he chuckled, they all chuckled. Back to back to back chuckles are annoying.
I shall stay the course, though. Let no chuckle go unnoticed.
Fans of American football will remember Dandy Don Meredith on Monday Night Football. When, in a game, the lead became insurmountable and the outcome undeniable, Dandy Don would break out in song, specifically, “Turn out the Lights (The Party’s Over)”.
Maybe someone should stand outside the White House and blast that song from a boom box until the current occupant of the White House gets the message. Trump isn’t all that bright, but maybe we could annoy him enough that he’d finally concede.
We’re getting ready to publish my first book! Maybe not next week, but the next, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort will be available on Amazon. Just in time for Christmas.
A friend on Facebook posted this ad on her page today. I laughed for a good five minutes and then promptly stole it so my friends on WordPress could have a good laugh, too.
Tuesday morning Studly Doright took me to breakfast at one of his favorite spots. I’d never eaten there because I don’t generally eat breakfast, but Studly has talked about this place for two years, so I finally relented.
The place is kind of a dive on the outskirts of Tallahassee. I’ve driven by it many times but never felt inclined to stop there for any reason. Studly and I have quite different ideas of what constitutes a good restaurant.
When we arrived the small dining area was almost empty, but between the time we placed our order and the time our food arrived the place had filled up. Following Studly’s lead I ordered pancakes, and they really were as good as he’d claimed. Unfortunately they didn’t cancel out the conversation swirling around us. It went something like this:
Old White Man: It looks like that Biden’s going to steal the election.
Old White Woman: You know Nancy Pelosi is just going to have him removed as soon as possible.
Different Old White Man: Yep, I heard that. Then that KamAlla will be President and she’s going to get that socialist, commie Cortez to be her Vice President.
Different Old White Woman Who Was Our Waitress: And that’ll be the end of this whole USA.
Old White Man: First thing they’ll do is try to take my guns, but I ain’t giving ‘em up without no fight.
Around this point I swallowed the last bite of my absolutely perfect pancake and suggested to my husband that we should leave before I said out loud the word I was thinking. In case you’re wondering, the word was “bullsh*t”. Once I had my mask back on I said the word multiple times. Not loud enough for anyone to hear it, but it made me feel better.
Where do these people get such outrageous ideas? I know this crazy theory isn’t only being bandied about in Tallahassee, Florida. I’ve also read it in friends’ posts on social media. So some tv conspiracy theorist must be pushing it. My money’s on this guy:
I was so proud of myself for getting all of the dirty laundry from Studly Doright’s recent golf trip taken care of on Monday. Truly, it seemed I must’ve had some assistance.
But then I helped him clean out the car he’d driven to Texas and in the back seat I discovered two hotel bags stuffed with more dirty laundry.
“Really?” I said.
“Oops,” he shrugged. “Look at it this way, your task was divided into manageable portions. I didn’t want to overwhelm you. That’s just how I roll.”
Studly Doright has been gone for nearly a week. He’s due home any minute now, and it’s about damned time. I don’t sleep well when he’s gone, so I might’ve had a little more wine than was prudent last night.
The good news is, it worked. Last night I slept deeply and had wonderful dreams. The bad news? Apparently I ordered a pair of tights and a deck of tarot cards from Amazon. I only know this because there are messages to that effect in my inbox.
All I can say is, the future’s so bright I’ve gotta wear tights.
Maybe seventeen, the carhop, her pregnant belly preceding her, waddled up to the driver’s side door.
She carried two root beer floats and an order of fries on a tray that she hooked onto a window rolled halfway down. She brushed away droplets of sweat dotting her forehead.
I was pregnant, too. Barely older than the carhop. The float was a craving. The fries an after thought.
We made eye contact, the waitress and I. My place in the passenger seat somehow granting me special dispensation.
I felt superior, there with my husband. I made judgements over greasy fries and root beer soaked ice cream.
Every now and again I wonder how her story played out. A right turn here. A detour there. She’d be my age, or thereabouts.
