Tag: humor

Part Time Vagabonds

Traveling the backroads has its perks: Less traffic, scenic vistas, quaint little towns.

But, it’s not all sunshine and lollipops, especially on Christmas Day. Literally nothing was open in many of those quaint little towns. Finding a convenience store gas station that could accommodate our motorhome and towed jeep was a bit tricky. So we ended up driving a little farther than we’d intended and then couldn’t find a rest area to park in overnight.

And that’s how I got to experience my first night sleeping In a brightly lit truck stop parking lot.

Christmas miracle! I had the best night in years. Maybe decades. We turned in around 7:30 because David was bushed. I frowned at him and said, “you know, with these bright lights shining in every window, I’ll never be able to sleep.”

Eight hours later I woke up, looked at the clock, and asked “is it 3:30 a.m. or p.m.?” And promptly fell back to sleep until 5.

We threw on some clothes. Grabbed cups of truck stop coffee and hit the road. We’re planning on making it all the home today, but that means Interstate highway travel. With its own sets of perks and drawbacks.

But we’re vagabonds. At least part time. We can handle just about anything.

Peace, people!

Heard it in a Love Song

Yesterday, on my Facebook author page, I solicited love songs to be included in my current work in progress, Greed at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort. Since copyright laws prevent me from using much more than just the title, I suggested that the song be easily recognizable and might be enough to bring out all sorts of lovey dovey emotions.

I gave participants a lot of leeway when it came to the era in which the song was released. I’ve kept the timeline for the Happy Valley series fairly vague so as not to have to deal with politics or COVID or any other unpleasant topics. These are primarily feel good books. With occasional crimes. Maybe a murder in the one I’m working on. 😳

When suggestions began pouring in, I was delighted. So many great song titles! And a few odd ones—Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys, for one. Spoiler: It didn’t win.

In the end, I picked two song titles because I couldn’t decide on just one: Amazed by LoneStar and I Love How You Love Me by Bobby Darrin. The names of those who submitted these suggestions will be featured in the Acknowledgements section of Greed and I’ll send them a signed copy of the book.

I’ve held similar contests for my previous books, and never been disappointed in the results. Thank goodness for my little army of devoted readers.

Peace, people!

Droopy Drawers

I was at water aerobics this afternoon, following directions, jogging this way and that, throwing my arms in the air like I just don’t care. Then we did some kind of leg exercise and I had the odd sensation that I was wearing a skirt. I knew that wasn’t the case—I had on a tankini, one of those two piece suits that pretends to be a one-piece, and bottom half definitely did not have an attached skirt.

But the bottom was acting weird. I could feel the lining snugged up against my derrière, but the outer bit seemed to be drooping halfway down the back of my thighs.

I’d jump, the suit flapped. I’d swim, the extra material floated up like seaweed. When I exited the pool at the end of the hour we all had a good laugh.

I guess these bottoms are going in the dumpster, unless someone’s knows how to fix a pair of droopy drawers.

Peace, people.

A Leg to Stand On

Several years ago, a female acquaintance approached me to say that she thought I had gorgeous legs. Now, as a teen and on into my late 50’s (when I received the aforementioned compliment) I was accustomed to being noticed for my legs. They were long and shapely and honestly the only part of my body to ever engender even a tiny bit of vanity in me.

But as you might guess the compliments have tapered off now that I’m in my 60’s. The right knee has garnered a few scars from a much needed procedure to allow me to walk around without wincing or cursing in pain, but they are righteous scars and I’ve embraced them. My legs are just legs now. To whom should the leg torch be passed?

Last week I entered the women’s locker room at one of Tallahassee’s many fine city pools to find myself in the presence of the holy grail of legs. Honestly, I’ve never seen such perfection. The woman was taller than my 5’8”. Indeed, it appeared that her leg was my height; although, I’m sure that wasn’t the case.

Long, tan, and sculpted as beautifully as if Michelangelo himself had created it, this leg begged for a compliment. I’m not even sure she had another leg, so mesmerizing was her right one.

“Tell her what a beautiful leg she has!” the weird side of my brain urged.

Fortunately, just in time, the less weird side of my brain realized that might be a little weird in the confines of a locker room, so I just filed it away in my memory. But I must say, the torch has been passed. More than passed. Elevated to a standard no mortal could ever reach without the assistance of the gods. And I’m in awe.

Peace, people.

Reporting for Sleep Monitor Duty

Y’all, I slept last night. I mean I really slept for the first time in weeks. It was the LAST thing I thought I’d be able to do with a danged monitoring device literally stuck to my forehead and tubes dangling from my nostrils.

Maybe that’s the key! Hook me up and watch me sleep.

Seriously curious as to what can be learned from last night’s adventure. In the meantime, I wish they’d let me keep the monitor one more night to see if last night’s performance could be replicated. Since we all know that’s not going to happen, maybe Studly Doright could rig something up to simulate the whole experience. I seem to remember a miner’s style flashlight among his tools, and right now, I’m up to the challenge of finding it.

It’s amazing what a good night of sleep can do for one’s mood. Watch out world!

Peace, people!

I Like Your Glasses

This morning I have an appointment to be fitted with a sleep monitor. I’ll wear it tonight to help determine if sleep apnea is the cause of my memory gaps/lapses.

I tried writing something for my next novel (FYI, book 6 in the Happy Valley series), but ended up just staring at a blank screen because last night was the third (or fourth) in a row of little to no sleep.

Finally I gave up and took myself for brunch at Canopy Roads Cafe on Apalachee Parkway in Tallahassee. The server was a bubbly twenty-something who took my order then said what I understood as “I like your glasses.”

Apparently that wasn’t what she said at all because when I thanked her she gave me an odd look. Now I have no idea what she said as she walked away. Maybe “I took some classes?” Or “I like big asses.” Who knows. Maybe the sleep doctor can offer a suggestion.

Peace, people!

Piped-In Music

Yesterday I attended a book signing. It was absolutely marvelous. My friend and fellow water aerobics enthusiast, Paula Walborsky, signed copies of her first book, Unpacking Paula, Volume One, at a local indie bookstore. Again, MARVELOUS. I can’t stress this enough.

Friends from every facet of Paula’s life showed up at My Favorite Books. Members of her family came all the way from Tennessee to Tallahassee to support her. Our water aerobics group, The Clownfish Asylum, was there in full force, including a surprise visit from a member who “escaped” from a hospital to be there. Tears were shed and shared. Dare I say it again? Marvelous.

I’m not sure how many books Paula sold, but I do know her husband made more than one trip to their car to fetch more copies. And then Paula read selected essays from her book and we laughed and cried and nodded along. As a former NPR commentator, Paula has that voice—calm and clear and measured. Everything mine is not.

But as she read, I found myself becoming annoyed at the piped-in music. Often, from my little corner, I couldn’t make out what Paula was saying because the music was a little too loud and it seemed to be emanating from the stack of books on the bookshelf where I’d placed my purse.

“Interesting place for a speaker,” I thought. “And it’s hidden cleverly. Not even any telltale wires.”

I contemplated finding a bookstore employee to have them turn the volume down or perhaps completely off. “That’s just what I’ll do!”

So I gathered my purse and walked down a side aisle. The music followed me. As I turned a corner, the music followed me. As I approached the counter, it followed me. And that’s when I knew that I was the source of the “piped-in” music.

Somehow I’d activated the sleep song track I have downloaded onto my phone, and it was providing background music for my friend’s event. My hope is that only a few folks in my immediate vicinity heard my musical accompaniment and were bothered by it.

And I’m so thankful the music I use as inspiration for writing steamy scenes wasn’t queued up. This might’ve been an entirely different kind of tale.

Paula’s book is available on Amazon, by the way. It’s, well, MARVELOUS!

Close Call in Alexandria

As I embarked on my journey to Hemphill, Texas, I had this brilliant idea: I was going to take copies of my first novel, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort, and place them in Little Free Libraries as I neared my destination. Since the series is set in that part of the country I could picture readers being excited to find a book about a fictional campground on Lake Toledo Bend.

So, when I drove through Alexandria, Louisiana, near the Texas state line, I googled the nearest Little Free Library and headed to that address.

The route took me away from the interstate and into a neighborhood that grew less and less savory with every turn.

I told myself I wouldn’t get out of the car if I didn’t trust my surroundings. Sure enough, when I found the right place, the little library was sitting well back on the property—near the front door, and it didn’t appear to have any books inside at all. So I pulled over to the curb and reset my GPS. When I looked up, there were three law enforcement vehicles there with me. 😳

My heart kind of stuttered for a moment, but they didn’t have their lights on, and no one approached my car, so I kind of waved and drove away. As I headed down the interstate I kept glancing in my rear view mirror wondering when they were going to come after me.

I wonder if they’d have accepted a book or two in exchange for a ticket? Guess we’ll never know.

Peace, people!

Angst

I wonder if I’m too old or too dumb to understand all the stuff I need to know to get my author website up and running. The website is there, it’s just missing important stuff and even after a thorough and wonderful tutorial from one of the smartest guys I know, I feel like I’m trying to put together a 500 piece puzzle in which more than half the pieces are missing.

Things I need:

1) A Reader Magnet—that’s a free story offered to folks who sign up for my newsletter.

2) An Automated Onboarding Process—these are the emails that are generated automatically when someone signs up to receive my newsletter.

3) A Newsletter—exclusive information about my books delivered at regular intervals to those subscribing.

Now, I can write that darned newsletter, but I’m struggling with the reader magnet and the onboarding process. The reader magnet needs to be a peek inside my stories. Maybe a tale told from the perspective of a character other than my main protagonist. Or maybe a prequel to the whole series, say, perhaps a look back at my characters during their teenaged years. I’m told it can even be an outtake—a scene I cut from the published book. I’m wrestling with this mightily, y’all.

And once I have it written, then what? Do I save it as a word document? Do I publish it and make it available for free to my subscribers? Do I send up smoke signals? At this point, option three sounds simplest, and I’d need to learn how to make smoke signals.

But that’s nothing compared to my angst over the automated onboarding. I took copious notes during a tutorial session. I’ve watched multiple YouTube videos. And yet, I’ve still got next to nothing. I am clueless; hear me sob. I think I need to hire someone to come sit beside me as I learn how to complete the task.

In the meantime, I’m going to continue working on that reader magnet. Maybe Paula and Cassie as cave people? Circus performers? Heh. Maybe not. But just in case you’re wondering who Paula and Cassie are, check out my Happy Valley series on Amazon.

Peace, people.

Swiss Cheese

I woke up at 3 a.m. I’d say it was exactly 3 a.m., but Studly Doright’s clock runs fast, so it was likely only 2:57. At any rate, it was early.

Of course I’d gone to bed around seven last night because I hadn’t been able to sleep at all the night before. Do I lead an exciting life or what?

My brain and I have been having some intense discussions lately. The old girl just isn’t as sharp as she used to be. I always dreamed of being one of those elderly women that people would describe as being sharp as a tack. Instead, I fear they’ll compare my mental capacity to a slice of Swiss cheese or worse, a dull knife.

And as they carry me away to the memory care center, I’ll protest that I once was able to memorize Shakespearean soliloquies with the greatest of ease. And they’ll ask, “Did you say Swiss cheese?”

Peace, people.